On March 20, I got a call from a friend who happened to be hanging out at the Hit Factory studio in New York City. “Guess who’s in the studio tonight?” she asked. I thanked her for the tip. I knew what I had to do. My man Merc, he had broken his foot. I took his crutch to use as a weapon. I was headed upstairs, because I happened to be at the Hit Factory that night, too. My crew followed me. We paid 50 Cent a visit. He was still talking, rhyming and talking too much shyt with his silly mouth. That incident in Atlanta showed me that the beef had just begun. I was getting mad.
Not knowing which studio suite 50 was in, we went from door to door until we found him. I opened the door and 50 was in a small recording studio. He was inches from me. He looked at me like he had seen a ghost.
He said, “Yo, let’s talk.”
“You been talking enough.” BAM! I pushed my way into the studio. I hit him with the crutch. We proceeded to whip his ass. I was putting in my work. 50 was crunched in the corner. I slammed the big Tannoy speaker down on him.
While he’s getting his ass beat, I heard him say, “Get the gun.”
“Get your gun, nikka,” I replied.
At that moment, Black started poking nikkas with a knife, and 50 got stabbed. After blood was shed, we got out of there.
I had had it with 50 Cent. I wanted to hurt his ass. He needed to be silenced. I needed to show him who he was playing with. I felt that I had to defend what I’d worked so hard for, for all those years. I was defending my reputation and my art. I wasn’t going to let someone come in and desecrate my music with those ridiculous diss records and stories. I was wearing my emotions on my sleeve. We all were. The rap shyt was the first thing I had ever owned. It was something that I created and could claim as my own. It meant everything to me. I was young and reckless and didn’t give a fukk. Every attack felt personal.
When I feel the tightening of my skin and the quickening pace of my heartbeat, it always leads to severe bodily harm for others. When provoked, there is no turning me off. That’s what Moms used to say about my father.
In 2000, 50 Cent was still considered an underground artist with his leaked diss joints and unreleased Columbia Records album. He had a deal with Columbia Records but he was dropped before they could put the record out because of all the shyt that he started.
In 50’s mind the only way to get at me was to make records dissing me. I wasn’t really worried about retaliating with diss records. I was making hits, so small-time disses that couldn’t be played on the radio were not my concern. While he was dissing me, I was smashing the world with my success.
50 Cent’s beef with me was no regular beef. It had been building for years. 50 was a crazed man on a mission to destroy me, specifically, as well as everything I had.
Preme and Chaz had seen enough. They were the OG’s in the neighborhood. They called a meeting. Preme was to bring me to the meeting. Chaz was to get 50 there. We all agreed to the meeting, or so I thought. We met at Chaz’s Blackhand studio. The three of us were alone, waiting on 50. Chaz was mad that 50 was late. He called 50 several times and 50 didn’t pick up. Finally, he picks up.
Chaz says, “Where the fukk you at?” He was angry.
“I’m not coming. It’s a setup. Ya’ll is going to try and kill me,” 50 said.
Chaz was offended. He let 50 know that if Chaz told him to come somewhere, he was safe. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to him. No one was trying to kill him.
“I’m not coming. I don’t trust ya’ll. I don’t feel safe,” said 50.
Chaz hung up the phone.
I laughed, thinking 50’s a real clown. “This is a waste of my time.” I was out.
yeah breh? You put 92-96 bulls on the same level as the Jazz?