DISGRACELAND - 50 Cent Pt. 1: Police Raids, Motorcycle Chases, and a Nine-Bullet Wake-up Call

Episode Date: February 14, 2023

Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson was dealing crack by the age of 10, born into the height of the epidemic in Queens. He faced possession charges while still in high school, made a career as a dealer after, got stung and raided by cops, but always had his mind on the mission: to get rich, or die trying. And when he found out he was going to be a father, the idea of getting rich through music rather than drugs suddenly made a whole lot of sense. But it would still take a horrifying nine-bullet wake-up call to finally push him to peak achievement. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at ⁠www.disgracelandpod.com⁠. This episode was originally published on February 14, 2023. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠disgracelandpod.com/membership⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠Instagram⁠ ⁠YouTube⁠ ⁠X⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠ ⁠TikTokSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Curtis 50 Cent Jackson are insane. He was a crack dealer before he hit puberty. He was convicted of possessing crack, heroin, and guns just after his 19th birthday. And at 25, he was shot nine times in the legs, hands, and face, and survived. He survived because Curtis Jackson had a mantra that kept him going

that took all the fucked up fuel of his circumstances and propelled him to rise above, get rich or die trying. And he would get rich, but not from dealing drugs, from making great music. Music that topped the charts, defined 2000s hip-hop, and spoke bluntly about American street life, Unlike that loop I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music.

That was a preset loop for my Melotron called Waltzing Priscilla MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Maria Maria by Santana, featuring the product G&P. And why would I play you that specific slice of Westside Story flashbacking cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number of. one song in America on May 6, 2000. And that was the day of beef with the rival hustler, came back on Curtis Jackson by way of nine bullets in the world's worst wake-up call, one that would change his life forever. On this episode, crack cocaine, police raids, high-speed motorcycle

chases, a nine-bullet wake-up call in 50 cent. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Descartes. Graceland. There was a little more than a gram of cocaine on the scale. To the dealer, the extra bit was negligible. But to 10-year-old Curtis Jackson, the boy he would one day know as 50 cent, that little extra bit of blow was everything. The dealer stood in his bedroom in front of a stack of cardboard boxes, each containing a brand new pair of sneakers and a closet filled with fresh clothes, most of which still even had the tags on. Curtis could practically taste his envy. His sneakers were so old, they needed tape to cover the holes. His clothes were handed down from his uncles and dated back to New York's disco era. But the dealer, sincere,

he was cool to Curtis. Older, wiser, been flush with cash. He'd occasionally take Curtis shopping, bring him to the mall, buy him some new kicks, which was way more than his uncles would do for. Curtis's uncles and his aunts all eight of them, the family he shared, a lead to the family he shared a rocky roof width in South Jamaica, Queens, did little for Curtis. His grandmother tried, his grandfather was indifferent, his mom was dead, and he never knew his father. The house was packed with people, but little else. Money, as it was with most of Curtis's neighbors, was tight. The house was cold, and the cupboards were missing any kind of food a 10-year-old would actually want to eat, and dressing up, trying to look fresh for school, meant rating one of your unemployed uncle's

closets, which meant you were likely getting your ass beat down in the block. for looking out of style. Curtis watched as Sincere packaged the powder into five equal parts. As he did so, Sincere casually ran down the neighborhood drama for Curtis. Sincere's grandfather got kidnapped by a couple older guys from the block, held him for ransom until Sincere paid for his release. A friend of Sincers who ran a little blow on one of the blocks, his house was raided,

and the robbers shot his mother in the head right there in his friend's living room. Two other cats took to bank robbing, in broad daylight, total takeovers, they called them, brazen raids of the local banks emptying them of their safes and leaving bodies behind if necessary. These desperate moves were done out of necessity. Even at 10 years old, Curtis knew this. Most of the young men in his neighborhood shared the same sense of desperation. Desperation borne out of a lack of opportunity.

