Old Man . . . . . . . . . . . Old School
Jared Thomas . . . . . . . . Youngster
Narcotics Agents . . . . I, II, III, IV
Inmates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I, II
(A wooded area at the end of a dead end street. Old guy sits under a tree in the shade with a bottle of wine sitting between his legs. He picks up the bottle and takes a drink.)
Old School: (bottle raised) Aah! This wine sho’ is good. (suddenly he hears gunfire) Pop! Pop! Pop! (Shields his head, ducks, and falls off crate. Scurries behind tree in terror. Old man is visibly shaken)
(Youngster enters, running, huffing and puffing, looking back behind him. Has a large pistol in his hand. Stops directly in front of the tree)
Youngster: (Screams) Yeah! And fuck y’all punk ass too!
(Old School sees him and tries to conceal himself better behind the tree. He makes too much noise and startles the youngster who points the pistol toward him)
Youngster: Who back there? C’mon outta there nigga!
Old School: (hands held high in air) Whoa! Whoa! Hold up! I ain’t got no money (shaking). Ain’t got nothin’ but this here old wine. Please don’t shoot me?
(Youngster sees that the old man is no threat. Looks in the direction from which he came. Sees nobody, so he relaxes a bit)
Youngster: I ain’t gonna shoot you, Old School. Put yo’ hands down.
(He takes his hands down) I see you ain’t got nothing. Check it out. I ain’t no hijacker. I slang dope and pimps ho’s. I’ma dealer, a pimp, and a player. I leaves all that jacking to them fools who’s gonna wind up dead or on lockdown!
Old School: (wipes forehead with hand) Whew! I thought I was a goner fo’ sho’. (eases back onto crate) Heard all that shooting. Shoot, thought they’s shooting at me. (chuckles softly, looking up at the youngster, extends bottle to him) An’ I ain’t no nigga. Wanna drank?
Youngster: (Standing with arms folded across his chest, pants sagging, pistol hanging limply in his hand) I don’t git down like that school. That shit bad for your insides. Like I told ya, I’ma playa, and we don’t drink no cheap ass Thunderbird wine!
Old School: Where ya say ya been? To school?
Youngster: (puzzled look on his face) What you talking about, School?
Old School: Yeah.
Youngster: Yeah what? I ain’t said nothin’ like that!
Old School: Yeah ya did boy! You said something- ‘bout old school!
Youngster: (smiles) Yo, I feel ya, dawg. Check it out. You ain’t hip to what I’m throwin’ down ‘cause you old school. That mean you from way back. We speak hip hop language, dawg.
Old School: (shakes his head, holds up his bottle, looking into it as though to find some answer. Takes another drink.) An’ I ain’t no dog, neither!
Youngster: Ya’ll old cats can’t hang. ‘Cause we way more hip than ya’ll was! Like y’all drinks that old cheap ass Thunderbird wine! We chills with cognacs and Cristal. We ‘bout speed, fast paper, fast ho’s, fast life! Y’all beefs with y’all mouths, fist fighting and shit. When that don’t work, y’all call in Five-O. On y’allself! Y’all git the man in y’all business. We got beefs, Old School, we straps up with Glocks and Macs (raises pistol). It’s survival of the fittest out here, School. (brings pistol back down)
Old School: (takes another drink) Yeah, I guess. An’ I ain’t no cat neither. (suddenly aloud startling youngster) Hawaii Five-O! Use to watch it all the time. (aloud) Book ‘em, Danno! Where ya going in such a hurry? Who yah shootin’ and cussin’ at?
Youngster: You a’ight, School? (looking at him quizzically because of Danno comment)
Old School: Uh huh.
Youngster: Bunch of fool-ass Jamaicans tryin’ to play me! Thought I was some pussy-ass punk. But I’m packing ma gat (raises gun)! I whipped some heat at they ass! (brings gun down) Might ‘a hit one of them ho’s. Bitch–ass motherfuckers (visibly angered)!
Old School: (hesitantly) Th-that yo’ gun name, gat? Them guns is bad business. That old dope what ya sellin’ bad news too. Either one ya gonna wind up killin’ somebody or git yah put in the joint (pauses) or in the ground.
Youngster: You twisted, School! (raises gun) This here is the new code of the hood! Can’t nobody dis ya and get away wit it! Ya gotta make ‘em recognized ya, build up yo rep! Ya gotta make some noise, School!
