Post by Frankie Cocheese on Nov 27, 2014 3:52:24 GMT
"Said I gotta keep my head above water
I been goin' hard gotta go a lil harder
I been thinking smart gotta think a lil smarter
All I know is hustle, get that shit regardless
Said I gotta keep my head above water
Catch me in the kitchen I be whippin' with the water
Family over niggas, blood thicker than water
All I know is hustle, get that shit regardless." - Lil Bibby "Water"
The camera opens up to Frankie Cocheese sitting on a brown, ratting looking couch that is up against a pale yellow wall. The song in the video above plays in the background, but not loud enough that he wouldn't be heard whenever he speaks. He wears a white fitted hat on backwards, a white t-shirt with The Cocheese in a spoof of The Godfather logo on it, denim jeans, socks and white Vans on his feet with black trim.
There's smoke in the air, coming from a long, thick joint in his right hand. He has a blue Bic lighter in his left hand. "Ain't this a bitch, huh?" He moves to light the joint up once more, flicking the lighter to life and touching the little orange flame to the tip. He then blows on the end just a little before taking a puff. "Ahh..." He exhales. "Oh this?" He glances down at the joint, raising it up. "I told y'all motherfuckers that I've been set free. That shit from MSW is out the window. Fuck a Bryan York for ruinin this shit for me back then. And fuck whatever anybody got to say about me doin this shit. I don't give a shit. And I'm in a place right now where it's okay anyway." He shrugs. "Not that I'd need to be. But no, ain't that a bitch? I pull all their ho cards and now all of a sudden everybody got somethin to say." He takes another puff, and by now people can notice that his eyes are red, and a little glazed.
"These fucking assholes, man. I swear... They think I ain't 100% after my match with Maxwell, cuz I'm bustin my head open and the match was brutal and shit. But they forget to realize that I've been doin this shit practically all my life. My LIFE has been brutal matches. When I got my first recognition nationally, it was in San Francisco and my debut match was a fucking BARBED WIRE MATCH!" He exclaims. "I won that match... by the way..." He says with a sense of pride as he takes another puff from his long, thick joint. He takes a moment to light the end as he did before, blowing on it and leaning forward to flick some ashes out on what one would imagine is an ash tray in front of him off camera.
"Maxwell wants to fuckin bloody me. He wants come at me with a kitchen sink. AGAIN! But how'd that work out for you the first time, buddy?" He chuckles. Is it from the weed, or the fact that he thinks what he just said is funny? "He wants to SLAY me! He wants to rip me apart so bad that I'm nothing but a fucking blood stain on the mat. He wants to make me nothing but a shit smear on the canvas." He clears his throat loudly, and it sounds like he might have some phlegm in there. "But what he always fails to realize, is that I WANT him to do that. I WANT him to try and put an end to me. I WANT him to get so mad enough that he wants to fucking KILL me in front of everybody! I want him to give me something that I know he doesn't have the heart to give. He said he had compassion before? See, that was his mistake. You never come in with compassion. NEVER! But I'm pissed off now... and I tell you why..."
Another heavy drag comes from the joint, and soon the song that was playing begins to die out and another song cuts in.
"Because that sewer dwelling piece of shit had the nerve to call me a rat. You can call me a lot of things, but two things you can't call me and that's a coward and a rat. I fear no man and I rat on nobody! You want to take a page out of Roach's book? Yeah, hi Roach! You want to take a page out of Roach's book and bite me on the forehead? That's fine. Now you want to bite my nose. I think you want to bite somewhere else on me, you sick little fruity boy. You can bite my dick, no homo." Frankie looks at the end of his joint, deciding to save it for another day, it seems, as he puts it in front of him, probably on the edge of that ash tray so he can smoke it another day.
"There's somethin that Maxwell fails to realize, and that is that I'm ALREADY on top of the company. I'm the cream of the crop and I'll just continue to rise. Honestly, I care less about what the two of you got to say about each other. Hell I may just sit back and let the two of you kill each other and pick off the weaker one, but where's the fun in that? Ain't no fun. Ain't no fun if the homies can't have none." He chuckles heartily. "Goddamn, this weed hittin me like a motherfucker. It's hittin me like how I'm going to hit Maxwell and KONSTANTINE. It's hittin me like how I'm going to hit Johnny Bonecrusher because Maxwell all of a sudden got the nerve to bring that motherfucker around. It's hittin me like how I'm going to hit JBC's left arm. Hol' on. Here's my impersonation of Johnny Bonecrusher right here."
