DISGRACELAND - Method Man (Wu-Tang Clan Chapter 3): Dice Games, Dodged Bullets, and Murder in the Street

Episode Date: September 12, 2023

As a teenager, Method Man won $800 on a $5 bet in a dice game. He used those winnings to set himself up as a crack dealer on Staten Island. Dealing was dangerous. Meth was chased by drug squads and dragged down the street when a potential buyer stole his product. His life was saved by a friend who pulled him out of the wrong place at the right moment – a moment in which he literally dodged a bullet.To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. 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. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed, I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history,

including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis.

The stories about the Wu-Tang Clan's Method Man are insane. As a teenager, he won $800 on a $5 bet in a dice game. He used those winnings to set himself up as a crack dealer on Staten Island. He was dragged down the street by a car when a buyer stole his product and sped off. His life was saved by a friend who pulled him out of the wrong place at the right moment, a moment in which he literally dodged a bullet. That friend was the Rizza, who offered Method Man a spot. in the new hip-hop supergroup he was assembling, a group that made great music, some of the most

enduring hip-hop music of all time. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Kmart Wardrobe, MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to bump and grind by R. Kelly. And why would I play you that specific slice of 31-year prison sentence cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on April 29, 1994. And that was the day that Ernest Seon, known to Method Man as Case, was choked to death by cops on Staten Island. A senseless tragedy that had a major ripple effect on Wu-Tang's community and home base. On this episode, dice games, drug games, stolen product, dodged bullets, a death on Staten Island

and Wutang Clan's Method Man. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. From up on the roof, he could see everything. The sidewalk, the street, the car's coming and people going. Staten Island hummed with activity. Clifford Smith, the teenage kid that the world would later, know as Method Man, wanted to make sure that all that activity down below wasn't following him. The young mass, aka Cliff, here, he surveyed the scene from his rooftop perch.

No one was looking for him. No one was after him. He pulled the wad of cash from the pocket of his dirty jeans. He counted it, and then he counted it again. $800. He could hardly believe it was real. But it was real. It was surreal. Not only the fact that he, Clifford Smith, had $800 in his hand, but that he had won it on a $5 bet. An ass bet, no less. He didn't make a habit of ass betting, but desperate times and all that. An ass bet is definitely desperate, if not stupid and cocky, too.

That's when you make a bet on a dice game, but actually have no money to back it up if that bet you made loses. Cliff didn't see any other choice. He needed the cash and was willing to take a chance in order to get it. For a while, he had a job, a good job, assistant manager at the Statue of Liberty. The kind of job you could brag about back in the projects, but he lost that job, sidelined with a foot injury.

This was the late 80s. Cliff was 16. Paid time off for a teenager? You couldn't do the work and you didn't have a job. It was as simple as that. He was out of options. The cassette tapes he was making under the name Chakwan the poet, Shaquam being his 5% her name,

were for bragging rights only, not for big bucks. On tracks like Panny Raider and My House My House, Cliff as Shaqwan kicked rhymes over rudimentary Casio keyboard beats. He was something of a sensation in the Park Hill projects, and the notoriety came easy. The money did not. Look around. No one had money in Park Hill.

Cliff didn't know anything different. But he knew there was something better out there. It was definitely something better than the way things used to be. Years ago, cramped inside a Manhattan shelter for battered women with his mom and two sisters. Who knew where Cliff's father was? He didn't want to be around, and Cliff didn't want someone around or didn't want to be around, and the family could do without. There were a lot of things Cliff could do without.

Like the Staten Island beat cops who roamed the halls of his apartment building, using the presence of their service revolvers or the color of their skin as an excuse to do whatever they wanted. Harassment, humiliation, illegal searches on teenagers, illegal searches on kids like Cliff. It's all bullshit. Cliff wasn't a suspect.

He gave the cops zero reason to talk to him, let alone stop him. But the cops didn't need a reason. Empty your pockets, hands up, against the wall, and spread them. Walking out the front door of your apartment every day was a gamble. Everything you did was a gamble, every choice you made. And either you gambled on your own life or someone else would. So Cliff made the bet. Put down five bucks he didn't actually have on the neighborhood craps game.