Old School: Nah, I ain’t. You ain’t nothin’ if you dead and that respect ya want gonna lay in the ground with ya. (Visibly shaken) And them drugs is tearing Black peoples apart, boy! What yo’ name? Why ain’t ya in school? Where yo peoples at? You can’t be no more than fifteen, and you out here in all this mess? (shakes head from side to side)
Youngster: My name is Jerod Thomas, but everyone call me lil’ T. I be eighteen next month! And I ain’t going to no school! I don’t need no school to have paper like this (pulls out big wad of money)! My peeps don’t wanna have nothin’ to do with me ‘cause a ma lifestyle. (hangs head, then quickly raises it) So this is where I ride (waves to indicate outside). Out here!
Old School: (Eyes bucked at seeing large wad of bills. Takes a long swig of wine) Damn, boy! That’s a whole lotta money (coughs) to be carryin’ ‘round. Ain’t ya ’fraid someone might knock ya in the head?
Youngster: Now, I don’t sweat that, School! My crew got my back, and I got ma gat (brandishes gun again, then puts it back in his waistband)! So no, I ain’t!
Old School: Well, where ya crew few minutes ago when Jamaicans got at ya? Huh?
Youngster: (Looks around for noone in particular) They ‘round, hangin’ and chillin’.
Old School: You sho’ talk funny. Like some fern language or sumpin’. What that?
Youngster: Bet, School. Check it out. Y’all done y’all thang. So y’all slowly dyin’ out .You what they call a hanger on. Ya kinda like me boys, but different. We hiphoppers comin’ in. We done brought a brand new image to the ‘hood. We gangin’ and bumpin’. We nappin’ and cappin’. We the new bigballers ‘cause we make shit happen! We ain’t ‘fraid a nothing and nobody! (stands proudly with arms across chest) We do it all, School!
Old School: (Appears to be in thought) Hmm . . . well how come ya was runnin’ then?
Youngster: (visibly agitated, screams) ‘Cause they had more guns, fool ! (jerks gun from waistband and flashes it wildly)
Old School: (Shakily, takes a drink while eying pistol warily, speaks almost inaudibly) oh. And I ain’t no fool neither. (Quickly changes subject) What ya gonna do with all that dope money?
Youngster: I’m gon buy shit, clothes, bling, cars . . . (runs out of things to buy) You know, shit!
Old School: What ya say, bling? What that?
Youngster: That’s jewelry, Old School. Man, you outta there!
Old School: Yeah. How much money you got? Where ya gonna live side out here? (waves arms indicating outdoors)
Youngster: Aw, I gotta few shoeboxes stored away. I’m living the street life. Ain’t need nowhere else. I’m chillin’.
Old School: Why don’t ya go back home? I know ya folks still cares for ya. Everybody got somebody but . . . (pauses and hangs his head)
Youngster: But what, School?
Old School: Me.
Youngster: Where yo peeps at, School? They dead?
Old School: Pretty much. (pauses sadly) Or the ones that ain’t don’t wanna have nothin’ to do with me.
Youngster: What you do to ‘em, School?
Old School: (Hesitantly) I lied to ‘em, and drank too much for ‘em. So the ones that’s left, they turned they backs on me. You make yo bed hard, ya gotta sleep on it, boy. So here I am out here with you. Funny thang though, you ain’t gotta be here. Ya young and gots a whole lotta opportunity ahead a ya. But ya gotta check ya self and drop all them bags ya got.
Youngster: I can’t, School. The paper too good. Believe me when I tell you I makes ten to fifteen thousand every week. And that’s part-time work, School! These fools don’t never get enough crack! And it ain’t just Black people who using this shit. Everybody want it!
Old School: You use.
Youngster: Hell naw! I told ya I’ma playa and a dealer! I’m coming up! I ain’t goin down!
Old School: Yeah, ya said that (takes another drink). But ya taking our peoples down. What ya gonna do when you get caught? All that money stashed away. (sly grin aside) Who else know about it?
Youngster: I ain’t thought ‘bout that. (barely a whisper) Nobody but me.
Old School: But ya gotta know that ain’t nothin’ gonna last forever boy! Be a real pitiful shame if somebody else run ‘cross your hard earned money. Then who gonna get played!
Youngster: What ya think I oughta do, School?
Old School: Boy, that’s what they got banks for . . . to keep yo money safe!
