DISGRACELAND - Slick Rick: Hustle, Iconic Flow and a Menacing Tormentor

Episode Date: June 11, 2019

Slick Rick has one of the most iconic voices in hip hip history. His style is completely his own, and his success owes as much to his delivery as it does to his hustle. Slick Rick worked hard to get to the top, and once he made it he was nearly cut down by drugs and violence - violence inflicted upon him by someone from his inner circle. Listen to hear how Slick Rick fought back and continued his flow. This episode was originally released on June 11, 2019. 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 NEWSLETTER⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠Instagram⁠ ⁠YouTube⁠ ⁠X⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠ ⁠TikTok⁠ 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. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Slick Rick, hip-hop icon, are insane. He endured a drug-induced nervous breakdown, was harassed constantly by a family member, kidnapped, beaten, abused. And when he defended himself against his tormentor,

he served hard time for attempted murder and an eventual second stint in prison for illegal immigration. But Slick Rick was an original. His flow is now iconic, but his hustle is legend. It was Slick Rick's hustle that kept him rolling, delivered him from backing Doug E Fresh to fronting his thing and inspiring countless emcees who came up in his wake. Because Slick Rick made great music.

That music I played you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Kitty Ride Mellow BK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to stay. step by step by new kids on the block. And why would I play you that specific slice of Donny, Joey, Jordan, Danny, Jonathan cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on July 3, 1990.

And that was the day Slick Rick shot his cousin, kicking off a battle with U.S. authorities that would last decades. On this episode, hustle, flow, new kid cheese, and slick Rick. I'm Jake Brennan. This is disgrace land. Slick Rick was hungover, partied out and thankful he had nothing to do that day. He yawned and stretched out across the luxurious state room mattress. This was the life.

The huge plush bed rocked gently with the motion of the ocean as the late morning light crept in through the cruise ship porthole. Rick wrapped one arm around his beautiful wife, Mandy. She was curled up against him like a cat. Last night's show was a rager. What started out as a first. fundraiser, raising scholarship money to support black college students, turned into an all-timer after Rick the ruler performed his set. Lottie-Dotty, it of course turned into a party. And damn right

it did. Rick thought, that's what cruise ships are for. And that's what slick Rick was for. The party had always come natural to Rick. And so did the hustle. But he took particular pride in this latest business arrangement. It was a perfect setup. A few times a year, he and Andy got a free trip down to Florida. They'd visit his family down south, say their hellos, then get on a big-ass boat with the best rooms Royal Caribbean had to offer, reserved in their name, and Rick would perform the classics for a ballroom of wealthy drunks, then get blitzed on the open seas. For a born hustler, like Rick, this was the life. The violent knock at the door echoed through the dark hardwood of the cabin. The wet bar rattled, a glass shattered, and the quiet of their love nest was gone. That banging

at the door clearly wasn't some eager to please concierge wrapping his knuckles up sequiously. It sounded quite the opposite, like the meaty fist of some bootlicker, eager to take the damn door down if he couldn't. Mandy leapt out of bed in an instant. She was naked. Rick just craned his head up, still groggy. Even in the confusion, her life body turned him on. More bangs at the door. What the fuck? Wrapping a silk robe around her with quick grace, Mandy steeled herself and yanked open the stateroom door. Two G-Men loomed, staring her down, looking alien behind reflective shades.

The acronym on the sleeves of their standard-issued G-Men windbreakers read, INS. Richard Martin Lloyd Walters, one of them said, stone-faced. Now it was Rick's turn to bolt up from bed. Who's asking, he asked in his famous sing-song note. Mr. Walters, you were a non-citizen and a convicted felon. Last night this ship crossed in an international wall. You deported yourself.

So now, as of this morning, you have attempted to illegally enter the United States of America. We're here to take you into custody on behalf of the Department of Homeland Security. Hip-op's greatest storyteller was stunned in silence. Fear, confusion, handcuffs. Up on deck, a ship full of hungover partiers was expected to disembark and scatter back into Miami. But the mysterious delay and the sudden appearance of government-marked ships sent hushed rumors through the crowd. Suddenly the G-men came elbowing their way through the mob. Scandalized gas rose up from the revelers.