Jobs in South Jamaica, Queens, for uneducated men were basically non-existent beyond making $3.35. hour at a fast food restaurant. Where was the future in that? Even if you could get beyond the indignity of wearing those stupid McDonald's visors and uniforms. Curtis wondered how his mother did it. She went her own way, left Curtis behind at his grandmothers and blazed her own path. She visited him infrequently, but occasionally took him into her world. Curtis couldn't believe what he saw. Old South Road in Queens, Michael Jackson, Rick James, Shaka Khan, blasting out of boomboxes and passing cars. stereos, little kids racing by on beat-up bicycles, men and women hustling in and out of the local storefronts and a steady flow of locals intent on grabbing Curtis's mother's attention

for quick passing seconds at a time. The locals would approach her, share a couple of words, exchange a quick hand-slapp and be on their way, one after the other. People treated his mother with something that seemed like deference, and she carried herself differently than other young women her age. She was in complete control of her situation. A trait Curtis would later recognize and sincere, and one he would view as lacking in his uncles. But what really made Curtis's mom stand out was how older men in the neighborhood treated her. And not just any older men. Players.

These men were clearly on their own trip. They were different from anyone or anything on the block. They rolled up on the corner to talk to Curtis's mom and their brand new Cadillac Fleetwoods and Pontiac Bonnevilles. Big sleds with lush interiors and run. white-wall tires. Fresh, colorful paint jobs had blasted an unfair reflection back onto the ghetto streets. They'd step out of their cars with spit-shine shoes, fresh-pressed three-piece suits, and perfect hair, hand Curtis's mom a brown paper bag in exchange for a stack of bills and beyond their way. Curtis noticed the way they treated his mother, with respect as an equal. Three years later,

Curtis wondered if sincere was more like the men in the fresh-pressed suits or more like his mother. Somewhere in between, he guessed. It didn't matter, though. His mom was gone, dead in the ground, murdered two years back. So much for respect. The pain hurt in a way a 10-year-old is incapable of processing. But it was quickly obscured by more pressing needs. Like how to afford clothes that wouldn't get you beat?

As sincere wrapped the measured cocaine into tinfoil, he explained the coming revolution. This is the last of the powder, he said. Curtis looked at him inquisitively. Why would Sincere stop dealing? He was clearly getting by. Your uncle's to be on the rock like the rest of the block next time you come see me. This?

He held up a bag of powder. This shit is dead as disco. It's all about the rock, right now and forever. Curtis didn't understand. Sincere explained that Richard Pryor motherfuckers didn't need to be setting themselves on fire no more trying to freebase cocaine. It was all about the rock. Crack cocaine. crack. Two parts cocaine, one part baking soda. The scientific combination meant that less product was

used and more profit was made. Making it even better for the dealers was the fact that crack, compared to cocaine, was highly addictive. As little as one hit and you were hooked. And that meant dealers had new customers for life, fiends who visited them multiple times per day for their cheap high. Right now, as they spoke, quote-unquote, processing plants all over the city were buzzing with action. Apartments jammed with neighborhood women who, to ensure no theft of product, were completely naked over long tables stacked high with many mountains of cocaine that had recently been turned into crack. They cut the processed product down from little boulders into pebbles, then inserted the rocks into vials, then capped them for distribution throughout the city.

The vials almost always had some unique quality to separate them from the competition. Bluecaps were popular in Jamaica, Queens. The Blue Cap's brand was synonymous with big, powerful rocks. They went fast on the block once the street-level dealers got their hands on them. Quality and quantity control, manufacturing, branding, distribution. He didn't know it yet, but young Curtis Jackson was learning lessons he would use later in life. Lessons that would bring him unimaginable riches. But for right now, at the age of 10, all he needed was a new pair of sneakers.

Sincere wasn't buying a many, though. Nope. That's why he was weighing out the last of his powder. He separated it into five tinfoil packages. They called the little packages of cocaine, Fat Alberts out in the neighborhood. Fat Alberts contained enough coke to get you high on the weekend, but not enough to keep his supplied 24-7.

Curtis's uncle's partied with them on the regular and ran little Curtis down to Sincere's to keep them supplied and keep the party back at the house bumping. Sincere told Cone's. Curtis that he wasn't buying him anymore, sneakers. They're just going to get dirty, and then he's just going to come back here looking for another handout. Instead, he gave Curtis the five little bags of cocaine. Take these to your uncles and bring me back $100, and keep whatever you make on top of that

and buy your own goddamn sneakers. In a world of hammy downs, leaky roofs had murdered and unknown parents. Opportunity had struck, and 10-year-old Curtis Jackson had just gotten himself a job. The rival hustler stood Curtis Jackson up against the wall. He shoved his 9mm hard into the side of his cheek and spit street wisdom into Curtis's face from inches away. This was not how grown men did business. This was not how hustlers treated one another. And this was not how he survived on the street.