If the dice rolled anything but a seven or eleven, he was fucked. He thought about what he would do if that happened, about how fast he could get out of there and disappear into a cluster of pedestrians. Swim upstream, lay low. But on a busted leg, seriously? This idea was looking dumber by the second. There was no going back now. He didn't make a bet and then unmake the bet.

The rest of the players antied up. Major skin in the game. Cliff, meanwhile, was worried about his actual skin. He rattled the dice around in his clenched fist. And with a flick of his wrist, he tossed them. And they rolled onto the pavement and settled. One die red three and the other. Seven.

Jackpot. Cliff was up on that rooftop now. taking it all in, the amount of money in his hands, the relative safety of his surroundings, and his luck. He felt like he just pulled off a heist or a magic trick. And now that he had actually turned an ass bet into a major win, it was time to double down. Turn that 800 bucks into more money. Double it, triple it. This wasn't savings account money and it wasn't tied you over till the next job kind of money either. $800 was the perfect amount of money to get you set up as a player in Park Hill's single most booming industry.

Clifford Smith invested that money and crack. The car came to a stop on a Staten Island street, and the driver leaned over towards the open passenger side and looked out the open window and waited. Cliff was already running. From the sidewalk to the car in the street, fast. You were either fast or you're out of a sail. And there were just too many other dudes slinging rock in Park Hill.

The competition was stiff, But it wasn't about who was the best. This wasn't a hair salon. A buyer didn't have their person. It was all about who was the fastest. It was all about car running. You get to the car first. You get the sale and you get the money.

Cliff was winded when he reached the idling sedan. He leaned inside the open passenger side window, extended his hand. Inside his palm were about ten small vials. Just a fraction of the drugs his dice game winnings had her for him. How many you want? And the driver didn't hesitate. All of them, he responded. And then he swatted at Cliff's hand with his own. The vials spilled under the passenger seat. The driver grabbed the gear shipped and hit the gas, and the tires squealed. Cliff clung out of the passenger doors the car began to move. He dug his fingers into the upholstery and tried to hold on.

The car picked up speed. Cliff's sneakers dragged along the pavement. He tried to run alongside the car, but it was going too fast. He felt his knees began to buckle shit and lost his grip and he thrown to the ground as the car disappeared into the distance, quite literally left into dust, no vials and no money. What was he thinking? Leaning all the way into the car, his hand wide open with all that product, free for the taking. Rookie mistake is what that was. The kind of mistake that happens for a reason.

That's how you learn. That's how you understand. Because next time, it wouldn't be some vials of drugs slapped out of close hand. Next time, it would be his own life. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either.

We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends... Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same. name prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care.

So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts,

or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests. Like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. And my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance. Like he's about to attack me. Like, making karate noises. And his entire the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. I immediately know that I've been asleep walking.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things.

Tana Monsu. Camilla Morone. Carrie Kenny Silver. And more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the Iheart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened.

His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do. you know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation.

New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Lamont Hawkins, soon to be better known by his 5% or name, Universal God, a.k.a. You God. It also soon to be better known as a member of the formidable Wu-Tang Clan with the likes of Corey Woods, aka Rayquan the Chef, and Clifford Smith, aka Method Man, was a good friend. Lamont partied with Corey at the Union Square nightclub and worked with Cliff at the Statue of Liberty. But Lady Liberty was in the past. Now Cliff and YouGod were selling crack together on Staten Island.

Whether it was working an odd job or working a crack deal, having friends who had your back was key. Friends were necessary. As U-God later said himself, in his autobiography, knowing the right people could potentially save your life. Cliff had his life saved by the right people twice. The first time, it was the New York Police on the Proul. The Tactical Narcotics Team, or TNT, the street-level task force created by the NYPD to take down low-level drug dealers was in Park Hill. That day, no one saw the undercover cop who made the deal.

But everyone saw what happened next. Police Cruisers. Sirens, blue shirts, suns out, guns out. Dealers scattered, plain clothes and uniform cops gave chase. And they tuned up whoever they could catch. Some guys stopped and put their hands up, dropped to the ground, did as they were told. Others ran as if their lives depended on it. U-God spotted TNT before Cliff did.

