Eric
I’d called Fiasco more than twenty times.
He didn’t pick up once.
They’d been reporting on the shooting of his tour bus all day on Hot 97. Angie Martinez was fearful the rivalry between Fiasco and Yung Chit would end with someone dead. Hearing her say that word, dead, really put everything into perspective.
Fiasco was my friend.
He’d picked me up when I was at my lowest.
I’d been posting negative comments about Yung Chit on my MySpace page. And people had been reading. My last post had garnered over sixty comments—most of ’em hating on me for hating on Yung Chit. He was the darling of the moment, hip-hop’s reigning king. I could see that from my own little world perspective. I couldn’t imagine what Fiasco was dealing with.
I’d been trying to throw Fiasco some support by tearing down Yung Chit. But all I’d really done was add fuel to the fire. If Fiasco ended up hurt, I was partly responsible. I dialed his number yet again.
Straight to voice mail like my last few calls.
Dayum!