[Scene: East Vancouver, back alley lit by neon. King Loo leans on a graffitied wall, Yugo Joe sparks a smoke. Sirens echo faintly in the distance.]
King Loo:
Every corner out here’s a trap, bro. Kids chasing that glass dragon, don’t even know it’s hollow. Synthetic poison, cut with death. They selling dreams but handing out coffins.
Yugo Joe:
Facts. And the cops? They don’t clean it up—they eat off it. Dirty badges, taking their cut while mothers cry. They raid one trap house, then protect the next. Whole system’s rigged, like East Van’s just their chessboard.
King Loo:
Yeah… every day another one bites the dust. I see brothers vanish—OD on the block, chalk outlines like bad graffiti. City talks about “safe supply,” but the streets never safe, not when death’s the dealer.
Yugo Joe:
We grew up thinking hustle meant survival. But survival’s a lottery ticket out here. One wrong pill, one hot shot, and you don’t wake up. That ain’t hustling—that’s genocide slow-cooked.
King Loo:
Still, we speak it. If we don’t spit the truth, they bury it. East Van’s scars tell stories the politicians don’t want to hear.
Yugo Joe:
Then let’s keep talking, Loo. Voice for the fallen, fire for the living. Maybe one day, dust turns to gold. But tonight? We watch our backs, and we keep our people awake.