Notorious Page #9

Big, get the hell out!

Get the hell out, man!

- What were you thinkin'?

- I wasn't f***in' thinking.

I just f***ing snapped, all right?

I just wanted to get the truth.

Yo, man, truth is your Pac, he trying to

bring you down to the gutter with him...

and you playing right into his hands, Big.

I mean, well, we can squabble...

but, yo, I just got finished

signing with Clive for $42 million.

And you getting $5 million, Big.

Don't mess that up.

Fay-Fay? Come on, FEW, open the door.

I want to talk to you.

Come on, open the door.

Please.

Fay.

Can you open the door?

Fay!

What's going on?

F*** you!

I don't even know

who the f*** you are anymore.

Can you listen for a minute?

- Fay, just listen to me for a minute.

- It's over.

I'm sorry about bugging the f*** out.

I'm sorry about a lot of things.

Why couldn't you just be a man and ask me?

Okay, I'm asking.

What happened with you and Pac?

I saw him at the House of Blues.

We took that picture,

and that's all it was supposed to be.

And that's all there was.

End of story.

- Okay.

- May be now you have an idea what it feels like to be cheated on.

I'm not bragging, Fay, but I could have had

So go have 10, 20.

I don't give a f***.

I ain't mean that.

No, Chris.

I'm not laughing.

- Not anymore.

- Come on, Fay.

Damn!

- What?

- This Notorious?

- Yeah.

- You gonna be wearing a toe tag, nigga.

- Who this?

- West Coast, motherf***er.

- What size are these?

- Those are 14s like you asked.

These ain't no f***ing 14s.

F***ing 12s.

These ain't no f***ing 14s.

- All right, every bod yout.

- Cease, go get the car!

- Everybody out!

- All these f***ing problems.

- Out, people. Come on. Come on.

- Hey, Mark, y'all playing around.

- You ain't doing your job!

- Y'all sent over the wrong size shoes!

Y'all sent the wrong size shoes!

Now he ain't going on!

I ain't got time for no tempertantrum!

Look, you need to chill, Puff.

He's got a lot on his mind right now.

What? He stressed out about them

Death Row niggas in the audience?

Big ain't worried about it.

It ain't that, man. Fay's pregnant.

How'd that knuckle head get her pregnant?

I thought they was broke up.

All this soap opera drama.

Yo, Big!

- I'm not going on.

- Big, come on, man. Don't do this to me.

- Don't do this to your self!

- I've done just about...

every f***ing thing

you have ever asked of me.

All I want in return is some

motherfucking shoes that fit.

Yo, man, yo, man.

- There you go dancing again.

- Yeah.

Maybe I take my shoes too seriously.

Size 14, I would take them seriously.

I know lately that it ain't been easy.

Pac is talking about us.

The media is doing whatever they can...

to keep this

East Coast-West Coast thing going on.

I wanna be the last cat still standing.

I'm hoping that you want the same thing.

Yo, look, i just got these

from Big Sexy.

They ain't fly or nothin',

but they gonna have to work, baby.

I used to sling rock for nice kicks.

Now look at me.

This your idea of us changing the world?

We can't change the world

unless we change our selves.

Yo, Big. What now, huh, motherf***er?

Huh? West Side, motherf***er!

Now you on the best side! What you gonna

do now, b*tch? Huh? Huh, motherf***er?

- Let me talk to you, man.

- Your b*tch ass set me up!

What you gotta say now, motherf***er?

That's why i f***ed your wife!

Oh! He got the strap!

He got the strap!

- You set me up, motherf***er!

- He got the strap.

Let's go!

What the f***? Come on, man!

West Side, b*tch!

Catch you on the rebound, big boy.

Me and Pac should have said, "F*** that bullshit.

Let's go somewhere

and talk this sh*t out."

But the fact is,

we were both way be yond that now.

The media went crazy.

It had nothing to do with hip-hop...

but everything to do with

selling papers and magazines.

If it ain't New York, it ain't sh*t.

West Side, Compton in the house!

- We got Biggie. We got everybody.

- We got Pac. We got Dre.

Play our sh*t on the East Coast.

None of that sh*t get played

in the clubs in the Bronx.

We created all this

rap sh*t anyway. East Coast.

West Side! They might think they started

the game, but we elevated that motherf***er.

Tupac knows what he's talking about.

He talks about the hood.

He talks about what's actually

going on on the streets.

I know Big set him up. That's why my man Pac

came back with "Hit 'Em Up."

That's some bullshit.

Set him up?

Biggie wrote "Who Shot Ya??"

Because he got something to do with Pac.

Big wrote "Who Shot Ya??" months

before that sh*t went down with Pac.

How is Pac gonna really think

that Biggie would set him up like that?

F*** West Coast.

Man, they can eat a motherfucking dick.

I don't give a f***

if you think it's gangsta.

- F*** Compton, man.

- F*** the East Coast.

- F*** the West Coast.

That's what the f*** I think about

the motherfucking East motherfucking Coast.

- Just give me the loot, give me the loot

- Money, money, money

Give me the loot

give me the loot

Give me the loot

give me the loot

- Money, money, money

- Give me the loot, give me the loot

I'm a bad, bad man

My man Infleft a Tec

and a nine at my crib

Turned him self in

he had to do a bid

A one-to-three

He be home the end of'93

I'm trying to get this paper, G

You with me

Motherfucking right

My pocket's looking kind oftight

And l'm stressed

Yo, Biggie, let me get the vest

No need for that

Just grab the f***ing gat

The first pocket that's fat

let's take it to his back

Word is bond Yo, no fronting

yo, don't fake no moves

Treat it like boxing

Stick and move, stick and move

Nigga, you ain't got

to explain sh*t

I've been robbing motherfuckers

since the slave ships

With the same clip

and the same 4-5-

Yo, enough. Cut that.

Shut that sh*t down!

- Yo, put that joint on.

- Big, what you doing?

Sometimes you gotta rise above it.

Sometimes you gotta step on in.

- Don't sing that song, man.

- I got to.

Yo, check it out. This industry will turn

your best friends into your worst enemies.

Pac warned me, but I didn't believe him.

This song was made months a go.

He probably won't believe me.

Maybe nobody will.

But frankly, I don't give a f***.

Drop that joint, DJ Enuff.

Who shot ya

Separate the weak

from the obsolete

Hard to creep

these Brooklyn streets

It's on, nigga

F*** all that bickering beef

I can hear sweat

trickling down your cheek

Your heart beat sounds

like Sasquatch feet

Thundering

shaking the concrete

Finish this stuff

when I foil the plot

Neighbors called the cops

when they heard mad shots

Rolling in the drop

three in the corner

Slaughter, electrical tape

around your daughter

Old school, new school

need to learn, though

I burn, baby, burn

like "Disco Inferno"

Burn slow like blunts

with yayo

Peel more skins

than idaho potato

Niggas know

the lyrical molesting is taking place

F***ing with B.I.G.

It ain't safe

I make your skin chafe

Rough to the masses

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