Jake Brennan (0:04)

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Quince.com Amazing stuff there. All kinds of stuff. Great clothes, great products all around. For your next trip, treat yourself to the luxe upgrades you deserve from quintessential. Go to quince.com disgraceland for 365 day returns plus free shipping on your order. That's Q U I n c e.com Disgraceland to get free shipping and 365 day returns. Quince.com Disgraceland Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Slick Rick, hip hop icon, are insane. He endured a drug induced nervous breakdown, was harassed constantly by a family member, kidnapped, beaten, abused, and when he defended himself against his tormentor, he served hard time for attempted murder and an eventual second stint in prison for illegal immigration. But Slick Rick wasn't originally his flow is now iconic, but his hustle is legend. It was Slick Rick's hustle that kept him rolling, delivered him from backing Dougie Fresh to fronting his thing and inspiring countless MCs who came up in his wake. Because Slick Rick made great music. That music I played to you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called kiddie ride mellow bk1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Step by Step buy New Kids on the Block. And why would I play you that specific slice of Donnie, Joey, Jordan, Danny, Jonathan, Cheese. Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on July 3, 1990. And that was the day Slick Rick shot his cousin, kicking off a battle with US authorities that would last decades. On this episode, Johnny Hustle, Flow, New Kid Cheese and Slick Rick. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace. Slick Rick was hungover, partied out and thankful he had nothing to do that day. He yawned and stretched out across the luxurious stateroom mattress. This was the life. The huge plush bed rocked gently with the motion of the ocean as the late morning light crept in through the cruise ship porthole. Rick wrapped one arm around his beautiful wife, Mandy. She was curled up against him like a cat. Last night's show was a rager. What started out as a fundraiser raising scholarship money to support black college students turned into an all timer after Rick the Ruler performed his set La De Di. It of course, turned into a party. And damn right it did, Rick thought. That's what cruise ships are for. And that's what Slick Rick was for. The party had always come natural to Rick, and so did the Hustle. But he took particular pride in this latest business arrangement. It was a perfect setup. A few times a year, he and Mandy got a free trip down to Florida. They'd visit his family down south, say their hellos, then get on a big ass boat with the best rooms Royal Caribbean had to offer, reserved in their name. And Rick would perform the classics for a ballroom of wealthy drunks. Then get blitzed on the open seas. For a born hustler like Rick, this was the life. The violent knock at the door echoed through the dark hardwood of the cabin. The wet bar rattled, a glass shattered, and the quiet of their love nest was go. That banging at the door clearly wasn't some eager to please concierge. Rapping his knuckles obsequiously, it sounded quite the opposite, like the meaty fist of some bootlicker eager to take the damn door down if he could. Mandy leapt out of bed. In an instant she was naked. Rick just craned his head up, still groggy even in the confusion. Her lithe body turned him on. More bangs at the door. What the fuck? Wrapping a silk robe around her with quick grace, Mandy steeled herself and yanked open the stateroom door. Two G Men loomed, staring her down, looking alien behind reflective shades. The acronym on the sleeves of their standard issue G Men windbreakers read ins. Richard Martin Lloyd Walters, one of them said, stone faced. Now it was Rick's turn to bolt up from bed. Who's asking? He asked in his famous sing song lilt. Mr. Walters, you are a non citizen and a convicted felon. Last night this ship crossed into international waters. You deported yourself. So now as of this morning, you have attempted to illegally enter the United States of America. We're here to take you into custody on behalf of the Department of Homeland Security. Hip hop's greatest storyteller was stunned in silence, fear, confusion, handcuffs. Up on deck, a ship full of hungover partiers was expected to disembark and scatter back into Miami. But the mysterious delay and the sudden appearance of government marked ships sent hushed rumors through the crowd. Suddenly the G Men came elbowing their way through the mob. Scandalized gasps rose up from the revelers. Slick Rick, the guest of honor, the man they'd all come to see, who they cheered for after every famous rhyme the night before was being perp walked across the shuffleboard court shouting, this is bullshit. As the faceless officer struggled to grip his arms and haul him towards the gangway, and they shoved the handcuffed wrapper in front of them, using his body as a man makeshift battering ram. A wise ass in the crowd yelled gang way. It was too perfect, and for Rick, all the