Slick Rick, the guest of honor, the man they'd all come to see, who they'd cheered for after every famous rhyme the night before was being perpwalked across the shuffleboard court shouting, this is bullshit, as the faceless officer struggled to grip his arms and haul him towards the gangway. And they shoved the handcuffed wrapper in front of them, using his body as a makeshift battering ram. A wise ass in the crowd yelled,

Gangway. It was too perfect. And for Rick, all the more humiliating. Mandy came running out behind them, begging and pleading, tears streaming down her face, adding to the drama of the moment. She ran in front of the authorities, turned around and began backpedaling so she could meet eyes with her husband. They kept forcing him forward, and she just kept walking backward, holding his face, promising him she would fight this with all her might. Rick was stunned and angry, but now with a strong wife before him, swearing to him, swearing to him that she'd solve this, figure it out, protect him. In the face of this strength, Rick felt resilient and blessed because, let's face it,

there's no bigger turn on, nothing more compelling or empowering than a wife who has her husband's back. All right, enough of this bullshit shut to one of the INS goons just before pushing Mandy aside and barreling Rick down the gangway to a waiting paddy wagon on the here. Into the back you went. Doors slam shut behind him. Rick thought of the Black Maria's back home, and from there things got worse. He spent days he couldn't recall how many in a Miami holding cell. He was given little clarity from authorities on his situation

as he scrambled frantically to contact his lawyers. No luck and what the hell was going on? Where was he being held? Why was he being held? He got the immigration thing, but the treatment since his arrest seemed cruel, if not actually illegal. Then, on a day that ended in Y

and otherwise had no distinguishing characteristics, Slick's cell door rolled open and he was fitted for shackles at his wrist. wrists and ankles. He was then frog marched into a bus with barred windows, and the bus hit the road, and where, too, he didn't know. A couple old-timers shackled in the seats behind amused about their situation. They'd heard of this before. An unofficial type of hazing or punishment where federal prisoners are subjected to long, arduous bus rides under the guise of transporting them between prisons. In reality, they're shackled and forced to sit on hard benches, upright for hours at a time,

on endless daily road trips, sometimes for days at a time, while their insides rattle, their bones ache and their resolve softens, all at 65 miles per hour. Rick rocked up and down for hours as the bus made its way over bumpy Florida back roads. He had no idea where they were taking him. He was spent but sharp enough to know that this was some sort of dystopian parody of the gentle rocking of the cruise ship he began this adventure on. And as the ride was intended to be, it was enough to drive him. man crazy, but Rick, as was his normal disposition, kept his cool. He'd spent years in jail prior to this

for something he believed never should have ended with his incarceration. But regardless, that experience meant he could handle whatever this fresh punitive ride was. He just thought those days were behind him. He was getting too old for this shit. The bus finally brought him to the Bradenton Detention Center in West Florida, a filthy, underfunded prison reserved for immigration cases. It was the summer of 2002, and this would be Rick's home for the next year, as George W. Bush's shiny new bureaucracy, the Department of Homeland and Security built a fresh case against him. Prison sucked. It was way worse than he remembered. When he was processed at Bradenton, the blue prison jumpsuit that gave him had suspicious white stains on it that refused to come out.

Over the months, his signature eye patch that he had been wearing when he was arrested fell apart, while his full collection languished back home in New York, and that really pissed him off. And all around him, he was forced to bear the emotional shit show of watching poor, seemingly helpless immigrants being kept away from their weeping families. In this fresh hell, Rick had plenty of time to think.

Why him? Why now? The quick version, though slick got an attempted murder charge on the person who misled him, it should have been labeled self-defense. But he'd done his time, more than his time, and the long arm of the law had toyed with him, tried to make an example of him all through the 90s, but he was too slick for that,

or at least he had enough money to hire the right lawyers to navigate the tangled joke that was the American legal system for him. And now, apparently, it was time to do it again. Slick Rick was a man with powerful friends. Sure, he was an immigrant, but in New York City, that made you a native. And in the Bronx, he was an adopted hometown hero.

