What does a BigTimer kingpin have to show for all his money and cockiness? Nothing, but tha sick admiration of those lost and confused souls who long for power and will pay any price, no matter how disgusting to get it.... It never fails every time a drug dealer called a hero by young poverty American men, ...It's Time once again to cue up my keyboard and tell people why tha lyfe and times of a drug lord is nothing to be proud of.” And just like I have done tha past couple years, I try to come up with a commentary that will serve as a reminder of why idolizing drug kingpins, uproots our emotions and shatters our humanity. Therefore in presenting A King Without a Throne Tha first of tha month cash arrives and inserts money into tha city’s weak economy. On Avenue and Drive, scantily-clad prostitutes roam tha strip in search of clients, as their pimps await tha payoff. Surveying tha scene, you’re struck by tha people who gather here. Unknown to tha outside world, they take delight in each other’s company, having convinced themselves they have to make a lyfe for themselves, by any means necessary. And so they do! As tha thugs and gangs battle for territorial rights; a Mercedes-Benz inscribed with a gold license plate swerves to tha pavement. Rolling out into tha street, tha driver approaches tha crowd who cheer wildly as he struts toward them. Filling his hands with $100 bills, he dispenses tha money. Pleased with tha reaction, tha man flashes a crooked smile, as people knock over each other to catch tha money ricocheting in tha wind. Delighted by tha display, tha money thrower dressed head to toe in red gives himself a pat on tha back for creating tha ruckus.
Tha cash benefactors is your local Known Big Timer one of tha leading kingpins of the drug trade in your city. But unlike other blue-blood aristocrats, this king doesn’t have a throne. What he has is money, an expensive wardrobe, and thousands of young sniper rats eager to follow in his footsteps. As Big Timer pushes his way into tha crowd, a flurry of high fives greet him. Grinning, he shakes hands with four teens examining his customized automobile. “Man that’s a sweet ride,” a boy cradling a basketball shouts. “Hey, what’s all this equipment?” Tha BigTimer threw back his head and pointed to each gadget and pieces of equipment. “This is a $10,000 sound system,” he says motioning to the music blaring from the state-of -the-art CD system. “Mr. BigTimer” another boy yells, admiring the seat covers and fancy hubcaps. “I bet people look up to you now don’t they?” As if on cue, tha smile disappears from tha man’s pocked-marked face. “No, bro,” he said, his eyes cast downward. “They don’t give me my respect. I’m a BigTimer, but they treat me like a low lyfe from tha wrong side of the tracks.” there are hundreds of thousands of BigTimer in major cities across tha U.S., who long for the respect of tha masses. And despite their extravagant lifestyle, they are seen and judged on tha basis of what they are, self – proclaimed rulers of their individual drug emporiums. From a monetary standpoint, drug dealers are swimming in money. But when they’re sitting in jail or lying dead in an alley, what good are all those dead presidents? Tha real issue isn’t whether drug dealers are brutal or glamorous. We know many are, but beyond that lies questions about tha most fundamental concept about men who traffic in drugs; who and what they ought to be.Those questions become more critical as tha BigTimer realizes, that his kingdom is merely a makeshift house of cards that has a tendency to disintegrate when no precautions are taken.
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