DISGRACELAND - Kobe Bryant: The Black Mamba's Revenge

Episode Date: April 9, 2024

He was a professional killer. A warrior trained from birth. A member of the deadliest squad of assassins in The Association. But that was before he tried to go solo. And before they tried to kill him. They made one mistake though – they didn’t finish the job. Now the Black Mamba is back and he won’t stop until he’s got his hands on the ultimate prize – the assassin’s ring – and his revenge on the ex-partner and boss who double crossed him.This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners, including sexual assault.To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com.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 NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Kobe Bryant are insane. His legendary late-game heroics were overshadowed by an arrest for sexual assault. The allegations made him one of the most hated players in the NBA.

Hate that was so intense that he had to create an on-court alter ego just to withstand it. A cold-blooded basketball assassin named the Black Mamba. As the Black Mamba, Kobe Bryant ratted out teammates, sparred with coaches, and fought formidable rivals. He also put up some of the best numbers in league history. Because Kobe Bryant made great music. I'm not talking about that hip-hop album that he recorded but never released. I'm talking about great music on the court, figuratively, and very much unlike that loop that I played for you at the top of the show.

That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Mr. Chicken's Haunted House, M.K.1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Bad Boys by Beyonce, featuring Sean John. And why would I play you that specific slice of reggae dance hall fantasy cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on October 10, 2003. And that was the day that Quentin Tarantino's revenge flick, Kill Bill, was released. Introducing Uma Thurman's iconic character, The Bride, an assassin codenamed the Black Mamba. a character that Kobe Bryant would turn to for inspiration during the darkest moments of his career.

On this episode, cold-blooded assassins, codenames, revenge flicks, and the Black Mamba of the Basketball Court, Kobe Bryant. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. He was a professional killer, a warrior trained from birth, a member of the deadliest squad of assassinations. in the association. But that was before he tried to go solo. And before, they tried to kill him. But they made one mistake. They didn't finish the job.

Now the Black Mamba is back for revenge on the ex-partner and boss who double-crossed him. And he won't stop until he's got his hands on the ultimate prize. The Assassin's Ritch. Starring, Kobe Bryant as the Black Mamba. Child not finished. Phil Jackson as the Zen master. No man is an island.

No man goes his way alone. Shaquille O'Neal as Big Barishnikov. Kobe, you can't do it without me. Plus, LeBron James as the king. Powell Gasol as the Spaniard. And Paul Pierce as the truth in The Black Mamba's Revenge. Coming soon. Three vicious uppercuts sent the limp and bloody body crashing to the floor.

Five huge men circled their victim and continued the assault. The flat rhythmic sounds of fists slamming into flesh echoed through the empty palace room. And the frenzy of violence continued for five long minutes before it stopped. Then footsteps, clicking across the wooden floor. A mountainous man dressed in red and black approached. He knelt down to look at the barely conscious body below. As he stared into the eyes of the man on the ground, the mountainous man in red and black

slowly pulled out a long, double-sided blade. He toyed with the knife for a moment before making his next move. And without warning, the man in red and black plunged the blade of the knife deep into the ribs of the man on the ground, giving it a twist for good measure. Then the knife was pulled out, and the man in red and black,

Wipeed it clean. As the body on the ground below him faded from consciousness, the mountainous man whispered in a deep baritone. How's it taste? Look dead back there, didn't I? And in a way, I was. Disgraced. Double crossed.

Left to bleed out on a wooden floor somewhere north of Detroit. Baku de Gras to the ribs didn't quite kill me, but it wiped out any last trace in my old life. Now I'm a man consumed by only one thing. The burning, bloodthirsty desire for vengeance. Vengeance against the people who betrayed me. People who made a huge mistake. They didn't kill me when they had the chance.

Now I'm going to make them pay. Allow me to give you a little backstory. To truly understand the events of June 15th, 2004, an event the press took to call on the massacre at Auburn Hills, you have to know some of the players in the game. My name is... But in my line of work, it's safer to use code names. It helps to keep the personal separate from the professional.