more humiliating. Mandy came running out behind them, begging and pleading, tears streaming down her face, adding to the drama of the moment. She ran in front of the authorities, turned around and began backpedaling so she could meet eyes with her husband. They kept forcing him forward and she just kept walking backward, holding his face, promising him she would fight this with all her might. Rick was stunned and angry. But now, with his strong wife before him, swearing to him that she'd solve this, figure it out, protect him. And in the face of the strength, Rick felt resilient and blessed. Because, let's face it, there's no bigger turn on, nothing more compelling or empowering than a wife who has her husband's back. I love you, baby. Alright, enough of this bullshit. Shouted one of the INS goons just before pushing Mandy aside and barreling Rick down the gangway to a waiting paddy wagon on the here into the back he went. Doors slammed shut behind him. Rick thought of the Black Marias back home, and from there things got worse. He spent days, he couldn't recall how many, in a Miami holding cell. He was given little clarity from authorities on his situation as he scrambled frantically to contact his lawyers. No luck. What the hell was going on? Where was he being held? Why was he being held? He got the immigration thing, but the treatment since his arrest seemed cruel, if not actually illegal. Then on a day that ended in Y and otherwise had no distinguishing characteristics, Slick Rick's cell door rolled open and he was fitted for shackles at his wrists and ankles. He was then frog marched into a bus with barred windows. The bus hit the road where too he didn't know, a couple old timers shackled in the seats behind, amused about their situation. They'd heard of this before, the ride, an unofficial type of hazing or punishment where federal prisoners are subjected to long arduous bus rides under the guise transporting them between prisons. In reality they're shackled and forced to sit on hard benches upright for hours at a time on endless daily road trips, sometimes for days at a time, while their insides rattle, their bones ache and their resolve softens, all at 65 miles per hour. Rick rocked up and down for hours as the bus made its way over bumpy Florida back roads and he had no idea where they were taking him. He was spent, but sharp enough to know that this was some sort of dystopian parody of the gentle rocking of the cruise ship he began this adventure on. And as the ride was intended to be, it was enough to drive a man crazy. But Rick, as was his normal disposition, kept his cool. He'd spent years in jail prior to this for something he believed never should have ended with his incarceration. But regardless, that experience meant he could handle whatever the this fresh punitive ride was. He just thought those days were behind him. He was getting Too old for this shit. The bus finally brought him to the Bradenton Detention center in West Florida, a filthy underfunded prison reserved for immigration cases. It was the summer of 2002, and this would be Rick's home for the next year. As George W. Bush's shiny new bureaucracy, the Department of Homeland Security, built a fresh case against him. Prison sucked. It was way worse than he remembered. When he was processed at Bradenton, the blue prison jumpsuit that gave him had suspicious white stains on it that refused to come out over the months. His signature eye patch that he had been wearing when he was arrested fell apart while his full collection languished back home in New York. And that really pissed him off. And all around him, he was forced to bear the emotional shit show of watching poor, seemingly helpless immigrants being kept away from their weeping families in this fresh hell. Rick had plenty of time to think, why him? Why now? The quick virgin, though Slick, got an attempted murder charge on the person who misled him. It should have been labeled self defense, but he'd done his time, more than his time. And the long arm of the law had toyed with him, tried to make an example of him all through the 90s. But he was too slick for that. Or at least he had enough money to hire the right lawyers to navigate the tangled joke that was the American legal system for him. And now, apparently, it was time to do it again. Slick Rick was a man with powerful friends. Sure, he was an immigrant, but in New York City that made you a native. And in the Bronx, he was an adopted hometown hero. He was one of the very first artists signed to Def Jam Records. And that put a shine on his name that would never fade. So when word got back to the Bronx that Rick was locked up for no good reason, the protests started. Free Slick Rick. Petitions began circulating and celebrity fans and friends began wielding their influence. Will Smith, Chris Rock, the Reverend Jesse Jackson, all wrote to the courts in Rick's defense. And a thousand miles away in a New York City penthouse, as coverage of Rick's desperate circumstances played on a wall mounted flat screen, Slick Rick's guardian angel watched and weighed his options in Zen like silence. Rick didn't deserve this, he thought straight up. This is some bullshit. It's time to free Slick Rick for real. So Russell Simmons, co founder of Def Jam Recordings, looked away from his television and picked up the telephone. 