He was one of the very first artists signed to Def Jam Records, and that put a shine on his name that would never fade. So when word got back to the Bronx that Rick was locked up for no good reason, the protest started. Free Slick Rick petitions began circulating, and celebrity fans and friends began wielding their influence. Will Smith, Chris Rock, the Reverend Jesse Jackson, all rode to the courts in Rick's defense. And a thousand miles away in a New York City penthouse, as coverage of Rick's desperate circumstances played on a wall-mounted flat screen, Slick Rick's guardian angel watched and weighed his options in Zen-like silence. didn't deserve this, he thought.

Straight up, this is some bullshit. It's time to free slick Rick for real. So Russell Simmons, co-founder of Def Jam Recordings, looked away from his television and picked up the telephone. What's the matter, Ricky? You like coming to work dressed like you're going to fetch me a table at Nels? Seriously, are you allergic to money? Do they even have money where you're from?

Where you're from anyway, Ricky? What, the Bronx? Might as well be the North fucking Pole, all right? You know what they say? If it's across 110th Street, it ain't fit the fuck or either. What's the matter, Ricky? The cat got your tongue? Same cat who got your eye?

What, you're going to cry? That one eye of yours? Hey, one of you Brooks Brothers assholes get Ricky half a fucking Kleenex. He's going to cry out of his one eye. Ricky Walter's not yet named Slick Rick was hustling mail out of the Lehman Brothers mail room and said nothing as he stoically endured

the latest round of abuse from the dipship brokers at Lehman Brothers. Whatever. He could handle it. He'd been in this country for nine years. He arrived when he was 11, from southwest London with his family who were originally from Jamaica,

who then decided to try their luck in America, in the land of opportunity, as immigrants twice over. And like most immigrants in their adopted Bronx neighborhood, they struggled but worked hard. So Rick, or Ricky, as he was called, could deal. It was 1985, Manhattan, and there was a mountain of money to make

if you were a grown-in with both hustle and flow. And little Ricky Walters had both in spades. By day he worked in the mailroom at Lehman, quietly observing the glitz, greed, and gack of all the wannabe Gordon Geckos and American Psychos. And he pushed his rinky-dig mail card through the offices of millionaire stockbrokers, tolerating their bullshit while handing out obscene bonus checks to Coke-fueled confidence men while he lived off of $500 a month. Two-thirds of his pay covered his rent.

And that left about $40 a week for food, clothes, and fun. But every time he dropped a check on the desk of one of these so-called masters of the universe, Rick knew that deep down they were the unhappy working stiffs, not him. They hid their misery behind the extra zeros in those bonus envelopes, but they had no idea what real joy and freedom were. Rick knew that one day, his hustle, his art, would outshine them all. Because by night, Rick was a Bronx MC on the come-up. Having arrived in the Bronx from London in 1976,

right around the exact time and in the exact place that neighborhood MCs and DJs were inventing hip-hop. Rick was indirectly groomed to be an MC. DJ Cool Herk, Bambata, Flash, Rick as a young man had a front row seat to them all from his vantage point in the Bronx, and to Rick, rappers seemed to have it all. Respect, attention from the B-girls, music was pure joy, real freedom. There was a fire in his belly. This was the future. When Rick was a little kid back in London, he was shy. As an infant, a splinter of glass on the floor of his family's tenement apartment, got in his right eye, scarring and blinding him. His need for an eye patch made himself conscious and introvert by necessity.

Instead of running around the neighborhood with the other kids, he stayed in and read books, listened to music, and grew naturally into a storyteller. But in the Bronx, the things that held him back as a child had become his greatest strengths. Watching his parents' struggle gave him drive and ambition. His soft English accent caught the attention of the ladies, and he adopted a whole new persona made of flashy costumes and bold fashion statements and turned his eye patch into his signature accessory. His years of practicing poetry and storytelling set him up to rock the mic effortlessly, and with a different flow

that anybody had heard previous. In a word, it was slick. He had glitz, gack, and hustle all his own now and a stage named a match. Slick Rick. 170th Street and Jerome Avenue, 1,500 in cash on the line. Not to mention Slick Rick's pride if he could vanquish all covers in this street corner rap battle. The original human beatbox, Dougie Fresh, was the judge. Rick had met him a couple months back but failed to really make an impression. Now was his chance. Impressing Dougie Fresh meant your flow was dope

and that seal of approval was potentially worth more than the 1500. The scene was bumping, block party style. Nighttime summer air was sticky. Sweat was visible on the bare arms of the attendant bee girls and distracting Rick who was trying to focus, waiting his turn. to jump in. He got the call-up, bounced into the battle,

and smoothly dropped a verse that would soon become famous and slick Rick was off. The crowd, he had them, he could feel it, and they could tell they were witnessing something special. Rick's rhyme at both innocence and bite,

and he was telling a story in a way that was both familiar like something that pulled on their childhood memories, but also an indicator of where this relatively new genre of music could go. Dougie Fresh was more than impressed. Needless to see, say Slick Rick won the battle that night. But more importantly, Dougie Fresh enlisted Rick to join his