U-Gut looked over at Cliff across the way. Cliff was holding. U-God didn't have to say a word. Just gave Cliff a look. A look that didn't say a thousand words, just two. Go. The kind of unspoken chemistry that were one day paid dividends in a recording studio. Cliff was running.

Fast as he ran from that dice game to the rooftop. Fast as he ran to the cars in the street to make a sail. In a flash, he was off the sidewalk and inside his building. Blood pumping, heart pounding. His feet hit the staircase. He was moving faster now. He assumed the worst, with the cops for steps behind him. He made it to his apartment, got rid of his vials,

then back down the stairs without being spotted. And while the cops came in through the front and back doors, Cliff slipped out of a side door, his body surged with pure adrenaline. The second time Cliff's life was saved was in July 1992. Cliff was 21. But once again it helped to know the quote-unquote right people. Bobby Diggs, aka the Rizza, was chilling on a Park Hill Avenue stoop alongside Raycon and Jason Hunter, aka Inspector Inspector Deck.

Only a few months earlier, Rizza returned to New York after being found not guilty of attempted murder in Ohio. He was back with a new purpose in life. He was telling Ray and Dek about this new purpose, this clan, and how they both fit into it. He was telling them how others fit into it, too. Other guys from around the way. Like that cat across the street right now, Clifford Smith, the guy who was walking on the opposite sidewalk as they spoke. Rizza and the guys all knew Cliff as Chequan the boy. poet, freestyling on the corner, handing out his latest tape. He could rhyme, and he was also a good-looking

dude, which meant that he scored points with the ladies. Having Cliff in your group would seriously up the ratio of women to men in the crowd at your shows. At the moment, Cliff was headed at 160 Park Hill Ave. That's where the weed was. Everyone knew the best weed was at 160, the 160. And Cliff, well, he liked weed more than most. In fact, he smoked so much weed that Rizza didn't call him by his birth name, and he didn't call him by his 5% her name. Rizza called Cliff Method or Mestical, both Staten Island slang for marijuana. Meth for short. In Rizza's mind, it was more than just a nickname.

It was a new identity that separated the past from the future, an identity that was crucial to the musical world building Riza was currently mapping out in his head. Riza hollered in Meth, come over here. And meth paused. He looked in Rizza's direction, and Riza threw a hand-up. Meth stood in front of the building at 1-60 Park Hill Ave, looked at the door, and then turned back to Rizzo and the guys trying to make up his mind. Weed first, or Rizza first?

Nah, Rizza first. The weed would still be there later on. Rizzo might not. Meth walked over to Riz's side of the street. What's good? Rizza had the details. Wutang was about to go from concept to reality. Wutang was where Meth's side.

belonged, not here out on the street, getting robbed by fiends and dragged by their cars or chased by the NYPD's TNT squad. Riza had a life-changing experience, and now he was about to change the lives of everyone else. It was like the supreme numbers said. One, you do the knowledge, two, you do the wisdom, and three, you truly understand one and two. Wutang wasn't just another hip-hop group. It was a way out. That was something they could all understand. Just then, Then, a car came to a screeching halt on the other side of the street. Directly in front of No. 1-160. A small cluster of people were standing on the sidewalk outside.

People going inside to buy weed or people who'd already bought weed and were on their way out. Standing in the exact spot where meth had just been moments before. There was shouting, loud music booming from the car's stereo. And then, gunshots. Rapid fire. Flashes of light from inside the car. smoke. The car's wheels began to spin. Rubber burning on asphalt. The muffler rumbled and the engine raced. The car shot off down the avenue and quickly the sounds of chaos were replaced with the

sounds of screams. People writhing on the ground shrieking in pain. Four injured. Another, a kid, just 16 years old, dead. A kid who wasn't even involved in hustling on the streets. A kid who had walked up the street to get his mom a pack of menthol's and was on his way back home. Meth could have been that kid. Meth almost was that kid. If Riza hadn't been there, across the street, if Riza hadn't called meth over, talk to him about this greater purpose. Chances are, meth would be bleeding out on that Park Hill Avenue sidewalk right now. And this realization hit meth hard. One decision made all the difference.