Youngster: (thinking) Nah, no can do, Old School. Can’t take a chance a them white folks taking my paper away on some kinda tech. Won’t look right, me, with all that money.
Old School: Well, what ‘bout me?
Youngster: (Look of surprise on his face) What ‘bout you?
Old School: I kin take it to the bank, open yo account. That way yo money gonna grow ‘stead a being in them shoe boxes.
Youngster: When the last time you looked in the mirror, School? You ain’t exactly the executive type. (chuckles to himself) And it’s too much money. Them white folks looks at money in them lump sums and the first thang they gonna holler when a black man got that much paper is drug money!
Old School: Well, the bank’s out. You and yo peoples is on bad terms. You ain’t got nobody you can trust? I can’t thank a but one option ya got left. Ya got to find a sturdy waterproof chest and bury your treasure. But lemme ask ya, how long ya planning on being in the dope game? ‘Cause the sooner you get out, the greater your chances of surviving.
Youngster: Till I git enough paper.
Old School: I dunno, maybe ten, fifteen mil.
Old School: (wipes forehead) Whew! Boy, ya don’t need all that! Just think ‘bout riding the year out. (Pauses) If ya feel safe. Ain’t but three mo’ months and hello 2006! Like I say, old dope bad business. White folks come down hard on dealers, and the last thang ya wanna do is git caught! What ‘bout them ho’s ya say ya got?
Youngster: Ho money ain’t no money no mo’. They just hangin’ to help me build up ma rep as a true playa.
Old School: Hmm . . . Well, (takes another drink, then looks at bottle and sees it’s almost empty) ya gotta be careful who ya lets in ya business. Peoples is shrewd. (smiles aside)
Youngster: A’ight. Damn, School! That shit don’t git you drunk? (points to wine bottle)
Old School: Naw. Been drinking so long its just like water. ‘Course I gotta have it everyday ‘cause a the shakes (holds up shaking hands). I ain’t no different from them crackheads.
Youngster: Ya know, School, I think ya right. But I still can’t leave the game. The paper is too good. Like a ho’s pussy ya can’t get enough of. I s’pose its just the playa in me. But I do gotta find me a better stash spot. Just in case.
Old School: I think that would be wise. (turns up bottle and takes last drink of wine, looks at empty bottle as though losing best friend, tosses bottle into open field where it shatters) Don’t know how good thangs is ‘til they gone, boy.
Youngster: Look like ya outta wine, School. (pulls out wad of bills and peels off a twenty, gives it to Old School) On me, School.
Old School: (hastily grabs the twenty and pockets it) Thank ya kindly, boy. You gotta good heart. Good thangs gonna happen for ya, and they all gonna be for better.
Youngster: Yo, check it out, School. I’mo ride outta here. Maybe I can git back wit’ ya. Holler at ya! (waves good-bys and exits)
(Old School waits until Youngster is a safe distance away, reaches under crate and gets old croaker’s sack, then follows him)
(An old abandoned apartment complex)
(Youngster goes through a maze of front and back yards, through the alleyways, always checking to see if he’s being followed. He reaches his destination and climbs through window of abandoned apartment)
(Old School is winded after Youngster takes him on this course but manages to catch up just in time to see the leg of Youngster go into window. Breathing heavily, he covers his mouth and peeks in window to see Youngster removing tiles carefully from floor. Sees him take out several shoeboxes filled with neat stacks of money. Also, there are several large bags of rock cocaine.)
Old School: Gasps (at the sight of what he sees, covers his mouth again, then scrambles hurriedly into a small hallway)
Youngster: (hears sound, searches for his pistol, goes to window and peeks out to himself) Musta been one a them old stray ass dogs be hangin’ round here. (puts pistol back in waistband and continues doing his thing) Gotta stash this paper and git ‘bout a hundred of these rocks ‘cause them crack heads gonna be geekin’ and fiendin.” (gets rocks and puts everything back the way it was. Satisfied, he leaves the way he came.)