Get Fresh crew and quickly cut a record with Rick's Laity Dottie Rhybif featured over his beatboxing. The song took off. DJs played it. Live audiences demanded it. Kids all over memorized it. Promoters paid top dollar for it and soon as a touring member of Dougie Fresh's Get Fresh crew, Slick Rick was on the road in the States and in Europe with a star on the rise. But he wasn't yet where he wanted to be. Dougie Fresh was pulling in six grand a gig. Get Fresh crew members got a 5% cut, 300 each. And compared to the five bills a month from Lehman Brothers to Rick, this felt like it was raining paper.

Rick told Lehman to fuck off, but this still wasn't exactly fuck you money. Rick got to think it. It was his voice and his lyrics that starred on Dougie Fresh's hits, Laity-Dottie in the show. So I'll do respect, the 300 wasn't going to cut it. Rick knew what he had to do.

Hustle. Strike out on his own. But first, there was a party to attend. The type of party that only those whose stars in a scent can attend. The type of party with bowls filled with mystery pills and powders. The type of party where the bottles never ran dry. The type of party where the smoke made everyone look 10% sexier. And the type of party where sex just might break out in the open at any minute, wherever, on the dance floor, the bathroom, and the backseat of the limo.

Rick indulged, women, weed, champagne, angel dust. And the angel dust was no joke. He told himself it was for special occasions only, but inevitably he caught himself a bad batch and snapped. A psychotic break. His brain chemistry scrambled, his head on fire for days on end, driving his thoughts around in endless circles, manic, itching, twitching for trouble, until it all suddenly crashed into a coma-like low. The only reality he knew was that he had lost all concept of reality. So he checked into a local psychiatric war to recover from what he later came to terms with as a drug-induced nervous.

breakdown. There he was, in the sterile hospital common room, all linoleum, tile, and fluorescent lights drooling and staring off into the middle distance of his one eye. He did not look like slick Rick. Was this it? How could a burnout with a junkie lean be all that was left of him? He rocked gently back and forth to the musac trapped in his own fried out mind and orderly approached him, trailing behind her two young men with the air of mobility. Mr. Walters, Rick, The orderly asked but got no response. Rick, these men would like to meet you. Mr. Simmons, Mr. Rubin.

Meet Rick. In his sorry state, Rick assumed this was the coup de grace, sealing his deal on his worst nightmare. Standing in front of him was the powerhouse behind the still brand new outfit, Def Jam Recordings, Russell Simmons and Rick Rubin. The two men behind some of rap's most exciting and to that point influential records.

Tila Rock and Jazzy Jays, it's yours. L.L. Cool Jays, I need a beat. And it's the beat by the ball. crew from over in Queens. Plus Russell was the older brother of the Hollis Cruz Run, who was the unofficial son of Curtis Blow, who was the shit. And Run, of course, would go on to become

one of the iconic members of Run DMC. These dudes were connected. Here he was, Slick Rick. The wordless zombie, the fuck you money he dreamt of, was in arm's reach, and he couldn't even make eye contact with the men who could get it for. But Russell Simmons knew the score,

and you'd have Slick Rick's back, just like he would so many more times over the year. They shared a culture, lived in the same streets. Russell had seen plenty of folks in the condition they called Dusty. He knew Rick would snap out of it in a few days. Slick Rick, the Velvet Voice storyteller, would return bigger and better than ever. Russell Simmons knew it, and he'd make sure of it. He leaned down and whispered into his ear.

Rick, and we're going to see on the outside. Def Jam wants you. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. The butt of the pistol whipped Rick across the temple. Where's the money, motherfucker? We want's the money, Ricky. Rick waited for the stars and the blurriness to fade. Who the fuck was this guy, whipping him at the butt end of his 9mm anyway?