And when you're a professional assassin, that's a pretty important line. I'm not just an assassin, though. Some people say I'm the deadliest man in the world. And you know what? They're exactly right. My codename? I work for an elite crew out of Los Angeles called the Showtime Assassination Squad. The squad is led by Phil.

Phil used to be a warrior, but once his hair turned gray, he discovered he had a brilliant mind for battle plans. That, plus his taste for quoting Eastern philosophy, earned him his codename, the Zen master. And that mountain of a man who stabbed me in the chest and left me for dead, that's my partner, my ex-partner now. He stands seven feet tall, weighs over 300 pounds, but he has the quickness and agility of a ballet dancer.

That's why his codename is the big Beriznikov. In hand-to-hand combat, he's unbeatable. Just don't hand him a piece, though, because he can't shoot for shit. The Showtime Assassination Squad was just one crew in a league of assassins called The Association, where we competed for turf, money, and the ultimate prize, the diamond and jewel-encrusted assassins ring. In the association, you're judged by how many rings you collect. But if you ever get a ring, you better watch your back,

because once you do, every single assassin in the country will be coming for you. For a while, we didn't worry about all that. With Phil running the Showtime Assassination Squad, we dominated. We collected three of those rings in three years before things started coming apart. First, Beriznikov got cocky. He quit putting in the work to stay sharp, and then the whole crew got sloppy. They were so undependable that I started running missions on my own. Phil accused me of trying to take the squad over, but the hell else was I supposed to do.

I kept training like a madman. I was determined to be the number one assassin, not just on the squad, but in the entire association. And the work paid off. On the job, I was bulletproof. but in between jobs, I was falling apart. The pressure was insane. Other squads were coming at us constantly, and when I had time off, I started taking comfort in places I shouldn't have.

Some accused me of doing even worse, and the whispers got so loud that the association investigated me, and they decided not to exile me, but the damage was done. Phil iced me out, and the squad broke into two factions. mine and Beriznikovs. Even with everything falling apart, we knew we were still the deadliest squad in the association. So we decided to do one last job together,

snatch a fourth ring, and then go our separate ways. That's how we ended up in Auburn Hills that June. We tracked down the ring to a rugged crew of Detroit thugs called the Bad Boys. Our plan was a simple ambush. Baryshnikov would ram through the front door, guns blazing. I would set up outside as a sniper, take as many long-range shots as I could before charging in with the dagger.

The night of the mission, Phil, aka the Zen Master, walked us through the plan one more time. I listened intently, but Beriznikov was cracking jokes and clowning around. And I glared at him to shut him up, but it didn't work. He just smirked and told me to relax. And then he reached one of his big mitts over and started rubbing the top of my head like he was my big brother or some shit. I ain't your damn little brother. That's what I said anyway when I slapped his hand off me.

A few hours later, we set up outside the palace and waited for dark. Just after midnight, we stormed in. But the plan was off from the start. The bad boys had more firepower than we expected, and Beriznikov couldn't break past them. In the chaos, I couldn't get off a clean shot from outside. I charged forward into the chaos with my dagger, and that's when I felt it. One of those huge mitts knocked me to the ground.

I turned around in shock and saw Beriznikov coming toward me. Five Detroit bad boys right behind him. I tried to jump back to my feet, but there were too many of them. They beat the piss out of me until I couldn't fight back anymore. Then Beriznikov brought out that fucking knife. You know the rest. I was trapped in a coma for a full year. Until yesterday.

That's when I finally woke up in a hospital bed. It was no ordinary hospital, though. It was more like a prison for wayward assassins. Guards everywhere. I recognize those guys immediately. A savage crew out of Toronto called the Crazy 80. You might say it would be impossible from one man to fight through 80 armed guards. But I'd say you were right.

That's because I sliced and diced my way through 81 in total. I guess they weren't so good at counting. Me. I'm an expert. And I know I've got a score to settle with Beriznikov. I'll get to him soon enough. Right now, I'm flying down a two-lane highway in rural Montana behind the wheel of a bright red Ferrari.