He looks over at his left arm, holding it out, bent at the elbow with his left hand dangling down towards the ground. His left hand just dangles and he pushes it with his right forefinger, causing it to move and then come right back into position. It's like he's trying to do the robot.
He chuckles at himself and shakes his head. "But fuck it, let's move on. Let's move on to that 'gentleman' MISSES Devin KONSTANTINE. See, he wants to say that the RWD needs a gentleman to rule. And that's exactly what he is, a gentle. man. He's too gentle for this shit here, y'know? Maxwell wants to rip me apart and I'm going into that match knowing that. Maxwell wants to rip him apart, too. But I think ol' boy just won't be able to handle somethin like that, y'know? I think when he steps through those ropes with the two of us, he's going to realize he's stepping into the lion's den and we're going to treat him like the tender piece of meat that he is. No homo. Boy had the nerve to call me a mule that's covered in all of his bodily waste. You ol' soy milk drinkin gotta get my daily fiber help save the rainforest lookin ass boy. You 'I gotta get this match over with so I can be on my time for my pilates class' lookin ass boy. Fuck it."
He leans over and gets his joint, lighting it up just ONE more time before taking a puff and putting it back down. This time, he takes a huge puff and even coughs a little as he exhales. "He's on about how I'm some malignant tumor. Good. That's what I want to be looked at as in this company. I want to be looked at as a disease that you can't get rid of. Then he tried to switch it on me and call me a pimple. Which is it? See, it's like I said before. You keep viewing me as some gnat, as some tiny little afterthought and I'm telling you right now, that's going to be your downfall. I gives a FUCK if I've pissed you off, BOY, ain't you learn by now?" He raises his brow, looking at the camera in both a mixture of confusion and disgust. "You ol' conflicted having multiple personalities ass boy. Bet one of them is gender confused you ol' limp wristed pansy libertarian lookin motherfucker. My mother ain't teach me shit 'cause she IS a dead whore that should've swallowed me but she didn't, so now you gotta deal with me, motherfucker, an' how you like that?"
He gives the camera a shit-eating grin now. "Wanna talk about bitin the curb. Bitch I bet you bite the pillow every night you 'hold on Maxwell let me get the pillow before you go in dry' lookin ass boy. Oh yeah! I got you pissed now, and it's got me grinnin. I bet I could use your tears as lube before I fuck my bitch in her cornhole. GodDAMN y'all got me fucked up on this shit. FUCK!"
The song long died. Now it is just silence, save for Frankie's high rambling and insulting. "Naw, you know what gets me about you? Is that you think you'll go places in the RWD. You think you're gonna get through me when you couldn't even get through Maxwell, because he treated you like the little prag you are. And if you don't know what that term 'prag' means, go ask Badger. He spent time in the joint. I do this rappin shit for fun, and little pissed off boys like you get mad when I do it in promos. Good. What's funny is that my rappin is some fuck around shit, but you've got a not so hidden dream of becoming the RWD champion, and I'm going to put an end to that. You understand? DO YOU UNDERSTAND, KONSTANTINE?! DEVIN?! YOU GET ME?! YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT RAPPIN, ABOUT MUSIC?! LISTEN HERE. We're gonna do a little music appreciation tonight. Hold on."
Frankie gets up and walks off camera, suddenly, yet ANOTHER song begins to play. It's Reggae.
He sits back down, and actually smokes some more. Guess he's going to get through this joint tonight. How can you play Reggae and NOT smoke, anyway?
"This joint is the Satta Dub by Augustus Pablo. And let me tell you somethin about Augustus Pablo. This motherfucker grew up dirt poor. I mean DIRT POOR on the streets of Jamaica. Right? Augustus Pablo played a Melodica. And if you don't know what that is, which I'm sure you don't as much as you want to claim yourself as being some kind of all knowledgeable, all powerful King, is that a Melodica is a piece of equipment in Jamaica that was used to teach music in schools. When most musicians grow up, they grow out of playing a Melodica, but this motherfucker didn't! He stuck to the shit. People would fuck with him and ask him why he'd keep playing it, but he did it anyway because fuck them. He became the best Melodica player in the motherfucking WORLD, bro. The fucking WORLD! Now you may be asking yourself what the fuck any of this has to do with me, with this match, with US. Well let me tell you... You wanna step to me and bring rappin in to this, tellin me rappin won't get me places. People told Augustus Pablo the same shit about playing a Melodica. But he said fuck them, and he went somewhere. Basically, I'm better than you at Rappin, for damn sure, and I'm better than you in the ring and I'm going to prove it. Understand? Augustus Pablo had a disease. I forget what it was called. Go look it up. It was a disease he could've gotten treatment for but the man was poor, just like most Reggae artists back then, and he died. I am going to be the disease that consumes all of you."