Curtis shoved his attacker off of him and onto the ground. He kicked the 9mm from his hand, stepped on the hustler's chest and took aim with his own weapon. This was it. The moment of truth, kill or be killed. He knew the dealing crack on the streets of Queens would lead to this moment. Curtis focused his aim, squeezed the trigger, and... Nothing. No shots.

No bullets. His gun wasn't a gun at all. It was his beeper, and it signaled weakly into the night before fear rocketed up his throat from his belly and startled him upright and awake in his bed. The dream was always the same, more or less. Sometimes the attacker changed, but he was always feeling. fearsome, and the end result was always Curtis being startled awake with terror rushing through his veins. The fear was always there now.

Sincere was right. Crack had taken over the ghetto. It had been creeping in all across 1985 when the New York Times first named the drug in print. By 1987, it was everywhere. Over three years, U.S. hospitals reported cocaine-related emergencies nationwide increased by almost 400%. and crack had taken over Curtis Jackson too. Hustling. What he and everyone he knew called dealing drugs

had been almost too good to be true. The money to be made was more than anything he could have dreamed generating legitimately at the age of 12. In his mind, Curtis had made it. He had a new pair of sneakers and a fresh track suit for every day of the week. In Curtis's mind, hard work paid off.

Because that's exactly what hustling was to him. But the fear of being caught, arrested. and sentenced to prison time was ever-present. In 1986, Congress passed the first round of mandatory minimum sentences for drug offenses. The guidelines for crack were 100 times as severe as those for powder cocaine by weight. Beyond prison, there was the ever-present threat of an early death. The rules had changed in New York, too, by 1986. In June, on the opposite side of Queens from Upstart Curtis,

a rookie NYPD patrolman was chasing an armed perp into an alley when the gunman opened up seven, eight, nine bullets, and the rookie returned fire, emptied his six rounds, and then took a shot to the forehead while reloading his service pistol. The whole NYPD was full of fury and adrenaline now. An army of drug warriors went and freshly upgraded to speedloaders and semi-automatics for sidearms so that it wouldn't happen again. The cop killer was found and convicted for both the officer's death

and a drug burn slaying the previous year. But to young Curtis, all this news boiled down to was more danger at work. However, like most work, it all becomes routine, and Curtis got sloppy. He showed up at school one day and was randomly searched by a security guard. The guard found a package of green top crack vials in Curtis's backpack that he'd forgotten about. He was arrested for possession. The judge went easy on him, 18 months probation, and Curtis went right back to work.

He was suspended from school and intent on using the opportunity this afforded him to hit the street and hustle even harder. He stood on his corner night and day, leaving only to hit the kitchen he rented from a friend of his to cook more crack. He power-napped on city street benches, rarely showered or ate, and grinded full-time. The work was all-consuming until Curtis caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, disheveled, grimy, almost possessed, just like the crack fiends he serviced. something had to give.

Two unmarked police cars, sirens on their dashboards. Two cops per car bounded out onto the sidewalk, guns drawn, screaming at Curtis and two of his friends to get on their knees. They had them dead to rights. Their whole operation caught on tape. The lookout, the hustler, the dude who manned the package and made the handoff to the customer. The funny thing was, Curtis wasn't even involved in this deal.

He was just hanging out, talking to some of his friends who were caught up in a transaction. Didn't matter. The cop's sting netted him as well in this bust on the heels of a failed drug test due to the fact that Curtis was processing so much crack that the drug had seeped into the pores of his skin and into his system and caused him to fail the drug test.

The second bust landed him in front of another judge for whom probation would most definitely not be enough of a punishment. Young Curtis Jackson was sentenced to two years in a court-mandated drug program. He did his two years standing on his first, standing on his head. It was easy compared to real time. Curtis bullshitted his way through mandatory group therapy sessions and copped to the false role of being a degenerate drug addict in an effort to work his way through the program back onto the streets and back to work.