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See terms@casino.draftkings.com promos and ends June 15, 2025 at 11:59pm Eastern Time hello, Hello, Malcolm Gladwell here on this season of Revisionist History. We're going where no podcast has ever gone before. In combination with my 3 year old, we defend the show that everyone else hates. I'm talking, of course, about Paw Patrol. There's some things that really piss me off when it comes to Paw Patrol. It's pretty simple. It sucks. My son watches Paw Patrol. I hate it. Everyone hates it except for me. Plus, we investigate everything from why American sirens are so unbearably loud to the impact of face blindness on social connection, to the secret behind Thomas's English muffins, perfect nooks and crannies. And also, we go after Joe Rogan. Are you ready, Joe? I'm coming for you. You won't want to miss it. Listen to Revisionist history on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. 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Cat got your tongue? Same cat got your eye? What, you going to cry that one eye of yours? Hey, one of you Brooks Brothers get Ricky half a Kleenex, he's going to cry out of his one eye. Ricky Walters, not yet named Slick Rick, was hustling mail out of the Lehman Brothers mailroom and said nothing as he stoically endured the latest round of abuse from the dipshit brokers at Lehman Brothers. Whatever. He could handle it. He'd been in this country for nine years. He arrived when he was 11 from southwest London with his family who were originally from Jamaica, who then decided to try their luck in America, the land of opportunity as immigrants twice over. And like most immigrants in their adopted Bronx neighborhood, they struggled but worked hard so Rick, or Ricky, as he was called, could deal. It was 1985 Manhattan, and there was a mountain of money to make if you were a grown man with both hustle and flow. And little Ricky Walters had both in spades. By day, he worked in the mailroom at Lehman, quietly observing the glitz, greed and gak of all the wannabe Gordon Geckos and American Psychos. And he pushed his rinky dink mail card through the offices of millionaire stockbrokers, tolerating their bullshit while handing out obscene bonus checks to coke fueled confidence men. While he lived off of 500 bucks a month, 2/3 of his pay covered his rent and that left about 40 bucks a week for food, clothes and fun. But every time he dropped a check on the desk of one of these so called masters of the universe, Rick knew that deep down they were the unhappy working stiffs, not him. They hid their misery behind the extra zeros in those bonus envelopes, but they had no idea what real joy and freedom were. Rick knew that one day his hustle, his art would outshine them all. Because by night, Rick was a Bronx MC on the come up. Having arrived in the Bronx from London in 1976 right around the exact time and in the exact place that neighborhood emcees and DJs were inventing hip hop. Rick was indirectly groomed to be an emcee. Dj, Kool Herc, Bambatta, Flash Rick as a young man had a front row seat to them all from his vantage point in the Bronx. And to Rick, rappers seemed to have it all respect, attention from the B girls. Music was pure joy, real freedom. There was a fire in his belly. This was the future. When Rick was a little kid back in London, he was shy as an influence. A splinter of glass on the floor of his family's tenement apartment got in his right eye, scarring and blinding him. His need for an eye patch made him self conscious, an introvert by necessity. Instead of running around the neighborhood with the other kids, he stayed in and read books, listened to music, and grew naturally into a storyteller. But in the Bronx, the things that held him back as a child had become his greatest strengths. Watching his parents struggle gave him drive and ambition. His soft English accent caught the attention of the ladies. He adopted a whole new Persona made of flashy costumes and bold fashion statements, and turned his eyepatch into his signature accessory. His years of practicing poetry and storytelling set him up to rock the mic effortlessly and with a different flow than anybody had heard previous. In a word, it was slick. He had glitz, gak and hustle all his own now in a staged name to match Slick Rick. 170th street and Jerome Avenue, 1500 in cash on the line. Not to mention Slick Rick's pride. If he could vanquish all covers in this street corner rap battle, the original human beatbox, Doug E. Fresh was the judge. Rick had met him a couple months back, but failed to really make an impression. Now is his chance. Impressing Dougie Fresh meant your flow is dope. And that seal of approval was potentially worth more than the 1500. The scene was bumping block party style. Nighttime summer air was sticky. Sweat was visible on the bare arms of the attendant B girls