Old School: (Sees Youngster leaving, but waits in shadows for considerable time to make certain that he won’t come back. Shaking and sweating. Finally, leaves his hiding spot and struggles to get inside the window. Falls down inside but gets up cursing) Goddamnit the hell! (rubs his skin and begins to remove the board panels) Shit! Lordy, Lordy, Lordy! Look at all this here money, Hot damn! That boy didn’t tell no lie when he say he had paper. Hell, he already rich! But … he sho’ gonna miss all this here money and dope. ‘Cause it ain’t right, damnit! I sho’ hates to do the boy like this, but he gotta learn his lesson the hard way. I’mo leave him a few a these here old rocks. (leaves about ten rocks in one of the bags, takes everything else and exits)
Music – For the Love of Money
Lyrics bv The O’Jays
For the love of money, people will steal from their mothers
For the love of money, people will rob their own brothers
For the love of money, people can’t even walk the streets
Because they never know when the world they’re gonna beat.
For that mean, of mean, mean green, almighty dollar– cash money!
(Return to initial meeting place in wooded area under tree)
(Old School takes his position underneath the tree, places the sack of money and crack under the crate, bust the cap on ice cold bottle of Thunderbird wine and kills the poison)
Old School: AAH! This here wine sho’ is good. (sits there drinking, the Sun begins to go down)
(Enter Youngster )
Youngster: What it be, Old School? I see ya chillin’, doing yo thang.
Old School: Sho’ is, got ma wine, got my life. Pretty much all I needs. Where ya headed?
Youngster: I’mo go pick up some mo rocks for them fiends, sell ‘em and probably roll on in to a motel. Yo School, I know we just met today, but I kinda trust ya. You be like my pops to me. I think them ho ass Jamaicans that I got beef with is following me. I got this here bag of paper that I need you to hold on to till I git back from my stash. I’d hate for them to run down on me, but I think I can shake ‘em off my trail.
Old School: Sho’ boy, ya knows ya can trust me. I ain’t gonna take a dime that don’t belong to me. B’lieve that! (smiles aside)
Youngster: Bet, Old School. (hands him the bag) Yo, I’mo holler at ya later. (strolls off)
Old School: Much. (when Youngster is out of hearing distance)
(Enter three narcotics agents)
NA-I: Say oldtimer, did you see a young boy about seventeen or eighteen come through here just now?
Old School: (shaking in fear) I-I-I (can’t get the words out)
NA-I: Calm down, old fellow. You aren’t in any trouble. We just want to talk to the boy.
Old School: Oh. You ain’t them Jamaicans he was shootin’ at?
NA-I: Jamaicans? No. When did all this happen?
Old School: This mornin’ when he come a runnin’ and shootin’ through here. He left ‘cause he thought y’all was them.
NA-I: Well, that’s why we need to talk to him. Did you see which way he went?
Old School: Yea. He went thaddaway. (points towards direction)
(Exit Narcotics Agents)
NA-I: (takes two-way radio from his side and speaks into it) Hey Bert, can you see the suspect from the air?
NA-IV: Yeah, I see all of you. Just stay your course. I think he’s headed for the stash. Ten-four.
NA-I: Ten-four. Let’s got get us a big fat pusher, guys. (They all smile in unison)
(old abandoned apartment complex}
(Enter Youngster, looking warily, satisfied, steps through window of abandoned apartment, removes wood panels from floor. Look of disbelief on his face)
Youngster: What the fuck . . . ?
(Enter Three Narcotics Agents)
NA-I: Hold up there, player! Don’t make any sudden moves!
NA-II: Well, we finally got the little T. Seems to me that that T ought to stand for time. The way you’ve been dealing around here, I know that you’ve got plenty of dope money and a whole lot of rock cocaine. You know the routine, hands behind your back. Oh, and what do we have here? The dope pusher’s deluxe, a Glock!
NA-III: I thought he was a major dealer. He’s got maybe ten rocks down here in his bag. (to Youngster) Where’s the rest of it, boy?
Youngster: I ain’t got no mo’. That’s all it is!
NA-I: Where did you stash all the money? We know you’ve been dealing around here for awhile. And we know that you aren’t stupid enough to sell crack on credit. (They all laugh in unison)
Youngster: Man, y’all tripping. Y’all can see that I ain’t got nothing.
NA-II: Well, we got him on the pistol and these few rocks. And since he doesn’t have any money to pay a high powered lawyer, we can take him off the streets for a while. Read him his rights.
NA-III: You have the right to remain silent . . . (trails off)
NA-I: (aside to NA-II) I thought sure that he had more than this. I don’t know what he could have done with it so fast.
NA-II: Well, we know that he’s no magician, and we know that it should have been here. But, it’s not! Hey, maybe that old guy we saw sitting on the crate drinking wine can tell us something.
