Hammer: It's H to tha AMMER and I'm all in yo grill!
Spittin' lyrical winnin' with a SICKENIN' skill!
Got my spinnaz and my fo-pound,
homies, forties, shorties on the town,
If lyrics is a car, got a LEARNER'S PERMIT to kill!
Anvil: ... Look, Hammer, I love this "gangsta deconstruction" thing you've been doing for the past few weeks. Really I do. It's like practice for Halloween. You dress up as whatever the fuck that is, and I go as the guy who tries not to kill you.
Hammer adjusts his two crooked baseball caps, listening. His grill, due to insufficient mouth space, says "HAMME" when he smiles, and glistens with things like cheap imported rhinestones and lost sequins from hooker dresses. Hammer's grill is decorated with the kind of shiny objects that get magpies bullied by other magpies.
Hammer manages an expression of magnificent, thoroughly street disdain as Anvil continues.
A: But seriously, Hammer. "If lyrics is a car, got a LEARNER'S PERMIT to kill?"
H: Yo, word. Ya heard.
A: No, seriously. Think about what you're saying. OK, I get it. You're not saying license to kill. You're saying learner's permit.
H: I'm just comin' up, Anvil. I'm not yet an O. G. I only have a learner's permit to kill. You mad?
A: Right, OK. A learner's permit to kill. But what does that have to do with lyrics being a car?
H: Dammit, sometimes you is so mothafuckin' obtuse, dog. Obviously you need at least a learner's permit to drive a car legally. You gotta admit, that shit is cogent.
Hammer folds his arms and nods sagely, confident he has won. He even throws a little improvised gang sign, which looks suspiciously like a butterfly shadow puppet.
Anvil does not strangle Hammer, which is a win of sorts, albeit largely one on Anvil's part against his own instincts.
A: Listen. I get it. A learner's permit. For a car. But does that mean you ... drive... murder? Or that you're just in training to kill lyrics? Is this manslaughter, of the lyrical vehicular variety? Are you saying that you can only drive rap lyrics when you are supervised?
H: Look, it rhymed, dog. It rhymed. Why you gotta hate? And back the fuck up off me, son!
Hammer, Anvil realizes, has a valid point; with every rhetorical question he has leaned closer and closer to Hammer's begrilled visage. He relaxes, but he has a disgusted look.
A: Hammer... that grill of yours stinks, man.
H: I know! I don't know how to take it out!