He takes one last drag, for serious this time, and coughs before leaning into the camera. "I'm so glad you're pissed off, KONSTANTINE. I'm so glad I was able to ruin the fun for you by defeating that bigfoot lookin motherfucker Maxwell and you'll NEVER be able to say you beat him first in the RWD! I'm so glad you're pissed off, and I want you to hit me. C'mon... hit me..."
He drops the lighter off camera onto the table, smacking himself hard in the face with his left hand. "Hit me." He does it again. "HIT ME, KONSTANTINE! HIT ME! FUCKIN HIT ME! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! BEAT ME LIKE MY PUSSY OF A FATHER SHOULD HAVE WHEN HE RAN OUT ON ME AND MY MOM! I'VE NEVER KNOWN HIM! BEAT ME! DO LIKE THE MICHAEL JACKSON SONG! JEW ME! SUE ME! EVERYBODY DO ME! KICK ME! BEAT ME! DON'T YOU BLACK OR WHITE ME! I STOLE FROM YOU AND I WILL DO IT AGAIN! I'LL STEAL POINTS FROM YOU THIS TIME! BEAT ME! KILL ME! THE BOTH OF YOU! DO IT! DO IT YOU PUSSIES! AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE?!"
His face is beyond red at this point, and he even pants some. He starts to cool down at this point, saying softly. "..... Expand your horizons..... musically... Not just you, KONSTANTINE, but everybody watchin. Y'all don't eat the same shit everyday, do you? No. So why listen to the same shit everyday? Expand your shit. Broaden yourself. Sharpen your shit up.... and while I'm at it, KONSTANTINE....." He raises the joint up. "Have this joint instead, they're better for you than cigarettes. Believe me. I know. Or are you too pussy to hit off it? Thought so, Mr. Whole Foods yet he won't smoke the natural herb from the planet. Heh. Fuck all y'all. I'm too high for this shit."
He raises his left hand up in the shape of a gun. "See you when I see you..."
The camera fades out to him smoking the joint as the Reggae plays.
I been goin' hard gotta go a lil harder
I been thinking smart gotta think a lil smarter
All I know is hustle, get that shit regardless
Said I gotta keep my head above water
Catch me in the kitchen I be whippin' with the water
Family over niggas, blood thicker than water
All I know is hustle, get that shit regardless." - Lil Bibby "Water"
The camera opens up to Frankie Cocheese sitting on a brown, ratting looking couch that is up against a pale yellow wall. The song in the video above plays in the background, but not loud enough that he wouldn't be heard whenever he speaks. He wears a white fitted hat on backwards, a white t-shirt with The Cocheese in a spoof of The Godfather logo on it, denim jeans, socks and white Vans on his feet with black trim.
There's smoke in the air, coming from a long, thick joint in his right hand. He has a blue Bic lighter in his left hand. "Ain't this a bitch, huh?" He moves to light the joint up once more, flicking the lighter to life and touching the little orange flame to the tip. He then blows on the end just a little before taking a puff. "Ahh..." He exhales. "Oh this?" He glances down at the joint, raising it up. "I told y'all motherfuckers that I've been set free. That shit from MSW is out the window. Fuck a Bryan York for ruinin this shit for me back then. And fuck whatever anybody got to say about me doin this shit. I don't give a shit. And I'm in a place right now where it's okay anyway." He shrugs. "Not that I'd need to be. But no, ain't that a bitch? I pull all their ho cards and now all of a sudden everybody got somethin to say." He takes another puff, and by now people can notice that his eyes are red, and a little glazed.
"These fucking assholes, man. I swear... They think I ain't 100% after my match with Maxwell, cuz I'm bustin my head open and the match was brutal and shit. But they forget to realize that I've been doin this shit practically all my life. My LIFE has been brutal matches. When I got my first recognition nationally, it was in San Francisco and my debut match was a fucking BARBED WIRE MATCH!" He exclaims. "I won that match... by the way..." He says with a sense of pride as he takes another puff from his long, thick joint. He takes a moment to light the end as he did before, blowing on it and leaning forward to flick some ashes out on what one would imagine is an ash tray in front of him off camera.