Just one. All the difference. The difference between here or there. Dead or alive. Odd or even this door to that path. Riza, the man who would just save Meth's life by hollering at him from across the street, looked at Meth, and told him that he had the route. He knew the way.

Get on the bus. Rizzo was driving. Just don't ask where they were going. Five years. That's all Rizza needed. Give him five years and they'd have a number one record. Plus, they'd be far away from all of this. Rizza obviously had the knowledge and the wisdom.

And meth, well, He had never understood anything so clearly in all his life. We'll be right back after this world, word, word. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends.

I'm Anna Sinfield. And in this new season of The Girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands.

I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the Girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever you get your podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler,

we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever, my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance.

Like he's about to attack me, like, making karate noises. And his entire, the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. I immediately know that I've been asleep walking. David O'Yello. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham.

So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena Monsu. Camilla Morone at Carrie Kenny Silver.

And more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words Podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever.

Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do. You know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

November 9, 1993 was a big day for fans of New York hip-hop. Two records hit stories. shelves that day. A tribe called Quest released their much-anticipated third studio album, Midnight Marauders. And newcomers, Wu-Tang clan released their debut, Enter the Wu-Tang, 36 Chambers. Tribe was at the height of their powers and their popularity. Midnight Marauders took off like a shot, all the way to number eight on the Billboard 200, certified gold in just two months. Wu-Tang, on the other hand, wasn't so fast out of the gate. Where Midnight Marauders was hooky and lean, Enter the Wu-Tang was dense.

It was grimy, murky cross-stitch of Kung Fu samples, coded language, alter egos, and pop culture references. It wasn't gangster rap, and it wasn't conscious rap, and it wasn't party rap. It was its own thing. It made listeners work. And though many of those listeners put down their hard-earned cash for a copy, 30,000 units sold in the first week alone. The album peaked at only number 41 on the Billboard 200.

Not even close to the number one spot Rizza had promised to the rest of the clan. But in his defense, it was a five-year plan and five years had yet to pass since he'd made that promise. Anyway, word began to build. The clan put it in the work. They performed raucous live shows. They hit the road, and they brought the ruckus to major markets far beyond New York. They were both dead serious and absolute gestures, a transgressive collective of creative thinkers who worm their way. into the hip-hop world and exploded it from within.

By January of 1995, a little over a year later, when both the Tribe and Wutang albums were certified platinum, Enter the Woutain had actually surpassed Midnight Marauders in total sales. That's when the Rizza's master plan really kicked in. The plan wasn't just to make that big explosion, but to capitalize off the shrapnel that came from the Big Bang. The solo albums. The Free Agent Side Deals.

The part of that initial record contract with Loud, granting each member of the group the freedom to make his own records with other record labels. And the more labels Wu-Tang could infiltrate, the better. Because if nine different labels are promoting nine artists who happen to be in Wu-Tang Clan, ultimately, those nine labels are all promoting Wu-tang clan. Saturate the market with Wu. Increase your chances of making it to number one. Make that money. Rizza and Wu-Tang Productions did just that. Riza inked deals with most of the guys in the group, a 50-50 split on their solo earnings so that they could use the Wu-Tang name.

And all the way back in early 1993, months before into the Wutang was even released, back when Protect Yaneck was the only official release they had on the market, three members of Wutang signed solo deals. Jizz was picked up by Geffen Records. Old Dirty Bastard went with Elektra Records, and Method Man signed with Def Jam. Meth's deal was the one that really saw.

stood out. At just 23 years old, the youngest member of the group, Meth signed for $180,000. $180,000 was three times what Loud Records paid for the entire Wu-Tang clan. In 1994, Meth released Tickal, the first solo album by a Wu-Tang member. Meth's record deal, the success of his album, and the success of Wu-Tang's album, was a testament not just to Rizza's plan, but to the hard work they all were putting into the process. Their reality was changing, but the more reality changed, the more it stayed the same. Just as Meth was celebrating his own triumphs, tragedy struck back home on Staten Island. April 29, 1994. No one on Staten Island wanted to hear what Rudy Giuliani had to say that night, but Giuliani was talking all the same, live on the radio, doubting the truth,