Had it been one of Mark's crew? Just when things were evening out for Rick, just when he had settled into the lifestyle afforded him from a successful recording career with Def Jam. But man, what the hell was this? It was like no matter how many of his dreams came true, he always had some new hassle trying to tear him back down. Here it was, 1989, he was at the top of the rap game, and somehow he was tied to a chair in his own home,

knuckling through one of an endless series of shakedowns. Fuck this shit and fuck the music business too if this was going to be the way it was. Shakedowns and beat downs, too much hustle for too much hassle. The signature in Rick's new contract with Def Jam was barely dry before his hard work began paying off. He was a star now, but soon enough, he learned the same thing everyone learns when they get famous enough. When you finally made it, you got to run faster and faster just to stay in the same place.

He saw it in the recording studio right away. This wasn't the simple joy of a freestyle block party anymore. This was a production. This was work. His debut album took a year and a half to record as a rotating cast of producers struggled to vibe with Rick's flow. And after a year had gone by, only one track met his personal standards, the ruler. But once things clicked, they clicked. The finished album, the great adventures of Slick Rick

topped the Billboard hip-hop charts for five weeks and received a five-mike score from the source. But success changed things. Rick couldn't bob around the Bronx anymore. Not like the old days, his name was too big. He never knew which young blood was going to step to him just to make their bones. His jeweled eye patches, his carefully layered chains,

the chunky rings he wore as a tribute to Sammy Davis Jr. They were meant to be proof positive that his hustle have been rewarded. But now, all they did was make him an obvious target. But fuck it, why hustle so hard if he can't enjoy it? So Rick stepped up. He filled out his collection of jewelry, cars, and real estate with a small armory, pistols, semi-automatics, shotguns, you name it. He carried a piece on him at all times, but he knew more than anyone that he only had one eye, so what he really needed was muscle, bodyguards, an expense he'd happily cover. And as luck would have it, Rick had a cousin who had just arrived in the city from Jamaica. Fresh off the boat, Mark Plummer, Rick didn't really know the guy,

but keeping things in the family seemed like a good idea. So Mark got the gig guarding Slick Rick. What Rick didn't know, couldn't know about Mark, is that he was a stone cold psycho. By 1992, Mark would be dead, gunned down during a home invasion by the father of a young boy he was attempting to rape. But here, in 89, when Rick hired him, Mark Plummer hadn't yet ruined his life. But he was threatening to ruin Slick Rick's, at least for the first. foreseeable future. It didn't take long after Mark's hiring for weird shit to start happening, attempt to be in ease on Rick's properties, home invasions, extortion attempts. That first has seen to prove Rick's paranoia right. They really were out to get him. His fame was a curse.

But all the threatening activity was easily traced back to Mark, who, as Rick's body man, was privy to lots of inside info he could then hand off to friends to try and set Rick up, score money from him, drugs or bling as if they were random burglars. The robberies were happening with too much frequency. Rick might have been paranoid, but he was no dummy. Soon it became obvious that he had a bad seed in his crew. And Mark, family or not, was an unknown quantity. The betrayal, the inside job of it all, and that it was the same man he had hired for protection who was in fact the biggest threat to him, ratcheted Rick's paranoia at a new heights. He self-medicated with champagne and weed. Neither helped. Both made the situation worse. Rick was at a loss for what to do.

With Mark, he couldn't just outright fire him, who knew what the stug would do. So Rick tried paying him off, letting him go with a severance of several thousand dollars in a van, but it was too late. Once Mark realized Rick had found him out, knew what he was up to, menacing bastard that he was, decided to go full psycho on Rick. There was nothing to hide. So fuck slick, Rick. Take the greedy rap star for all he was worth. Mark, Mark, was in the land of opportunity, and here was the opportunity, his rich-ass cousin with all the cash, drugs, and bling, taken for all he was worth because who knew when another score would present itself? So now Rick was tied to a chair, bleeding from his forehead, getting pistol-wipped by a random lackey,

a stooge for his psycho-cousin, Mark. When the rest of Rick's crew was heard coming up the hall, the shakedown ended. The stooge threatened with the pistol butt one more time. Give Mark what he's owed, or we're coming back on you, you hear. and then he ducked out the window down the fire escape. When Rick's boys entered, all that anyone could do was untie him. But it wasn't over. Rick knew there'd be more attacks.