"Maxwell wants to fuckin bloody me. He wants come at me with a kitchen sink. AGAIN! But how'd that work out for you the first time, buddy?" He chuckles. Is it from the weed, or the fact that he thinks what he just said is funny? "He wants to SLAY me! He wants to rip me apart so bad that I'm nothing but a fucking blood stain on the mat. He wants to make me nothing but a shit smear on the canvas." He clears his throat loudly, and it sounds like he might have some phlegm in there. "But what he always fails to realize, is that I WANT him to do that. I WANT him to try and put an end to me. I WANT him to get so mad enough that he wants to fucking KILL me in front of everybody! I want him to give me something that I know he doesn't have the heart to give. He said he had compassion before? See, that was his mistake. You never come in with compassion. NEVER! But I'm pissed off now... and I tell you why..."
Another heavy drag comes from the joint, and soon the song that was playing begins to die out and another song cuts in.
"Because that sewer dwelling piece of shit had the nerve to call me a rat. You can call me a lot of things, but two things you can't call me and that's a coward and a rat. I fear no man and I rat on nobody! You want to take a page out of Roach's book? Yeah, hi Roach! You want to take a page out of Roach's book and bite me on the forehead? That's fine. Now you want to bite my nose. I think you want to bite somewhere else on me, you sick little fruity boy. You can bite my dick, no homo." Frankie looks at the end of his joint, deciding to save it for another day, it seems, as he puts it in front of him, probably on the edge of that ash tray so he can smoke it another day.
"There's somethin that Maxwell fails to realize, and that is that I'm ALREADY on top of the company. I'm the cream of the crop and I'll just continue to rise. Honestly, I care less about what the two of you got to say about each other. Hell I may just sit back and let the two of you kill each other and pick off the weaker one, but where's the fun in that? Ain't no fun. Ain't no fun if the homies can't have none." He chuckles heartily. "Goddamn, this weed hittin me like a motherfucker. It's hittin me like how I'm going to hit Maxwell and KONSTANTINE. It's hittin me like how I'm going to hit Johnny Bonecrusher because Maxwell all of a sudden got the nerve to bring that motherfucker around. It's hittin me like how I'm going to hit JBC's left arm. Hol' on. Here's my impersonation of Johnny Bonecrusher right here."
He looks over at his left arm, holding it out, bent at the elbow with his left hand dangling down towards the ground. His left hand just dangles and he pushes it with his right forefinger, causing it to move and then come right back into position. It's like he's trying to do the robot.
He chuckles at himself and shakes his head. "But fuck it, let's move on. Let's move on to that 'gentleman' MISSES Devin KONSTANTINE. See, he wants to say that the RWD needs a gentleman to rule. And that's exactly what he is, a gentle. man. He's too gentle for this shit here, y'know? Maxwell wants to rip me apart and I'm going into that match knowing that. Maxwell wants to rip him apart, too. But I think ol' boy just won't be able to handle somethin like that, y'know? I think when he steps through those ropes with the two of us, he's going to realize he's stepping into the lion's den and we're going to treat him like the tender piece of meat that he is. No homo. Boy had the nerve to call me a mule that's covered in all of his bodily waste. You ol' soy milk drinkin gotta get my daily fiber help save the rainforest lookin ass boy. You 'I gotta get this match over with so I can be on my time for my pilates class' lookin ass boy. Fuck it."
He leans over and gets his joint, lighting it up just ONE more time before taking a puff and putting it back down. This time, he takes a huge puff and even coughs a little as he exhales. "He's on about how I'm some malignant tumor. Good. That's what I want to be looked at as in this company. I want to be looked at as a disease that you can't get rid of. Then he tried to switch it on me and call me a pimple. Which is it? See, it's like I said before. You keep viewing me as some gnat, as some tiny little afterthought and I'm telling you right now, that's going to be your downfall. I gives a FUCK if I've pissed you off, BOY, ain't you learn by now?" He raises his brow, looking at the camera in both a mixture of confusion and disgust. "You ol' conflicted having multiple personalities ass boy. Bet one of them is gender confused you ol' limp wristed pansy libertarian lookin motherfucker. My mother ain't teach me shit 'cause she IS a dead whore that should've swallowed me but she didn't, so now you gotta deal with me, motherfucker, an' how you like that?"
He gives the camera a shit-eating grin now. "Wanna talk about bitin the curb. Bitch I bet you bite the pillow every night you 'hold on Maxwell let me get the pillow before you go in dry' lookin ass boy. Oh yeah! I got you pissed now, and it's got me grinnin. I bet I could use your tears as lube before I fuck my bitch in her cornhole. GodDAMN y'all got me fucked up on this shit. FUCK!"