and distracting Rick, who was trying to focus, waiting his turn to jump in. He got the call up, bounced into the battle and smoothly dropped a verse that would soon become famous. And Slick Rick was off the crowd. He had them. He could feel it. They could tell they were witnessing something special. Rick's rhyme had both innocence and bite, and he was telling a story in a way that was both familiar, like something that pulled on their childhood memories, but also an indicator of where this relatively new genre of music could go. Dougie Fresh was more than impressed. Needless to say, Slick Rick won the battle that night. But more importantly, Doug E. Fresh enlisted Rick to join his Get Fresh crew and quickly cut a record. With Rick's ladi dotty rhyme feed featured over his beatboxing, the song took off. DJs played it live. Audiences demanded it. Kids all over memorized it. Promoters paid Top dollar for it. And soon. As a touring member of Dougie Fresh's Get Fresh crew, Slick Rick was on the road in the States and in Europe with his star on the rise. But he wasn't yet where he wanted to be. Dougie Fresh was pulling in six grand a gig. Get Fresh crew members got a 5% cut. 300 each. Compared to the five bills a month from Lehman Brothers to Rick, this felt like it was raining paper. Rick told Lehman to off. But this still wasn't exactly fuck you money. Rick got to thinking it was his voice and his lyrics that starred on Dougie Fresh's hits La De Da and the Show. So all due respect, the 300 wasn't going to cut it. Rick knew what he had to do. Hustle, Strike out on his own. But first there was a party to it. The type of party that only those who stars in a scent can attend. The type of party with bowls filled with mystery pills and powders. The type of party where the bottles never ran dry. The type of party where the smoke made everyone look 10% sexier. And the type of party where sex just might break out in the open at any minute. Wherever. On the dance floor, the bathroom, in the backseat of the limo, Rick indulged women, weed, champagne, angel dust. The angel dust was no joke, Rick told himself. It was for special occasions only. But inevitably he caught himself a bad batch and snapped a psychotic break. His brain chemistry scrambled, his head on fire for days on end, driving his thoughts around in endless circles, manic, itching, twitching for trouble until it all suddenly crashed into a coma like low. The only reality he knew was that he had lost all concept of reality. So he checked into a local psychiatric ward to recover from what he later came to terms with as a drug induced nervous breakdown. There he was in the sterile hospital common room, all linoleum tile and fluorescent lights, drooling and staring off into the middle distance with his one eye. He did not look like Slick Rick. Was this it? How could a burnout with a junkie lean be all that was left of him? He rocked gently back and forth, forth to the muzak trapped in his own fried out mind. An orderly approached him, trailing behind her two young men with the air of mobility. Mr. Walters. Rick? The orderly asked but got no response. Rick, these men would like to meet you. Mr. Simmons, Mr. Reuben, meet Rick. In his sorry state, Rick assumed this was the coup de grace sealing his deal in his worst nightmare. Standing in front of him was a powerhouse behind the still building brand new outfit, Def Jam Recordings. Russell Simmons and Rick Rubin, the two men behind some of rap's most exciting and to that point, influential records. Taylor Rock and Jazzy J's it's yours, LL Cool J's I Need a Beat, and it's the beat by the Hollis Crew from over in Queens. Plus, Russell was the older brother of the Hollis Crew's Run, who was the unofficial son of Kurtis Blow, who was the shit. And Run, of course, would go on to become one of the iconic members of Run dmc. These dudes were connected. Here he was Slick Rick, the wordless zombie. The you money he dreamt of was in arm's reach and he couldn't even make eye contact with the men who could get it for But Russell Simmons knew the score, and he would have Slick Rick's back just like he would so many more times over the years. They shared a culture, lived in the same streets. Russell had seen plenty of folks in the condition they called dust. He knew Rick would snap out of it in a few days. Slick Rick, the velvet voice storyteller, would return bigger and better than ever. Russell Simmons knew it, and he'd make sure of it. He leaned down and whispered into his ear, rick, I know you're in there, but we're gonna see you on the outside. Def Jam wants you. We'll be right back after this Word, word, word. This season, let your shoes do the talking. 