Far from an inconspicuous ride, but I don't give a fuck about being inconspicuous. I'm headed for the Zen Master. I've got some questions. and you better pray he has the right answers. Because if I don't like what he has to say, I'm going to fucking kill Phil. I drive the Ferrari to a gorgeous lakeside cabin and put it in park. And the engine purrs,

and I just sit there listening to that glorious sound for a moment. It reminds me a home. Not my home now. But back in the day, when I was a kid and my father was an assassin in the association, he worked for a crew out of Philly, till he pissed off the wrong people. got himself exiled for ten long years.

When I was four, we split for the only hideout my father knew. An Italian monastery run by warrior monks that the association used for off-the-books jobs. There, the monks treated me like one of their own. That meant training 12 hours a day. That meant speaking only when necessary. And by the time I was 14, my people's skills were lacking,

but I could already out-shoe, out-dual, and out-fight. full-grown men. My father said it was time to come home and earn back our family's honor. It was time for me to take his place in the association. All that to say, I've got a thing for Italian sports cars, okay. I shut the engine off and looked at the cabin. On the outside, it seems like any other yuppie vacation home. There's even one of those cheesy, live-love lake signs hanging on the front porch.

You would never guess it was the home or one of the most brilliant battlefield tacticians in the world. What can I say? Phil's always been a real Laker. I'm not in the mood to be subtle, so I stride up the front walkway and raise my fist to the door. Before I can even knock, it swings wide open. Perfect timing, as usual, fucking guy, Zen Master. I don't waste time with words. I just lunge forward with my dagger. He slides out of the way just in time, and the old bastard is faster than he looks, but not fast enough. I send him flying back. backwards with a kick to the chest. He trips over a coffee table in front of his fireplace and smashes into it. Broken glass flies in all directions. I jump on him and slam my fists into his face.

When I pull back to do it again, he grabs a fire poker and drives it into my ribs. The pain is intense. I stumble back and he lunges at me, but I slip to his left and for a second he's off balance. I take the opportunity. I slam my foot into his knee and he falls to the ground. I'm on him like That with my blade to his throat. Relax, Phil, I say. I'm not going to kill you yet. With my knife to his neck, I asked my questions. He swears he didn't know about the setup.

He says Beridnikov turned on him, that the Showtime Assassination Squad gave him the boot. But Phil says the bosses aren't too happy with the new guys running the show. But maybe there's a chance we can run the squad again, together. Despite everything, the offer is pretty damn.

tempting. We're talking about one of the greatest battle planners in the history of battle. Do I trust him? Hell no, but he's my best chance to beat Beriznikov. So it looks like the Showtime squad is about to ride again. And there's just one more thing. Mamba, he says, and looks me in the eyes. We have to talk about the Aurora file. Kobe Bryant. What this young woman does in her private life has nothing to do with an allegation of rape. The latest on the case against Kobe. Mama, Phil says.

I know what happened. I shake my head no. Phil doesn't know shit. Nobody does. I swear to him that I didn't do what they accuse me of. He says he doesn't believe me. And then he says something that stops me cold. There's more, Mamba.

I know what you did to Boryshnikov. Part of the problems, Kobe, at least as far as your relationship with Shaquille O'Neal, go back to your port case, or it was revealed that you had suggested Shaquille O'Neal maybe has paid off women in the past. When's the last time you talked to Shacken, did you ever apologize for those statements? How can he know about that? that wasn't even in the file. That was the worst night of my life.

Because no matter how many times I tried to explain, I know that I still brought dishonor to my family, to my father, to my squad, and to my partner. Because after I made the worst mistake of my life, I did something to make it even worse. Something I thought no one would ever find out about. I tried to blame it on Boryshnikov. I stared down at my hands.

