On Sight • NBAVONDURK

1: Eye Of The Storm

Before the Show

Kentrell

"Say, big cuh, dis gon be great!" Tyquian snickers mischievously as his best friend steps out of his bedroom.

Kentrell lifts the blunt he holds between his thumb and forefinger. A slight nod, more worried about catching a buzz than anything else.

"It's gon be Soul Train Awards all ovea 'gain! You remembea? Da one when Suge Knight dissed Puff Daddy and B.I.G.?" Tyquian continues, if he noticed that Kentrell didn't reply he doesn't seemed bothered about it. He's a little gremlin, he survives off drama and bullshit.

In many ways, Kentrell is the same exact way. And another time he would be fucking pumped to start some drama. "Aye yo, don't dis mean you gon have ta see Von..? And ain't Timm locked up fa dat scam shit he was pullin'?" And Kentrell didn't bail him out this time because that nigga is nothing but trouble. He's already lost close to a quarter of a mill on him, he already has one Tyquian- his bank account cannot handle two.

Tyquian freezes on the spot as if zapped by a freeze ray. With a lazy smirk, Kentrell walks pass him. "I just got off house arrest, ma nigga. You know dem crackas be itchin' fa meh ta pull any kind uh dumb shit. Dey hate seein' uh young nigga winnin' anythang."

And while that was true, that wasn't the reason for his mellow mood.

You see, Kentrell was nervous.

Firstly, fuck Von. FEDs thought they took all his guns? No they did not. He lucky he can't carry inside or he'd finish that bitch off himself. And Nuski. And DThang. And.. and all of those fuckers!

Secondly, fuck OTF as a staff, a record label and as a motherfucking crew. Fuck everyone's who down with them.

And most importantly- fuck Lil Durk. He can't stand his annoying, golden voiced ass. That blond nimrod with a backstory you can't help but root for. Who fucking almost blew everything he worked so hard for and almost took Von down with him but once again triumphed against all odds; cause that's just want he does. He's an adorable, lovable fuck up. The kind of guy.. the kind of guy that just..

Kentrell blows out the smoke swirling around in his mouth. "All I gonna say.. Durk betta be ridin' on his best muthafuckin' behavior. On slime. Ian gon hesitate on shit. If he pop off.. I'd fuckin' kill that nigga right in front of Europe.. or South America. Whatevea dat rejected Bratz bitch's name is!"

Tyquian blinks, the sharp bitter hiss breaks the spell and again he can walk again. He rubs his head. Kentrell is a walking paradox. He's as such as a self contradiction as Tupac himself. And that's.. that's saying a whole damn lot. "But ain't you just say-"

Turning quickly on his heels, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits that Tyquian cringes and hides from. He knows what that looks mean.

It means while he's looking at Kentrell, it's questionable whether or not Kentrell is the one looking back at him.

Nervously, he flicks his tongue over his lips. "N-never mind, cuh. Ma bad, Top."

To this, Kentrell just smirks. "Say, how's am I dressed? Is da fit checkin'?"

Tyquian blinks. First his eyes land on the sub dermal implant on Kentrell's cheekbone. Then to the hundreds of thousands draped around his neck. And the giant rings on his fingers and the bracelets and watches around his wrists. His drip is flawless, as usual. On his feet, white AirForces, standard. Flashy but not too flashy. Black skinny jeans. Black shirt. Some highly expensive and very flashy designer blue jean jacket he had custom made for this event. His brand was graffitied on the back in big green bubble letters. A slime green flag was tucked in his back pocket. Another tied around his hairline. His thin dreads flopping over it.