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It was like no matter how many of his dreams came true, he always had some new hassle trying to tear him back down. Here it was, 1989, he was at the top of the rap game, and somehow he was tied to a chair in his own home, knuckling through one of an endless series of shakedowns. Fuck this shit. And fuck the music business too, if this was gonna be the way it was. Shakedowns and beatdowns. Too much hustle for too much hassle. The signature on Rick's new contract with Def Jam was barely dry before his hard work began paying off. He was a star now, but soon enough he learned the same thing everyone learns when they get famous. When you've finally made it, you gotta run faster and faster just to stay in the same place. He saw it in the recording studio right away. This wasn't the simple joy of a freestyle block party anymore. This was a production. This was work. His debut album took a year and a half to record, as a rotating cast of producers struggled to vibe with Rick's flow. After a year had gone by, only one track met his personal standards, the Ruler. But once things clicked, they clicked, and the finished album, the Great Adventures of Slick Rick, topped the Billboard Hip Hop charts for five weeks and received a five mic score from the Source. But success changed things. Rick couldn't bop around the Bronx anymore. Not like the old days. His name was too big. He never knew which youngblood was going to step to him just to make their bones. His jeweled eye patches, his carefully layered chains, the chunky rings he wore as a tribute to Sammy Davis Jr. They were meant to be proof positive that his Hustle had been rewarded, but now all they did was make him an obvious target. But fuck it, why hustle so hard if you can't enjoy it? So Rick stepped up. He filled out his collection of jewelry, cars and real estate with a small armory. Pistols, semiautomatics, shotguns, you name it. He carried a piece on him at all times. But he knew more than anyone that he only had one eye. So what he really needed was muscle. Bodyguards. An expense he'd happily cover. And as luck would have it, Rick had a cousin who had just arrived in the city from Jamaica fresh off the boat. Mark Plummer. Rick didn't really know the guy, but keeping things in the family seemed like a good idea. So Mark got the gig guarding Slick Rick. What Rick didn't know, couldn't know about Mark is that he was a stone cold Psycho. By 1992, Mark would be dead. Gunned down during a home invasion by the father of a young boy he was attempting to rape. But here in 89, when Rick hired him, Mark Plummer hadn't yet ruined his life. But he was threatening to ruin Slick Rick's. At least for the foreseeable future. It didn't take long after Mark's hiring for weird shit to start happening. Attempted B&E's on Rick's properties, home invasions, extortion attempts. At first it seemed to prove Rick's paranoia right. They really were out to get him. His fame was a curse. But all the threatening activity was easily traced back to Mark, who as Rick's body man, was privy to lots of inside info he could then hand off to friends to try and set Rick up, score money from him, drugs or bling, as if they were random burglars. The robberies were happening with too much frequency. Rick might have been paranoid, but he was no dummy. Soon it became obvious that he had a bad seed in his crew. And Mark, family or not, was an unknown quantity. The betrayal, the inside job of it all, that it was the same man he had hired for protection, who was in fact the biggest threat to him, ratcheted Rick's paranoia to new heights. He self medicated with champagne and weed. Neither helped. Both made the situation worse. Rick was at a loss for what to do with Mark. He couldn't just outright fire him. And who knew what this thug would do? And so Rick tried paying him off, letting him go with a severance of several thousand dollars in a van. But it was too late. Once Mark realized Rick had found him out, knew what he was up to. Menacing bastard that he was Decided to go full psycho on Rick. There was nothing to hide. So fuck Slick Rick. Take the greedy rapstar for all he was worth. Mark was in the land of opportunity. And here was the opportunity, his rich ass cousin with all the cash, drugs and bling. Take him for all he was worth. Because who knew when another score would present itself. So now Rick was tied to a chair, bleeding from his forehead, getting pistol whipped by a random lackey, a stooge for his psycho cousin Mark. When the rest of rich Rick's crew was heard coming up the hall. The shakedown ended. The stooge threatened with the pistol butt one more time. Give Mark what he's owed or we're coming back on you, you hear? And then he ducked out the window, down the fire escape. When Rick's boys entered, all that anyone could do was untie him. But it wasn't over. Rick knew there'd be more attacks. Mark Plummer was a fucking menace and he was all up in Slick Rick shit. He threatened to kill Rick and his mother. One day Rick came home to a fresh round of bullet holes in his front door. This game of intimidating cat and mouse with Mark dragged on for months. There was no end in sight. Rick continued to self medicate. And the paranoia inducing weed made it all especially tough to handle. His twitchiness had become background noise, an unavoidable fact of life. He kept his one eye on the door at all times. The rest of his life at the moment was one big blind spot. But the hell with it. A man needed to let loose every once in a