Shame washes over me. me. I don't know what to say. The Zen master reaches out his hand to my shoulder. He tells me that the Buddha has a quote that says we can't dwell on the past. We can't dream of the future. All we have is the moment and what we make of it. He tells me that I'm a great warrior, one of the best ever, but he sees more in me. It's not too late. No matter what I have or haven't done, I could be more than just a great warrior. I could be a great leader, too. I tell him one more time that I didn't do it.

He reminds me not to dwell on the past. I can't make him believe me. All I can do is live in the moment. If I can learn to do that, there's still hope for me. We sit in silence for a long time afterward. And then, like the Buddha suggests, we move on. We don't look back. After all, we get to get the squad back together.

It's showtime. Phil heads to Los Angeles to assemble the rest of the team, and I head east to track down Beriznikov. Before we split up, Phil tells me he's got a new addition in mind for the squad, someone who could be my new partner. I believe it when I see it. I slice through the entire crazy 80 by myself, and I got more than enough firepower to slice through anyone who gets in between me and Boryshnikov.

I'm sure of it. June, 2008. Almost four years since the bastard knife me. I tracked Beriznikov down to a safe house in Boston's north end. While I was floating in that coma, I heard that the big man picked up another ring. But these days, he's getting sloppy. He's got bad habits. Like going to the same wine bar every night.

Like not looking over his shoulder. It's about to get him killed. Just after 1 a.m., he stumbles out of the bar as usual. I follow from a distance. He cuts through the garden and slips up the front steps. into his safe house. Outside, I hide in the darkness and watch him through a window. It's clear he's put on weight. His days of moving like a ballet dancer are long gone. Tonight, he collapses into a chair and pulls a ring from his pocket. He stares at it for a moment and then looks out

the window, almost like he sees something. But then he drops the ring on the table, sits back in the chair and flips off the light. This shouldn't be very much. much of a battle. I creep forward in the darkness and pull out my dagger. It's taking me four long years to get here. And now revenge is about to be mine. I glide up the steps without making a sound. Slowly I reach for the doorknob when suddenly, from out of nowhere, I hear someone step behind me and cock a shotgun. The gun fires and I feel something ripped through my legs. God, the pain is unbearable. My legs are on fire. I try to do that. to crawl forward. I'm inches away from revenge, but I can barely move. I can barely breathe.

Inside, Beriznikov stands up and turns on the light switch. The bastard was playing possum the whole time. From behind me, I hear a voice chuckling. And the voice asks how I like the load of Roxal, he just blasted through my legs. And Beriznikov opens the front door and bumps fists with the shooter. And then he looks down at me and says, Write this down. Paul Pierce is the motherfucking truth. The truth just stands there holding the shotgun and laughs. He tells me I should really get a partner, somebody to watch my back.

Then he grabs the ring from the table and holds it up. And I tell him, he must feel good to hold his first one. The fucker kicks me straight in the teeth. And then he asks Beriznikov what he's going to do with me. And Beriznikov pulls a knife out of his pocket. It's the same one he stabbed me with before. And he holds it up to his mouth like a microphone and spits out a rhyme as he looks down at me. You can't do it without me.

It's no lie. You ratting me out, bitch. Now I'm going to bury you alive. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Panic rises in my throat as I listen to the dirt pouring down on top of me. I'm trapped in a pine box barely wider than my shoulders. I'd never been claustrophobic, but the darkness is terrifying. I can feel my heart pounding.

I'm breathing in huge gulps until I remember that oxygen is a limited resource down here, so I better start conserving it. I close my eyes and I will myself to relax. My pulse drops a bit, and I start digging for a memory, something, anything, to give me hope in this hopeless situation. I was 14 that summer. My father, fresh off of a decade in exile, finally brought us back home to Philadelphia.

And after ten years in a monastery, he told me I was ready to train in the American style. So he drove me to a black top jungle in the heart of our new city and left me with my cousin Sharif. Sharif was older, he was taller, he was mean as hell. As he stood glaring down at me, he asked what weapon I trained with. I pulled on my dagger, but he just laughed.