Mark Plummer was a fucking menace, and he was all up in Slick's shit. He threatened to kill Rick and his mother. One day, Rick came home to a fresh round of bullet holes in his front door. This game of intimidating cat and mouse with Mark dragged on for months. There was no end in sight. Rick continued to self-medicate, and the paranoia-inducing weed made it all especially tough to handle.

His twitchiness had become background noise, an unavoidable fact of life. He kept his one eye on the door at all times, and the rest of his life at the moment was one big blind spot. But the hell with it, a man needed to let loose every once in a while. So one warm night in April 1990, Rick put on his finest eye patch, best chains and hit the club in full slick Rick regalia.

It was about damn time. time to let us some steam, and it didn't take long for him to attract the gaggle of girls to his private table, have his pick of who would be his queen for the night. For a moment, he forgot his troubles and enjoyed being who he was, Slick Rick, the ruler. At 3 a.m., Rick and a woman he met earlier that night stumbled outside the club and beeline for Rick's SUV. Rick was a gentleman and saw his girl under the passenger seat, but when he rounded the car to get into the driver's side, he found himself confronted with a gang of roughnecks who looked vaguely familiar. Mark Plummers posse. What do you want now, motherfucker? Rick said. He instinctively patted his waistband for his gun

but realized it was in his glove box. Shit, we want you, said one of Mark's thugs. Two of them pulled the glocks and in an instant shots fired. A hail of bullets rained out all over the club parking lot. Rick dove for cover but not fast enough. Three bullets pierced his skin. He felt the lead burn in his arm and his shoulder and his leg. It was hard to tell where all the pain was coming from. In the heat of the moment, the pain fueled him the fight for his life. Rick's club queen caught astray in the passenger seat, and the parking lot suddenly stank a gunpowder in blood. Club queen screamed, the gunman screwed out of there. Slick Rick slid over into the driver's seat, he checked his wounds, checked queenies, nothing fatal. He put the keys in the ignition and started

the SUV. As he drove to the nearest hospital, his rage shifted into overdrive, and he'd had enough. And this punk sense his voice to kill me. He doesn't even show his own face. What kind of low-left, cowardly piece of shit? He swore to himself, never again. No more leaving the gun in the car. No more catching them off guard. Next time he lay his eye on menacing Mark Plummer, he'd be looking at him over the barrel of his gun. Slick Rick was going to kill his cousin. The voices on the New York City streets formed a hum that was familiar to Rick. He'd grown up here and grown to expect the enveloping sound of the city, but the constant street chorus had warped itself

into a menacing melange of paranoia. At any given moment, Rick didn't know who or what he was listening to. Was it the street or was it the psycho Mark Plummer haunting him, fucking with him? Rick dug in, steeled himself for what he knew was a coming confrontation with his cousin. He turned his new car into a weapons locker on wheels, handguns under his seats, stashed in the door,

or sawed off in the back, brown paper bags of ammo on his feet, loose bullets rolling around the floor. And of course, an automatic pistol tucked into his waistband on his purse and always. It was needed. He was tweaking, fully paranoid. In his condition, he picked up his girlfriend, Lisa, for a day of Chinese food and shopping. Lisa was in a condition of her own, soon to be Rick's baby mama. She was seven months pregnant, and their plan for this beautiful Tuesday in July was to buy a crib and newborn clothes.

Don't worry about that shotgun in the back seat and ignore the live rounds clicking against your shoes just some normal precautions in the life of slick Rick but ignore that noise. Today's all about us. And their day could have been all about them if they hadn't seen that psycho predator Mark Plummer walking out of a storefront on 241st Street

like he didn't have a care in the world. What dumb luck. Shopping for baby gear would have to wait. Rick sprang into action. He slammed the brakes and whipped the gun out from his pants. Two shots out of the gate. No one. warning. They whizzed by Mark, barely missing him. One of them caught the foot of an innocent