doubting what had happened just hours earlier on Park Hill Avenue, as if the neighborhood suffered a mass hallucination. But they did see it. They watched cops kill one of the neighborhood's own. NYPD choked the life right out of them in the open. It was early evening, daylight escaping, like the final breaths of the dead man on the pavement. And now here was Giuliani on air,

talking down to them, patronizing them. It's the same old shit. Ever since Giuliani have been sworn in as New York's mayor back in January, things had gotten worse for Park Hill. The cops got real cozy, and the 120th precinct in their special narcotics emergency unit, harassing kids for loitering, humiliating kids by pulling down their pants to check for drugs. And the only thing the increased NYPD drug sweeps did

was make a tenuous relationship between the community and law enforcement even worse. And now Case was dead. Ernest Seon, aka Case, 22 years old. Walking up Park Hill Avenue when the cherry bombs started going off, someone was tossing them, no doubt trying to fuck with the police. Not Case, but there he was, just walking, in plain sight. The cops took a look at him. The cops knew case.

He had his fair share of brushes with the law. The cops were probably thinking about that as they watched him walk. Eyewitness accounts vary as to what happened next. Some say that Case did nothing to provoke the attack. Then he didn't resist. That a cop walked up right behind him, hit Case in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. The case staggered, grabbed hold of a nearby Sycamore tree

until the cop hit him again and knocked him unconscious, and that the cop dragged him by his hoodie until his pants came off. But what did happen was the case wound up face down on the ground, pants around his ankles, hands cuffed behind him. his back, three-quarter-inch gash bleeding from the back of his head. One cough with his knee on Case's back, another with his elbow behind Case's neck. Case struggled to breathe. He choked and gassed for air. In the knee on his back and the elbow on his neck felt like a thousand pounds bearing down and squeezing the life right out of his body. An hour later, Ernest Case-Sion was taken

to a nearby hospital where he was pronounced dead. The official cause of death, quote, asphyxia by compression of the chest and neck while rear handcuffed and prone on the ground, unquote. Some news reports labeled Case a drug suspect. Police at the scene claimed that, contrary to those eyewitness reports, case ran when they tried to question a group of men, and then he lifted one officer in the air and threw another against a fence, and that he was, quote, a very dangerous man in a very dangerous situation, unquote. Three of those officers caught death duty pending an investigation.

and the community rallied, and they weren't going to be quiet. They weren't going to let Rudy Giuliani tell them how to feel. Hundreds of Park Hill residents marched to Borough Hall, candles in hand, and where they looked the NYPD in the eye, called them as they saw them. Murderers. On the very same day as Ernest Case Seion's murder, all the way on the other side of the country,

in San Francisco, Method Man, Rayquan, and Ghostface Killah, found themselves in the same prone position on the ground, face down, handcuffed, police boots on their backs. Unlike Case, they were lucky. Released after 45 minutes, their detainment chalked up to mistaken identity. But to meth and the guys, just because they were members of the Wu-Tang clan didn't make them different from guys like Case. Case could have been any of them.

Because when it came down to it, whether they're back on Staten Island or out on the West Coast, and they were all the same. Not artists, not musicians, not hip-hop stars, not trailblazers breaking the mold and making history. All of that came second. First and foremost, they were all one thing. Targets.

March, 1997, Los Angeles, California. The dude wearing the blue bandana was paying tribute, like the Capos who walk into Michael Corleone's office at the end of the First Godfather. Only they weren't in an office. They were inside a packed house of blues. Yo man, you Wu-Tane motherfuckers are the realest. Meth and Man had no allegiance to the Crips,

or to any West Coast gang, for that matter. But he accepted the compliment. I mean the dude at a point. Wutang Clan ain't nothing to fuck with. And those other New York dudes ran like bitches, the Crip continued. Not you guys. Also true.

Meth wasn't about to call Nass and mobbed deep, little bitches. But they did beat feet back to New York after the ship went down. After Biggie Smalls took five bullets to the chest and abdomen at the corner of Wilshire and South Fairfax, guys scattered after that. The East Coast crews who had been hanging out west for the Soul Train Awards suddenly caught that New York state of mind, but not meth and not Wu-Tang. As far as Wu-Tang saw it, there was no East Coast West Coast beef. Just like Rizza didn't see beef between Park Hill and Stapleton projects back on Staten Island. It was all love.