Behind one of the program counselor's desk hung a plaque. It read, The price of success is hard work and an unrementing devotion to see the things you want to see happen. No shit. Curtis could get with that. If he could only get out of this damn program, which he did. eventually. And when he did, he was recommitted to his work. No more sloppiness on the street or in school. He was going to become a real hustler. Enough of this dangerous street-level stuff. Curtis Jackson had designs on working his way into a management position. Sure, the risks were greater, but so were the rewards. He needed cash, and a lot of it, the kind of cash that can purchase weight. Enough product to put out on the street to low-level hustlers who work for you while you sit back

could bring product in from the Columbia Connect. To get that cash, Curtis hit the street and hustled. But once again, another street bust for possession. And then... Open the goddamn door or we're knocking it down. A house raid while out on parole where the cops found 280 grams of crack cocaine and $15,000 in cash.

Remarkably, the judge went easy on Curtis, deeming him a prime candidate for rehabilitation as part of the new Monterey Shock incarceration program in Beaver Dam's New York. What could have been a nine-year sentence for possession was now a six-month trip upstate to a boot camp posing as a hybrid rehab summer camp slash outdoor prison. The rehab was mostly physical and demanding. He was awake at 5 a.m. every day, thrust into workouts, and taught to maximize his effort in time.

When Curtis was eventually released, he was anything but rehabilitated from the drug game. He was inspired to push himself into the game even further, and he was in shape, lean, mean, and ready to get back to work. We'll be right back after this world, word, word. The Suzuki GSX R750 motorcycle was built for speed, and it whipped down the block. Curtis Jackson was traveling late, out of rehab and on parole, back to dealing but not stupid enough to speed through Queens on his bike while holding product. Still, that didn't stop him from speeding off when the cops approached him. Any arrest while on parole could lead to hard time. And when the cop rolled up next to him at the stop sign on Guy R. Brewer Boulevard to ask him a question,

before he even got it out of his mouth, Curtis gunned it. The Suzuki's engine screamed. The police cruiser's lights went into a frantic fit. It's siren howled. And Curtis blasted down the boulevard and banged two hard rights disappearing from the cops momentarily into the Basley projects. He exited the projects onto a main street, accelerated to 100 miles per hour and let up on the throttle.

He cruised for a moment, seemingly safe from the cops. Thinking he was in the clear, Curtis turned and headed back to the block to laugh off the incident with friends. Then, an unmarked cruiser sped up tight next to him on his right side, and the cop yelled out of his window. Curtis yanked on the accelerator. The bike rocketed ahead with the cruiser.

The cruiser accelerated and quickly caught up to the bike. Curtis slowed, banged a quick right, steadied his foot on the street off of the bike to better handle the sharp turn, straightened his bike in the opposite direction of the cruiser and sped away from the cops. Sionara, suckers. Curtis had escaped, but then, the sound of another siren from a second cruiser that was somehow right behind him. Curtis heard the sound of the original cruiser now as well.

It blasted in unison as a rapidly gained speed catching up behind him. Two cars, four cops, one bike, one hustler on parole. Curtis steered the Suzuki up onto the sidewalk and sped through a crowd of surprised pedestrians who scurried away from the bike to safety. Curtis was running out of sidewalk. He hit the street again, and the cruiser was right there beside him, keeping pace down the boulevard. Curtis did no such thing. He accelerated. Up ahead, a third cruiser appeared.

This one headed straight toward Curtis and the cruiser to his side. Curtis jammed his brakes, skidded to a stop. The cruiser to his left did the same, stopping next to him. The third cruiser kept speeding straight toward them both, and the cop in the car to Curtis's left reached up his hand and grabbed his motorcycle's handlebar. Curtis yanked it away, pulled the throttle and mounted the jerking bike back up onto the sidewalk and away into the crowd, and eventually back onto Guy R. Brewer Boulevard going the other direction away from the cops.

On the straightaway, he pushed the bike as fast as it would go, reaching a speed of 120 miles per hour. He needed to get off the street, ditched the bike, and back to his grandmother's house. But that wasn't going to happen so easily. As he raced through traffic, he could hear what sounded like as many as five cruisers now, speeding behind him and getting closer. The traffic got heavier. It provided an obstacle course for Curtis to weave through with his bike

and an obstacle course that the cruisers could not penetrate. Curtis ended up on the other side of the congested boulevard ahead of the traffic on his bike while the cops sputter behind the cars and their cruisers. It was now or never, time to make his move and escape for real. Curtis banged the left off the main boulevard and onto his side street. He quickly stopped, turned the bike around, and idled on the side street while he faced the boulevard. He waited.

