Ghetto Girls 3. Anthony Whyte

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       PROLOGUE

      Deedee, Eric, Coco and Josephine arrived at the studio. This opportunity to record in the studio with famed producer Eric Ascot was her prize for winning the talent show sponsored by Busta. First prize included not only money but also a chance to do a single and possibly an album.

      “Coco this might be your one shot,” Josephine said. “This might be the moment your career is launched and I’ll be glad to say I was there.”

      “Chill out, you’re making me nervous, yo,” Coco said.

      “What’s good? You finished with the tracks?” Eric asked rap producers, Silky Black and Show Biz.

      “Everything is set. You can take it from right where the beat drops,” Show Biz said and gave Eric a pound.

      “The track is kind a hot. I laid some new sounds on it. Lemme hear it when you mix it down and add the other vocals, ahight E?” Silky Black requested.

      “Coco we throw sump’n, sump’n up there for you. Show Biz said turning to the girls. We need about thirty-two bars from you to set it off. Eric will show you what I’m talking ‘bout.”

      The girls walked into the studio. Eric Ascot directed them to the lounge area filled with television sets and vending machines. A pool table was bare and unused.

      “Coco I got this track that I want to use for a Silky Black song. It was just going to be his vocals but I wanted to try a thing and get a verse or two from you on it.”

      “This is something I’ve been looking forward to doing,” Coco answered enthusiastically.

      “Josephine will also do some background stuff, so we’ll get everyone involved.” Eric continued.

      “Wait a minute Uncle E. I don’t hear my name being called?” Deedee frowned. Eric walked over and put his hand around her shoulder, “I’ve got something very special planned for you. Only you can handle this task. I’ll discuss it later.”

      “Okay, it better be something important,” Deedee said.

      “Alright, let’s go invade the studio,” Eric said leading the way.

      Eric Ascot and Coco sat facing each other at the sound-board.

      The engineer slipped a disk into the drive and musical notes danced across the computer screen. The earth shook as the sound was filtered through Klipschs 911 studio size speakers. Coco was transported to a musical wonderland. The speakers vibrated and a steady sound of Hip-Hop came through heavy and inflexible. Coco jerked from her torso to the top of her head. She was feeling the whole thing.

      “It’s yours, when you’re ready, just go in the booth,” Eric announced.

      He disappeared as the bass led the horns that ushered the percussion.

      She worked the mechanics of the beat, breaking it down, and then spat freestyle lyrics that hit like an automatic weapon.

       Niggers terrified when they hear what comes from the young one…

       Coco’s in your town put down your guns have fun…

       This lyrical gift is like Teflon can’t say I won’t kill anyone…

       I ain’t just rapping to be popular step to me I’ll bury ya…

       The Teflon things come flyin atcha…

       In the race for cheddar I’m natural born killa…

       Hustla running laps like I’m a track star…

       Oh yeah hip-hop-hooray in case you forgot I say…

       Coco’s getting ghetto n your town today…

       A champion like Laila my rhymes lay you out forever…

       Try to peep me but can’t see my phantom jab coming to smash ya ...

       You cold before you feel me suckas?”

      There was a loud howl and scattered applause, some present in the studio laughed. Coco’s verse off the top of her dome served to convince all that she was ready for the next level.