bystander on the corner. He went down, screaming in pain. Unlucky bastard. Mark had no idea what was happening. Rick had no time. Mark saw him now. They locked eyes, both knowing the score, even, tied up. But today, winner take all. Three more shots. Rick cut them off before Mark could do anything besides stare with that stupid fucking grin at his. This time, Rick's shots connected. Two in Mark's leg, one in his arm, but no kill shot, just spray and prey. The adrenaline kicked in. Mark gripped his wounds to stem the bleeding and dove inside the nearest storefront to escape. There was an eerie calm, a scene out of some imagined cinematic city trench warfare movie. Rick aiming from his car, Mark peering back from a bodega window, the hard top of the Bronx stretched out between them like a

no man's lamb. Screaming pedestrians, a wounded civilian, writhing in pain. Rick had to make a split-second decision, chase Mark down to finish the job, or get the fuck out of there before the NYPD descended on the scene. Let's go, let's go, let's go, Lisa demanded. She potted on the dash and ended the quiet of the standoff. Rick knew she was right. He'd sent the message. The more he stuck around, the worst things would get by the second. Rick threw the ride into gear and peeled out from the scene. He hooked a turn at the corner, aimed for the Bronx River Parkway, fastest exit row, and fuck consequences. In Rick's mind, this was all. self-defense. That monster kept robbing him, threatening his family. This was the righteous kind

of drive-by. And he had no intention to having explained it to a judge, but it was too late. He and Lisa were only a couple blocks from the parkway when multiple blue and white crowned vicks, sirens, blaring, whipped around the same corner he just fled and began drafting in his wake. No way the ruler was going out like this. Rick put the pedal to the floor, closed the last couple blocks, and hit the on-ramp. There was only one move here, gained some distance on the squad car, Stunt the sharpest turn he could at the next ramp to surprise them and lose the cops behind it in a few lanes of traffic. He gunned it as hard as he could, up the parkway.

Lisa prayed in the seat next to him, guns to God in under six seconds. Rick made a hard yank with the steering wheel and skidded in a wide arc from the far left lane towards the far right ramp, knowing that the move without a make or break is escape. This is it, his getaway. He thought that right up until he lost control of the car and the turn, sliding out of the angle he was aiming for and slamming full force into a tree along the parkway embankment.

They crashed. After a moment, in a concussive shock, Rick came too, looked around. The front end of the car was a smoking crumpled heat. The dashboard had intruded on the cabin from the impact. Lisa was frozen in shock and for a second Rick feared she was dead, but no. He could see her breathing and her belly and her baby were unharmed. But her legs were clearly broken, pinned by the collapsed. front end of the car. The platoon of police Crown Vicks pulled up and surrounded the crash site.

An officer, gun-drawn, approached the driver door. Don't move, shipbird. You're under arrest. The disastrous drive-by and car chase landed Rick in prison for five years on attempted murder charges. It stunted his recording career. But Def Jam recordings stuck by him and allowed Rick to produce an album from Behind Barers titled Behind Barra's. Lisa had the baby and Rick started a correspondence with another beautiful woman named Mandy, his future wife. It wasn't all bad. And after humiliating Rick on that cruise ship in Miami, when INS began their decade-long attempt to make an example of Rick and have him deported, judges based out of New York knew the score. The feds were just playing red tape games while fishing for headlines with a hip-hop star on the hook,

hoping to keep Rick locked up long enough so they could boot him out of the States. It wasn't on the level. Back in New York, Russell Simmons and Rick's fans, fans famous and otherwise had his back. The free Slick Rick movement launched and it worked and he was freed, got a full pardon from New York governor and longtime Slick Rick fan David Patterson. In the city of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, or at least the ruler. And after it all died down, Rick became a full U.S. citizen and was eventually inducted into the Bronx Walk with Fame.

Finally, Slick Rick understood the real power of hustle. The payoff wasn't the money or the women or the drugs or any. of the bullshit the billionaire boys club back at Lehman were peddling. This was the payoff. Community, empowerment, years of grinding on the block on stage and on record, creating music, true art, had inspired legions of fans who, when his back was up against the wall, had his back. And all the sentimentality aside, isn't that what America is really about being there for your neighbor in their time of need? Or is it just about rewarding hard work? Or more specifically, in some of the cynically, rewarding the hustle.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this. 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 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 Disgraceland ad-free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month.

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