Combat Jack's Top 5 gulliest moments he's experienced first hand in the music industry (that you won't hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here)
#2. Tragedy Khadafi Likes His Cris Warm
Tragedy Khadafi is a good dude (no homo). He doesn’t, however, get the recognition he deserves. He was a junior member of the legendary Juice Crew, he mentored and actually named Havoc (of “Mobb Deep” fame), he discovered CNN (Capone –N- Noriega) and was fully responsible for their classic underground LP The War Report. He was also featured on the only diss record fired back against 2pac and the Dogg Pound during the East-West coast beef (“LA, LA,” also featuring Mobb Deep and C-N-N).
So the year is 1999 and Trag is feeling a bit down (cause life has a way of kicking a nigga’s ass every now and then). To cheer him up, I suggest that we head to a party that Gorilla Pimp Sean Combs is throwing cross-town. We get to the joint and are ushered into the V.I.P. section which looked great (the walls were draped with some velvety red curtains and the chicks were definitely on some video ho material). Around midnight, Diddy steps in the club and decides to open up the bar in our section. Trag and I go apeshit and start throwing drinks back like we had been stranded in the Sahara desert for 15 days with no canteen in sight.
After an hour of doing some serious man-style drinking, Puff ups the ante (along with some other baller crews chilling in the cut) and decides its time to treat the crowd to bottles of Cristal. The wait staff starts bringing out mad ice buckets stocked with yellow bottles and it’s on. Almost everyone in the area has access to at least 2.5 of their own bottles of the fine bubbly. Everything is going real perfecto, chicks looking and smelling good, dancing, trees is burning, niggas is all types of happy with no types of gun talk in the air, the dj (I think it was Flex) is spinning hit after hit after blood clot hit, we’re partying like it’s, well, um, 1999 and Trag is smiling (no homo).
Anyways, after downing our respective second bottles of Cris, Trag pulls me to the side with a real serious and concerned look in his eye and asks me where the men’s room is. In my blissfully drunken state, I explain that it's past the V.I.P. ropes, through the dance floor (jam packed with about 700 sweaty dancing patrons), up the crowded narrow ass stairs, right behind the capacity filled lounge, where finally, there’s probably a line with a wait time of about 10-15 minutes. He processes the information and says “cool.” A few minutes later, there’s like one unattended bottle of Cris left, and from the corner of my eye, I spot Trag grabbing it along with the effin ice bucket, greedy ass motherfucker!
I think nothing of it, but I soon start craving for some more of the free elixir so I make my way to said last bottle that Trag placed back in its bucket. I reach for the bottle and out of nowhere, Trag grabs my wrist (no homo) and says, “Dude, chill, you had enough.” I’m getting pissed now cause it aint right to cock block a free bottle of Cris. “Yo, why you hoggin the bottle dude?” I ask, and he pulls me to the side and explains, “I just took the ice bucket behind one’a these drapes and pissed like a gallon’s worth in it!”
Minutes later, as some fine ass Latin mommies make their way to the bottle and start going to town on its contents, cute ass brown hands all up in the ice bucket and guzzling like it ain’t nobody’s business, I wonder if they even realize that their bubbly was a tad bit warm.