Sinsane Asylum

Sinsane Asylum

Part 1

"If you talk to God, you're praying. If God talks back, it's schizophrenia."

–Phil Specter

Chapter 1

It was a modestly warm, late October morning in Sacramento, CA as Deon "Kasino" Brooks along with his friend Tyrone "Trife" Byers were the last to exit Club Lavish on Alhambra Boulevard. Kasino had just won a battle rap freestyle tournament that was held annually at the club and he was jittery, and high strung. Even though he's been racking up victories throughout the hip-hop battle circuit in Northern California and the bay area for over the last two years, he would still behave like a hyperactive six year old for hours after each win.

"Bro, didya' see how Gravity's face turned all deflated and soggy when I hit him with that last punchline?" Kasino bounced from the heels to the tippy toes of his Airmax Nikes as he spoke.

"Yeah, but man, the first dude! You really gave him the business. Ha, ha, ha, the poor guy may never rap again." Trife pointed out.

Years back the two friends were a rap group together but when Trife's dedication began to chip away and Kasino's skillset continued to sky rocket, Trife became more comfortable with a role as manager/supporter to his friend.

"Aye, you filmed the whole thing right?" Kasino grilled.

"Of course, and I already slapped it on YouTube and hiphopfameforum.com while you were talking to the club owner guy."

Trife answered as they approached Kasino's car, a 1982 Pontiac Grand Prix with chipped paint and the bumper held up with an elastic cord tied over the hood to keep sparks from flying when driven. With the parking lot having become empty and desolate the beat up vehicle stood out like a Ferris wheel on a small island.

"Dope! Man, I really wouldn't know what I'd do without you, brother. Turn on the camera, let's film another feed."

"Fo'sho'! You sure you want your dusty ass scraper on film though? I mean, you know it ain't' exactly a rap star mobile." Trife cracked.

Kasino looked at his car for a moment and then his lips expanded up to his cheekbones in a sly grin, "You know what? Man, film me leaning on that ugly ma'fucka."

Trife raised his eyebrows, but then aimed the camera lens of his Galaxy phone as his friend perched his elbows in a super cool '70s pimp lean, complete with a foot crossed over the knee on the hood of the car.

"Okay, on the count of three I'll start," Trife forewarned as Kasino adjusted his midnight blue skullcap he wore so that the Seahawks logo on it sat above his left ear. "One, two, three." Trife mouthed the silent snap count.

"Hello there. Welcome to Crackamento, California. I'll be your host this morning, my name is Deon Brooks aka Kasino aka Step Cousin Scumbag, and I happen to be 1,000 times better than the last rapper you've listened to. I mean, shit, watch some of my battles and judge for yourselves. Oh by the way, my marketing rep strongly advised me to not let you see my car," Kasino paused for effect. Unlike the commonly boisterous, puffed up self-promotional feeds rappers post on video sites, that tend to sound a lot like the exaggerated acting of 1980's pro wrestlers, Kasino always used a comedic, conversational tone.

"Ok, so I'm lyin' like a ma'fucka. I don't have a marketing rep, my homeboy Trife said don't show the bucket. I don't blame him, this piece of shit stopped us hella times from fucking some bad bitches. So here's the deal people, my mixtapes are available online and with each purchase of my shit, it'll bring us closer to buying a better car, which will help us fuck bad bitches, a progress I will update you through a song with ..." As he was concluding his pitch Kasino glanced up and saw a dark grey SUV pulling into the empty lot. Then parked twenty yards away from them.