He said that wasn't a weapon. It was just some child's toy. And he reached out with his bare hand and slapped me across the face. Jesus, that stump. I just glared at him. And then he reached up and slapped me with the other hand. But my ears were ringing. I saw red and he pushed me in the chest.

I felt the anger well up inside me. And I slashed at him with my knife, but he dodged it easily and slapped me again, knocking me to the ground this time. And while I was laying there, he calmly pulled out five. $5.20 bills and fan them out in front of me. A fortune for a 14-year-old. Touched me with the blade even one time, he said, and I'll give you everything I got. I got to my feet and ran forward, but again he jumped easily out of the way. I turned around to face him, but he knocked me to the ground with a flying tackle. He grabbed my wrist and

wrenched it up in the air. Pain was excruciating, but there was nothing I could do. I was helpless against him. Every day we met at the blacktop, and every day he fanned out the money in front of me, and every day I went home empty-handed. For more than a year, I never landed a single blow, not even once, but he wouldn't let me quit. He said no matter how many times he's beaten, the true warrior never loses, because he gets back up every time, until he wins. For two years we trained, I grew up. bigger, faster, meaner. But still, I couldn't land a, I'll never forget it.

He took a swing and I blocked it, instant kicked in and I counterattacked. Nothing much, just a weak blow to the side of his face. But I hit that motherfucker. And the next day, I did it again, slowly. And by the third year, he no longer showed up on the blacktop to fight me. I was 17 years old and I was ready for the association. As the memory washes over me, I feel the smallest glimmer of hope. I smash my fist into the lid of the pine box inches above me,

and I do it again, and again, and again. An hour later, a small crack appears in the wood. My knuckles are busted and bloody, but I'm getting the fuck out of here. And this time, nothing is going to stop me. So that's what I do. Two days later, I catch up to the Zen Master at his pad in L.A. It gives me a look when I show up, beaten to hell. I shake my head as in, don't ask.

He doesn't. He just launches into a plan, a plan that sounds crazy. But if we can pull it off, we'll net not just one ring, but two. To make it work, though, I'm going to need a new partner. Before I can even shake my head, no, Phil calls out to the hallway. In-walk some tall curly hair kid. But when he says hello, there's an accent that takes me. me a moment to place. It's not Italian. Phil says, Mamba, meet your new partner, the Spaniard,

the European assassin. Phil certainly knows how to pull the heartstrings, but I want to see how he can handle himself. So Phil tells the Spaniard to show me what he's got. We walk to the backyard and the Spaniard tells me to grab two beer bottles from the trash. Then he tells me to walk 20 feet out into the yard and whenever I'm ready to throw both bottles in the air. I let them fly and the Spaniard aims and fires a shot that smashes the first bottle to pieces. And before the second one can hit the ground, he tosses the gun to his left hand and fires another shot. The glass explodes. Shit.

Looks like I got a new partner. And he's ambidextrous. With the Spaniard on the team, the Showtime Assassination Squad is back on top of the association. in no time. We drop-kick a crew out of Florida and take our fourth ring. That's the easy part of the plan. We need the ring for bait. We need to put a target on our backs that'll send every assassin in the country coming for us, including Beriznikov, including the truth. June 2010, we hole up at the Showtime Assassination Squad headquarters. Phil walks us through the plan one more time. The Spaniard and I listen intently and then guide the rest of the team into position.

As night falls, assassins are lining up outside our gates and there will be no ambush. This is all-out war. 3 a.m., a full moon shines down. Enough light for a group of assassins to slice each other to ribbons. And we wade in the darkness, weapons in hand, wondering who will make the first move. Finally, Beriznikov chart is forward. But the Spaniery-Eychev's forward. But the Spaniery who trips him and sends him flying to the ground, and I pull my dagger from my belt to finish him off when someone steps forward to stop me. That's when I realize that I'm not the only one with a new partner. Standing opposite me is a towering linebacker of a man. He's holding a giant

hammer in one hand and tapping it softly against his other. Back up, Mamba, he says. There's a new king in town. I can tell by his walk that this so-called thing thinks he's a top assassin. in the association. He's big, he's strong, but his head's not fully in the game. He's not in the zone. There's no way he's put in more work than me. And how could he?