Soon enough, the cruisers caught up and turned off of the boulevard and onto the side street they saw Curtis turn onto where he waited. As soon as he saw them, he blasted off straight toward the approaching police cruisers, passed it and away into traffic. The cruiser screeched to a halt and made a clumsy effort to turn around, but it was too late. Curtis was off. He pulled off of Guy R. Brewer onto Rockaway Boulevard and beneath an overpass.

The shaking hit him almost immediately. His handlebars vibrated. His ribcage rattled. The lining of his stomach rolled. What the fuck was happening? Curtis turned off a rockaway out from underneath the overpass, looked up, and there it was. A fucking police helicopter keeping pace with his bike and bearing down on him. Curtis had no time to think.

He just raced. He managed to duck off onto another side street, momentarily escaping the smothering chopper and ditched his bike in her friend's backyard. From there, it was a stealth foot race through the alleys and yards of his neighbors, over fences, away from the jaws of snarling dogs, and up the side of his grandmother's porch,

threw her window into his house and up and hidden away in the attic. He heard the sharp bang of the police billy clubs in the front door almost immediately. His grandmother opened the door, And he listened. He could hear both cops clear his day, one white, one black. They spoke in a rehearsed rhythm. Was Curtis Jackson their grandson?

Yes. They lived there? Yes. Was he home? No. Could they come in? Hell no. Not without a warrant.

When was the last time they saw Curtis? That sounded like a question for a lawyer to answer. Well, if you see him, will you contact us? Why the hell would we do that? Because your grandson, Curtis Jackson, is wanted for murder. No, worse than that, a double homicide. How the hell did this happen? He didn't kill anyone, but the cops didn't know that.

They believed he killed two people, and that's all that mattered. At least on the day of that high-speed chase, a day when he could have easily died. Curtis Jackson wasn't yet 21 years old, and because of his chosen line of work, he was nearly dead or about to spend his life in prison. Making matters worse, his girlfriend was telling him he was about to be a father. He didn't want his child growing up without a dad like he did. So the choice was easy. No more hustling.

No more high-speed death-defying chases. No more street bus. No more court-order rehabilitation or worse, incarceration. His parole officer knew he was innocent on the double murder wrap and got him off. Curtis now needed a new gig. He heard his future blasting out of the boom boxes on the block. The notorious B.I.G. A Brooklyn hustler who'd gone straight by weaving his street rhymes into hip-hop gold.

Curtis could get with Big. His shit was the only shit in the rap game that rang true. It was authentic, and it provided Curtis with a path. If Big could do it, so could he. It was audacious, but fuck it. The entire notion of making any life for yourself in a place as fucked up as a crack-torn Jamaica Queens in 1996 was audacious. Hell, just believing you could survive in the streets was audacious.

If you could make thousands of dollars a week and outrun angry cops and high-speed chases throughout the neighborhood, if you could dodge a double murder rap, why couldn't he actually rap? How hard could that shit be, anyway? Curtis started writing rhymes in his head, and he envisioned a new authentic persona for himself. He took the name from an old-school local street hustler named 50 Cent. That'd do. Someone introduced him to local Queens legend Jam Master Jay of run DMC, who signed 50 Cent to a production deal,

but that didn't move fast enough for him. 50 Cent had a baby on the way. 50 Cent hustled. Not on the block. In the rap game. His raps were pure, authentic. He rapped about real hustlers in real situations, and it rang true and resulted in an invitation to record with the trackmasters,

who were two of the hottest producers in the game. The studio was overrun with other rappers, their posseys, hangers-on, girls, local hustlers coming in and out. There was a party. Everyone was just hanging around, getting fucked up, blunts, alcohol. An occasional beat queued up on the monitors to entice some inspiration from one of the attendant rappers, but was ultimately wasted like those hanging out. 50 cents saw his opportunity, and he took it.