NA-I: I doubt very seriously if this boy would give any type of information to an old wino. We just have to play it by ear and tap his calls. He might be stupid enough to say something over the phone about the big cache. Then we’ll be ready to make our move.
NA-I: (aside) Yeah, I could use some of that dope money to pay off some of my gambling debts.
NA-II: Well, I guess we can put the wrap on this. We can take another dealer off the streets.
NA-I: Yeah, one less hood in the hood. Let’s go! (They leave through the door with Youngster in cuffs)
(County Jail Holdover Tank)
Inmate I: (to Youngster) Wassup, dawg? You in jail but you ain’t gots to look like that.
Youngster: Bet, Dawg. I had it all baby. Plenty paper, slanging real tough, few ole monkey ass ho’s! And just like that, poof! It’s all gone! It’s like I done worked on a job all this and ain’t even got no check coming. All I got now is a date with the judge, and that ain’t no good feeling, dawg! That’s some ho ass shit!
Inmate I: I feel ya dawg. I ‘spect we going down that same road hand in hand.
Youngster: Look like that’s what it be, dawg.
Inmate II: (begins singing)
Some people got to have it hey, hey, hey
Some people really need it, yeah, let me tell y’all
Do things, do things, do things bad things with it (voice trails off)
(Lyrics by the O’Jays)
(Three Years Later)
(Old School sits in the same spot on the crate under the tree after three years)
Old School: (takes a long swig from bottle and leans back against the tree) AAh! This here wine sho’ is good this mornin’. Must gonna be a good day for me.
(Enter Youngster whistling)
Youngster: (stops whistling) What’s up, Old School. I see you’re still here chilling after all these years.
Old School: (looks surprised) Well, I be damn. If it ain’t the Youngster. Boy, where ya been higing yo’self all these years? Ya looking good, though (looks uncomfortable).
Youngster: (hangs his head) I’ve been in prison. Those years were very hard on me, School. (sniffles) But I learned a lot about life and especially about myself. Do you remember the last time that I saw you and gave you that bag of money? Well . . .
Old School: (stuttering) Bo-o-y, let me tell ya what happened to . . .
Youngster: No, no, School. I don’t blame you for what you did with that money. I realized that after I had to change that to the game I was playing. My loss was your gain.
Old School: (seems relieved) Oh. (takes another swig of wine, offers the Youngster some) Wanna drank?
Youngster: No, thanks, School. I really don’t need that stuff. I was saying the police ran down on me when I went to my stash spot. Funny thing about that is, the stash was gone. The money and the dope. All they left me with was a few rocks. But that’s okay, because it allowed me to see myself in a different light. And you know what, School? I like this new me.
Old School: I hear that. (smiling) I’m glad you learnt yo lesson boy. I hate ya had to go all the way to the pen to do it, though. I tried to tell ya that if ya makes yo bed hard, ya the only ones gotta sleep in in. B’lieve that!
Youngster: I never realized before prison that I had all the tools to be successful. I went to school and got my GED, and I even started to take some college courses. Then I made parole, and I want to pursue more education.
Old School: Yea, I notices that ya talks a whole lot bettern ya use to. And a lot of words ya use, them hundred dollar words, I don’t even unnerstand. Bit I gits yo meaning. And let me say this, boy. I is real proud of you. Cause a man gotta be crazy outta his mind to set hisself up to go to the pen. It just ain’t sane thinking, boy. So, ya got ya a job and a place to stay? Got any money?
Youngster: That’s another thing that I learned, I thought that I was a real player that could do anything and survive anything. When I got inside those walls, I couldn’t even function. I couldn’t hustle for the cons hustling me. I had to write my folks and tell them about my situation. They didn’t believe me at first, so when I got my GED and sent it to them, they realized that I was indeed changing. My mother and my sis came down and later pops showed up. From then on, School, it’s been peaches and cream for me.
Old School: I’m so glad to hear that, boy. People needs they family. (smiles) Some people anyhow. Seems like the way you talking kinda rubbing off on me. You got me sounding like I’m edjumicated.
Youngster: (chuckles) The word is educated, School. And you talk okay. I understand everything you say. (smiling)
Old School: Ya gotta job? What ya doing for money? Ya didn’t say before?
