Welcome to the ghetto
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Station square, two-thousand-twelve, somewhere around the poorer neighborhoods of the famous city.
It's where action follows your every move, where even one false step can lead to lead poisoning. Still, some are just too dumb to realize the truth,
"Yo, yo! Check dis shit out, yo!" the local street punk known as Sonic calls out, like it's second nature to him to act like an idiot. Two seconds later, he's on a wheeled piece of wood, popularly referred to as as 'skateboard,' and desperately tries to pull off a simple ollie. "Watch this shit, nigga, watch it!"
It takes about four seconds for him to get into the air, spin the board around like a whirlwind, then it impacts with his crotch. A second after that, he's on the ground, in a sad pile of limbs, oversized clothes, and fake jewelry.
This miserable wretch is known as Sonic the Hedgehog, and his tag is a fat, black, cock. Of course, his real name is neither Sonic nor Hedgehog, but that's what the people on the street call him - occasionally.
Of all wannabe gangsters, Sonic is, by far, the most worthless.
"Fucka!" his only true friend, Tails, calls out from his vantage point above a vandalized statue that could, potentially, be a dog. "Yo aint down wid da klown, cracka! Ya feet's slippery as soap, yo!"
The blue one's head twists around a few times, and he successfully fights the raging pain stemming from his wounded crotch.
"Fuck!" he shouts, but remains down. "Yo! I be better than dis, yo! It was a fluke! A one-time thing, yall!"
"Shit," Tails mumbles. He shakes his head a few times, and the amount of bling he's got mounted around his neck combine their noise levels and end up sounding like a massive church-bell. "Shit, das all. Stupid wigga can't even bounce like us! Ya be proof o dat, yall!"
Sonic grinds his teeth quite loudly.
"I'll cap ya, bitch," he whispers. "As soon as ah find mah butterfly, yall be dead! Deader than dead! Supa-dead!"
Tails whistles.
"Cracka! Yo can't cap someone wid a knife, ya ear?"
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Cut from the wastes of flesh known as Sonic and Tails, to someone slightly better.
"Aight," he's the biggest and baddest nigger in the ghetto, "bitch," he's the most successful pimp-master ever to exist, "behave yaself dis time, aight?" His name's Knuckles, and he likes knockin' games. His friends call him Emerald king, his close friends call him Da bloat throwa. A very, very, very select few individuals also call him Independent flower, but that's another story. Or so we shall pretend.
Well, not really.
He's always claimed to have been born by himself, that his spikes go through boulders, that he always gives people da coldest shoulda, and that he dun need a posse to get on, and, last but not least, that all adversaries get shelves.
Yo.
However, Knuckles isn't alone.
Joined to his left wrist, by a leather leash, is someone decked out in a gimp costume, complete with a spiked collar, ass-mounted zipper, and what appears to be scars and stains collected over several hard, sweaty, long, masculine, years.
It's his club, his crib.
'Flaring assholes.'
In-between slapping his man-servant, aptly titled Shadow, around, he found the time to 'chat' with one of his guests; a large, round, gentleman, with a gigantic red nose, and a moustache that can kill. 'Eggman'
"Yo, yo! Bro, wazzzza?" the king of the thing cries to the heavens, while Shadow can do little but sit on his ass and stare at the men in action. Wild gesticulation ensues.
"Nuffin much, jus' chillin," Eggman snaps back. He appears to be scanning the immediate surroundings for something. "Daymn," he finally blurts out, both hands extended towards the floor, "where da hoe used ta hang with yall, nigga?"
Knuckles is none to pleased with the query, for some idiotic reason.
"She be gone, whitey," he throws his right hand out towards Eggman, fingers spread. A golden knife, with a fat diamond socketed into the hilt, at rest in his palm. "Now stop trippin - ya dun wanna be capped, do ya?"
"Yo, chill, chill, man!" he backs away hastily, arms flailing all over the place. "Gotz a sec, yo?"
The echidna considers things, now that he's sure the fat man meant no harm.
"For ya, always," he winks, then snaps the fingers on his left hand. A female bat, dressed only in a blue thong, calmly walks over to his right. Her tits are huge, enormous - the kind of thing your momma warned ya about, nigga. "Shit!" his right arm slides across her shoulders, then brings her in real close to him. "This be Rouge, my main hoe! She da best! She be pure blood bat - very horny, very wet. Tits like ya won't believe, a mouth dat won't quit, and an ass that ya gotta taste to believe. Man, she'll get yo cock so hard it'll explode, dawg!"
"Aight," the fat man reaches into his pockets and pulls out a wad of bills fatter than he is. "We gonna be down wid da klown, if ya know what ah mean, nigga."
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VT2 - 2006
King hadbar/Sean Catlett - 2006
Heaven of Noir - 2006