He's had a cell phone since he was a kid. Hell, he probably spends three hours every day staring at a screen. At least three hours every day that I've been working on killing the motherfuckers just like him. I raise my dagger over my head and charge forward. He swings his hammer and does the same.

And we're about to meet when all of a sudden... I hear a shot ring out and the king falls forward to the ground. Well, all of them except the half of his brain that's now splattered against the wall. The truth steps out of the darkness. His gun is raised and he's got me clean in his sights. I flinch and wait for the bullet to rip through me. I hear a gunfire. I feel...

Nothing. I opened my eyes and the truth is laying on the ground, shot dead by my new partner, the Spaniard. It looks like the truth was right. It's good to have somebody to watch you back. I walk over to him and snatched the ring off his finger. The same one he stole from me. It's my fifth.

I watch Beriznikov crawl away. I don't even care. It's clear that he's been beaten. This ring is all the revenge I need. I slide it onto my finger But with my quest complete I have just one question What now?

The morning was foggy The morning was foggy, gray clouds blocked out the sun And light rain pattered on the room inside a man lay fast asleep in a dark room a man who used to be a warrior one of the deadliest in the world a man named cobi brian suddenly his eyes snapped open footsteps he lay still and listened carefully he heard another movement someone was creeping closer slowly quietly he reached under the mattress where he still kept the blade hidden, just in case.

His fingertips gray as the edge of its handle when suddenly he felt something land on his back, knocking the breath out of him. Daddy, a small voice called out. A four-year-old girl wrapped her arms around him. He relaxed his grip on the knife, rolled over in bed and put his arm around his daughter. Then the girl beamed at him.

Behind her, he could see his older daughter standing in the doorway, telling him to wake up. It was almost time to go. It had been nearly four years since the Black Mamba laid down his dagger for the final time. He left an incredible legacy. Three consecutive NBA championships with his feuding teammate Shaquille O'Neal, five championships total, league MVP, 81 points scored in a single game,

an achievement that to this day remains second only to Will Chamberlain's legendary 100-point game, that that happened in an entirely different generation. But just as the Zen master predicted, Kobe Bryant became more than a great legend and more than a great warrior. He became a leader. He built schools. He trained other warriors.

He wrote poetry, and especially as a father to four daughters. He relaxed that famous killer instinct and allowed himself to soften just a little bit while he fulfilled his purpose. And if this were a movie, that's exactly where our story would end. Our hero, at peace,

his arms wrapped around his family. Something like the ending of Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill Volume 2, but life is not a movie. On the morning of January 26, 2020, Kobe Bryant and his daughter, Gianna, left the house for a basketball game at the John Wayne Airport in Orange County. The helicopter took off despite poor weather conditions.

We all know what happened next. We can all agree on that. Because outside of the crash, there isn't much about Kobe Bryant that people can agree on. Going to any sports bar and ask around. Some people will tell you he was a hero and one of the greatest late-game assassins in basketball history. Others will tell you he was a ball hog whose bad attitude broke up one of the all-time great dynasties. Some point to his work ethic on the court and call him a hero. Others talk about the off-court accusations and call him a villain.

Like all great sports debates, it's one that'll play out in sports bars and living rooms across the country and online for decades to come. But one thing that won't be debated is Kobe Bryant's place in basketball history. He'll go down as one of the greatest of all time. As for the legacy of Kobe Bryant, the man, it's a legacy that feels incomplete. It's one that was just getting started. It's a hanging question. What happens to the warrior after his quest is complete? What would Kobe Bryant be doing now if he were still alive?

It's a question that has no answer, but 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-Axist member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now

by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad-free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at Disgracelam pod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at disgraceland pod.

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