Youngster: I’m working with my pops, living back at home. So I can save a bit here and there. I miss the fast money, but I don’t want it if it has to come that way. You told me somebody was going to get my stash. I guess those dirty old cops got it since they never said too much about it.
Old School: Boy, ya ‘member me telling ya that ya had a good heart and good thangs, excuse me, things (smiles) gonna happen for ya? I told ya that ya needed schooling, ya wouldn’t go. Well, yo head was hard, and ya was outta control and didn’t know it. Ya thought ya had all the answers. Ya was gonna wind up dead or, like ya did, in the pen. I weren’t mad at ya, boy. Just disappointed. I know ya had potential. That day ya left here the first time, I followed ya to them old apartments. I was outta breath when I got there, but I seen yo leg going in the window. I peeped yo stash spot. When I seen all that money, I almost give myself away. You looked outta the window, but I hid in the shadows.
Youngster: I thought I had heard somebody outside. So it was you. But why, Old School? Why did ya take all the money? What happened to the dope?
Old School: Boy, ya money, like I said was gonna draw interest in the bank. It ain’t gonna draw nothing but mold and rot in them paper shoeboxes. That old dope, I throwed it where it need to be, in the sewer with all the other garbage! I did it for ya own good, ‘cause I took a liking to ya. Didn’t neither one a us have nobody, really. So we was kind hangin’ and chillin’ together. Feel me? (smiling)
Youngster: Yes, I fell you, School. What you did was for the greater good of the community. Taking the drugs off the streets will make some difference anyway. I see where you’re coming from, Old School.
Old School: (Smiles) I guess ya wonderin’ what I done with the money, huh? (reaches into his pocket and takes out the bank book with Jared Thomas on its front) Here. (Hands the book to Youngster)
Youngster: (look of surprise on his face, thumbs through the banks book) Wow! This is some serious money here, Old School! Does all this belong to me? (look of disbelief still on face) Shit, fifteen mil-il-ion!
Old School: And countin.’ ‘Cause ya still drawing interest, boy! When ya didn’t come back ‘round I figured ya was in jail. I had somebody check up on it, and sho’ nuff, ya was in the clink! So I had my rep see what he could do ‘bout getting ya a lawyer. He and the best he could git ya was them six years. He say that with good behavior, ya could be out in three. And here ya is! And ya rich! So everything turnt out for the better, just like I told ya. This same friend of mines a real ‘spectable man in the community, put ya money in the bank little by little, ‘til he had it all in the account. Then it started to drown like those old weeds out yonder. (waves arm to indicate the open field) Yassah, you is a millionaire, boy! But I wants ya to promise me sumpin’.
Youngster: (still glassy-eyed with disbelief) What’s that, Old School? Anything that you want, you can get.
Old School: Take some a that money and rebuild some a that what ya tore down with that dope. Put sumpin’ back in the ‘hood. Help some a them that can’t help theyself. And git on with yo schoolin’ like ya said. Thataway, you won’t have to be guessing at the game, you’ll know it.
Youngster: (crying) I-I will do that, Old School. But what can I do for you?
Old School: Ya dome all ya needs to do for me, boy. Ya done come to yaself! Keep that up and ya gonna be just fine. Ya got them debts to pay to society. See to ‘em!
Youngster: (wiping tears with the back on his hand) For once in my life, I am speechless. I don’t know what to say, Old School.
Old School: Ain’t nothin’ necessary to say, but everything to do. Survival, that’s what it’s all about! Seeing that ya is okay, I can gone and see my Maker. I been waiting on ya, boy, just to see how ya fared. (smiles) And to give ya that book. My last wish is for ya to give me a decent burying, and say a few words, ‘scuse me, (smiles) kind words over my body. Oh yeah, and pour a bottle of a my favorite on ma box. (chuckles softly)
Youngster: I will do that for you, Old School. Bet on it!
Old School: Lemme drank this last corner of wine off. (turns bottle up and downs its contents) Aah . . . aah . . . ah (grabs his chest, keels over and dies)
Youngster:(visibly shaken, trembling and crying) School! (sobs) Old School! Don’t go out on me like this! (falls to his knees, grabbing hold of the lifeless body) Don’t go! Old School, please, don’t go!
Survival, gotta get with it
Survival, of the fittest
‘Cause it ain’t no, ain’t no joke
When a man is broke, busted,
Walking around broke
And it ain’t no, ain’t no jive
Trying to stay alive