Rap wasn't about hanging around and getting fucked up. It was just like the street, except with less cops and less bullets. It was about work. He stayed there at the Trackmaster's studio for 18 days. He left with 36 songs for his demo. 36. That's two completed songs a day, and unheard of. clip. The trackmaster signed him to the production deal and then transferred 50 cents contract to

Columbia Records. 50 Cent was now signed to a major label, but just like with Jammaster Jay, Columbia wasn't moving fast enough for 50 Cent. The release of his record was stalled, and with a kid on the way, he wasn't making money. He had no choice. 50 Cent made his new presence on the street felt with authority. He came back strong and intent on taking over the strip in Jamaica Queens all for himself and making as much money as much money. as possible in the shortest amount of time. He brought in muscle from Brooklyn, employed old school queen's roughnecks

recently out of prison. He hustled hard during the day, stacked cash and recorded in the studio at night. Burning the candle at both ends led to sloppiness. 50 Cent disrespected the wrong rival hustler. A sit-down was arranged to squash the beef before street violence overtook the strip

and disrupted business. 50 Cent blew off the sit-down. He had a recording session booked. It would prove to be a number. near-fatal decision. The phrase putting in work can be interpreted in two ways. The first interpretation is the literal one. To apply one's efforts toward a task in exchange for money.

To have a job. To work. Simple. The second interpretation, the street interpretation of, of putting in work means to do the deed no one wants to do, but will, if the pay is right, or the tensions and emotions are high enough. To put in work means to kill, usually in the murder for higher sense.

50 Cent knew this. What he didn't know was that due to the unresolved beef with the rival hustler, a street assassin was hired to put in some work. 50 Cent never saw it coming. The first bullet blasted through the backseat car window and tore through the flesh of his leg. Immediately the adrenaline lit his insides up. Two more shots. In the legs, more adrenaline.

The pain set his legs on fire. He outstretched his hands to block the shooter. The shooter squeezed the trigger five more times. Five bullets ripped through 50 cents hands. A final shot, this one exploded through 50 cents face. Nine bullets, nine gunshot wounds. The shooter's work was done. So too, it seemed, was 50 Cent.

When he awoke in the hospital room, miraculously alive, none of the bullets had hit any major arteries or organs. Even the gunshot to the face merely only took out a tooth. 50 cents fear overtook his physical pain. Quickly, however, that fear was overrun by aggression, and 50 cent transferred that aggression into purpose, the only way he knew how, through work. Because that's the great promise of work, purpose. It gives a man's life meaning. Something 50 Cent desperately needed when he was an aimless 10-year-old out on the streets at Jamaica, Queens, and it was what he needed now to overcome his pain and rehabilitate.

The workouts started slow. First, physical therapy, but with consistency, then walks outside the hospital. Before long, he was in the pool, stretching those legs with light resistance. Then, finally, into the gym, work in the Nautilus machine, squats, shoulder presses, biceps, and shoulders. before long, 50 Cent was jumping rope, back in the ring sparring for cardio. Wind sprints, long runs through the streets of Queens. The entire way, he plotted his way back into the rap game and off of the streets for good. He relied on what he knew for inspiration.

He thought back to Sincere in the Blue Cap Crack Files, packaging and marketing, and inspired him toward creating CD and mixtape covers that would stand out. He recalled all the street-level hustlers who peddled his product and created ways to inspire the bootleggers and radio DJs to push his new product, his music. After all, they were all the same, just middlemen. He could never forget the beef with the rival hustler that led to his shooting. It was singed into his brain. That dude would ultimately end up in prison for life and the Trigger Man six feet under.

But the damage they did to him was an everlasting lesson. Never again would 50 Cent be so dismissive of power. So, when Eminem and Dr. Dre, two of the most powerful players in the rap, Game came calling. 50 cents snapped to attention and paid them the respect they deserved. When talent recognizes talent and game recognizes game, when real hustlers recognize real hustlers, real work gets done. 50 cents first album, Get Rich or Die Trying,

recorded under the guidance of and in collaboration with Dre and M, sold over 1.5 million copies in two weeks and 12 million by the end of 2003. It launched a career in hip-hop for 50 Cent, that is nothing short of an empire. And it can all be traced back to one thing. Work. Which, no matter the environment, can always lead from disgrace.

I'm Jake Brennan. And this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axus member, Thank you for supporting the show.

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