The song long died. Now it is just silence, save for Frankie's high rambling and insulting. "Naw, you know what gets me about you? Is that you think you'll go places in the RWD. You think you're gonna get through me when you couldn't even get through Maxwell, because he treated you like the little prag you are. And if you don't know what that term 'prag' means, go ask Badger. He spent time in the joint. I do this rappin shit for fun, and little pissed off boys like you get mad when I do it in promos. Good. What's funny is that my rappin is some fuck around shit, but you've got a not so hidden dream of becoming the RWD champion, and I'm going to put an end to that. You understand? DO YOU UNDERSTAND, KONSTANTINE?! DEVIN?! YOU GET ME?! YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT RAPPIN, ABOUT MUSIC?! LISTEN HERE. We're gonna do a little music appreciation tonight. Hold on."
Frankie gets up and walks off camera, suddenly, yet ANOTHER song begins to play. It's Reggae.
He sits back down, and actually smokes some more. Guess he's going to get through this joint tonight. How can you play Reggae and NOT smoke, anyway?
"This joint is the Satta Dub by Augustus Pablo. And let me tell you somethin about Augustus Pablo. This motherfucker grew up dirt poor. I mean DIRT POOR on the streets of Jamaica. Right? Augustus Pablo played a Melodica. And if you don't know what that is, which I'm sure you don't as much as you want to claim yourself as being some kind of all knowledgeable, all powerful King, is that a Melodica is a piece of equipment in Jamaica that was used to teach music in schools. When most musicians grow up, they grow out of playing a Melodica, but this motherfucker didn't! He stuck to the shit. People would fuck with him and ask him why he'd keep playing it, but he did it anyway because fuck them. He became the best Melodica player in the motherfucking WORLD, bro. The fucking WORLD! Now you may be asking yourself what the fuck any of this has to do with me, with this match, with US. Well let me tell you... You wanna step to me and bring rappin in to this, tellin me rappin won't get me places. People told Augustus Pablo the same shit about playing a Melodica. But he said fuck them, and he went somewhere. Basically, I'm better than you at Rappin, for damn sure, and I'm better than you in the ring and I'm going to prove it. Understand? Augustus Pablo had a disease. I forget what it was called. Go look it up. It was a disease he could've gotten treatment for but the man was poor, just like most Reggae artists back then, and he died. I am going to be the disease that consumes all of you."
He takes one last drag, for serious this time, and coughs before leaning into the camera. "I'm so glad you're pissed off, KONSTANTINE. I'm so glad I was able to ruin the fun for you by defeating that bigfoot lookin motherfucker Maxwell and you'll NEVER be able to say you beat him first in the RWD! I'm so glad you're pissed off, and I want you to hit me. C'mon... hit me..."
He drops the lighter off camera onto the table, smacking himself hard in the face with his left hand. "Hit me." He does it again. "HIT ME, KONSTANTINE! HIT ME! FUCKIN HIT ME! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! BEAT ME LIKE MY PUSSY OF A FATHER SHOULD HAVE WHEN HE RAN OUT ON ME AND MY MOM! I'VE NEVER KNOWN HIM! BEAT ME! DO LIKE THE MICHAEL JACKSON SONG! JEW ME! SUE ME! EVERYBODY DO ME! KICK ME! BEAT ME! DON'T YOU BLACK OR WHITE ME! I STOLE FROM YOU AND I WILL DO IT AGAIN! I'LL STEAL POINTS FROM YOU THIS TIME! BEAT ME! KILL ME! THE BOTH OF YOU! DO IT! DO IT YOU PUSSIES! AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE?!"
His face is beyond red at this point, and he even pants some. He starts to cool down at this point, saying softly. "..... Expand your horizons..... musically... Not just you, KONSTANTINE, but everybody watchin. Y'all don't eat the same shit everyday, do you? No. So why listen to the same shit everyday? Expand your shit. Broaden yourself. Sharpen your shit up.... and while I'm at it, KONSTANTINE....." He raises the joint up. "Have this joint instead, they're better for you than cigarettes. Believe me. I know. Or are you too pussy to hit off it? Thought so, Mr. Whole Foods yet he won't smoke the natural herb from the planet. Heh. Fuck all y'all. I'm too high for this shit."
He raises his left hand up in the shape of a gun. "See you when I see you..."
The camera fades out to him smoking the joint as the Reggae plays.
so quickly so sad!
