Kmurda and Shaolin
written by Kevin Miller
[SFX 4 gunshots with a pause before the last one.]
[KMURDA runs out on stage and puts a gun in his trousers.]
Jive cracka’s a cold muthafucka! But fuck that guy. He probably had slaves. Word up, three Niña slugs and one hollow-tip for reparations, nahmean?
But I can’t front. The fool went down on some OG shit without a peep. I ain’t seen nuttin’ like it.
‘Cept for this one nigga… This Shaolin monk walkin’ ‘round East Compton.
And this dude was straight monk. Red and yellow robes, baldhead, chink-eyes, the whole damn thang.
And he saw me blast this nigga who needed to get murked fo’a quarter-birdie. I let one slip. BOOM. The Big 4-5. The Heckler. The size of the motherfuckin’ rounds that went in this bitch…
Anyway, I blast this fool. Brains all over the alley. And I look up and this monk’s standing there like he’s watchin’ a movie. And this muthafucka ain’t even surprised.
So, I raise this bitch——this 10-pound canon——to his fat yellow baldhead, and the fool has no reaction at all.
Actually, he starts telling me ‘bout Shaolin. His home temple, can you believe that shit?!
I’ve already cocked the hammer back when this motherfucker schools me on some philosophy shit.
He said that in the Shaolin Temple, karma is strictly abided by, and that even though all they do is practice Kung Fu, they believe any intentional harm you do comes back 25-fold to screw you.
But my heartbeat was smashin’.
I let him know what’s Wu, and I blast him.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Three slugs ring out and put three fuckin’ holes straight through this monk’s chest on some Ghost Dog-steez.
He doesn’t move an inch. He didn’t even change his expression.
The motherfucker takes one step towards me.
And I blast him again.
Straight through his eye this time.
But the nigga didn’t even break stride and keeps comin’. So, I blast him again. BOOM, straight through his other eye.
But it doesn’t matter.
The monk silently steps up to me like the five quarter-size holes in his body ain’t shit.
Blood filling up his empty eye sockets and streaming down his face, I’m freaked the fuck out, so I try to blast him again——but click, click, the chamber’s empty.
I drop the revolver.
I look up and we’re face-to-face, and he’s starin’ at me with two hollowed out holes where his eyes should be.
And then he smiles.
And he kneels down before me, right? And kisses my feet!
Both of ‘em. And then he lies down and dies right there.
And it got me thinking ‘bout karma, and I did some reading and had this crazy thought. This thought that maybe my murders are just balancing out injustice from past lives. Maybe I’m an equalizer.
But every night I’m haunted by that Shaolin monk and why, shot-up like Swiss cheese, he’d bow down and kiss these feet.