They knew that Biggie's motive to be on the cover of Vibe magazine the year prior wasn't to promote some bullshit beef. Biggie just wanted to be on the cover of Vive, period. And he made it. On the front of the biggest hip-hop publication in the world, his man Puffy standing behind him. But there was a catch. The words East versus West were printed in a bold font to the left of his mug. It was all propaganda. Media hype, narrative to sell magazines.

Too many people took the East-West thing seriously, believed it was actually a thing. This was the actual thing. Either you were cool or you weren't cool. It didn't matter what part of the country you lived in. So in early 1997, when it came time for the Klan to reconvene and record their second album, the follow-up to the now-platin-36 chambers, they didn't think twice about making the record in Los Angeles. And there were too many distractions at home in New York.

Rizzo booked time at a studio in North Hollywood. L.A. was going to be about focus, work, and the occasional party. Like Vibe Magazine, Soul Train, After Party. The evening of March 8th, everyone was there. Wesley Snipes, Whitney Houston, Shack. Biggie's new album was about to drop, and his new single, hypnotized, got bodies moving. It was a night to remember. Hours later, it was a night to remember for all the wrong.

reasons, because hours later, Biggie Smalls was dead. It was a tragedy, not just the murder of the notorious BIG, but the media circus had helped to inspire it. The media wasn't happy until they tasted blood, and now there was blood, was all over their hands. Vibe magazine should have taken a bullet, not Biggie Smalls. Inside the house of Blues, Meth watched the Crip pull a pistol from his pocket. He took Meth's hand and pressed the heater in his palm. Go ahead, take it, he said. You're going to need it. Nah, man, meth said, trying to hand the gun back.

I'm good. The Crip was insistent. And Meth looked around. The house of blues was packed. He quickly lost count of how many pairs of eyes were on. And maybe they weren't all looking at him, but it felt like it. The dudes rocking blue colors. And the girls hoping to get up close and personal to a hip-hop star.

Silver Spoon L.A. Brats. be emcees, and then there were the others, the ones who looked like they didn't quite belong. They were there and then they were gone. Amorphous faces, lack of affect, oblivious to the party raging all around them, focused solely on you, and they kept their distance, but they kept their eyes on you too, eyes that were hidden behind raybans. As soon as you made one of those guys, they disappeared, like they'd never been there in the first place, like your brain made them up. It was hard not to think about what had just happened to Biggie. I wonder if these people were here watching you with more intent and more scrutiny because of what had happened.

It was also easy to assume that it would only get worse. The Crip pushed the gun back into Meth's hand. Take it, he wasn't asking. Meth shook his head. He needed the Crip to understand. He appreciated the offer, the gesture. But he didn't want a gun. Not now.

Not ever. And not everyone in Wu-Tang felt the same way. Like Method Man, Ghost Face Killah knew that they were targets, that their lives were always in danger and always would be in danger, no matter how rich or how famous they became or how far their past lives in the streets were behind them. Protect Your Neck wasn't just a buzzworthy line. It was a mantra. If Ghost carried a piece, that's what it was for.

Protection. There were guys who wanted what you had that would do anything to take it. Dudes who loved Wu-Tang, but who would still jump any member of the group and rob their ass given the chance. And then there were the guys with grudges. Grudges held over from way back. The past is never dead. It's only sleeping. And later that same year, in 1997, the past woke up and hit back.

Steubenville, Ohio. The town where Rizza took the stand for attempted murder, where ghost took a bullet. And now the town where another man's body was bleeding out on the side. sidewalk, shot dead with a gun. A gun that, according to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, was provided by a group of gun runners that went by the name, Wu-Tang Clan. I'm Jake Brennan, and this episode of Disgraceland is to be continued. 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 disgrace land all access 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 disgrace land ad free.

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Rock a roll. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed. I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe, on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. And my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yello-O. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Moderato from Stranger Things, Tana Mangeau, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more.

Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. on the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.