while. So one warm night in April 1990, Rick put on his finest eye patch, best chains and hit the club in full Slick Rick regalia. It was about damn time to let off some steam. And it didn't take long for him to attract a gaggle of girls to his private table, have his pick of who would be his queen for the night. For a moment he forgot his troubles and enjoyed being who he was. Slick Rick the ruler. At 3am, Rick and a woman he met earlier that night stumbled outside the club and beelined for Rick's suv. Rick was a gentleman and saw his girl into the passenger seat. But when he rounded the car to get into the driver's side, he found himself confronted with a gang of roughnecks who looked vaguely familiar. Mark Plummer's posse. What do you want now? Rick said. He instinctively patted his waistband for his gun, but realized it was in his glove box. We want you, said one of Mark's thugs. Two of them pulled their Glocks. And in an instant, shots fired. A hail of bullets rained out all over the club parking lot. Rick dove for cover, but not fast enough. Three bullets pierced his skin. He felt the lead burn in his arm and his shoulder and his leg. It was hard to tell where all the pain was coming from. In the heat of the moment, the pain fueled him to fight for his life. Rick's Club Queen caught a stray in the passenger seat and the parking lot suddenly stank. A gunpowder and blood. Club Queen screamed. The gunman screwed. Out of there. Slick Rick slid over into the driver's seat. He checked his wounds, checked Queenies. Nothing fatal. Fucking amateurs. He put the keys in the ignition and started the suv. As he drove to the nearest hospital, his rage shifted into overdrive. He had had enough. This punk sends his boys to kill me, he doesn't even show his own face. What kind of low life, cowardly piece of shit. He swore to himself, never again. No more leaving the gun in the car. No more catching him off guard. Next time he'd lay his eye on menacing Mark Plummer. He'd be looking at him over the back barrel of his gun. Slick Rick was gonna kill his cousin. The voices on the New York City streets formed a hum that was was familiar to Rick. He'd grown up here and grown to expect the enveloping sound of the city. But the constant street chorus had warped itself into a menacing melange of paranoia. At any given moment, Rick didn't know who or what he was listening to. Was it the street or was it the psycho Mark Plummer haunting him? With him, Rick dug in, steeled himself for what he knew was a coming confrontation with his cousin. He turned his new car into a weapons locker on wheels. Handguns under his seats, stashed in the door, sawed off in the back, brown paper bags of ammo at his feet, loose bullets rolling around the floor. And of course, an automatic pistol tucked into his waistband. On his person, always, it was needed. He was tweaking. Fully paranoid in his condition, he picked up his girlfriend Lisa for a day of Chinese food and shopping. Lisa was in a condition of her own. Soon to be Rick's baby mama. She was seven months pregnant and their plan for this beautiful Tuesday in July was to buy a crib and newborn clothes. Don't worry about that shotgun in the back seat and ignore the live rounds clicking against your shoes. Just some normal precautions in the life of Slick Rick. But ignore that noise. Today's all about us. And their day could have been all about them if they hadn't seen that psycho predator Mark Plumber walking out of a storefront on 241st street like he didn't have a care in the world. What dumb luck. Shopping for baby gear would have to wait. Rick sprang into action. He slammed the brakes and whipped the gun out from his pants. Two shots out of the gate. No warning. They whizzed by Mark barely missing him. One of them caught the foot of an innocent bystander on the corner. He went down screaming in pain. Unlucky bastard. Mark had no idea what was happening. Rick had no time. Mark saw him now. They locked the eyes, both knowing the score even tied up. But today, winner take all. Three more shots. Rick cut them off before Mark could do anything besides stare with that stupid fucking grin of his. This time Rick's shots connected. Two in Mark's leg, one in his arm. But no kill shot. Just spray and pray. The adrenaline kicked in. Mark gripped his wounds to stem the bleeding and dove inside the nearest storefront to escape. For a moment there was an eerie calm. A scene out of some imagined cinematic city. Trench warfare movie. Rick aiming from his car, Mark peering back from a bodega window. The hard top of the Bronx stretched out between them like a no man's lamp. Screaming pedestrians, a wounded civilian writhing in pain. Rick had to make a split second decision. Chase Mark down to finish the job or get the fuck out of there before the NYPD descended on the scene. Let's go, let's go, let's go. Lisa demanded. She pouted on the dash and ended the quiet of the standoff. Rick knew she was right. He'd sent a message. The more he stuck around, the worse things would get. By the second Rick threw the ride into gear and peeled out from the scene, he hooked a turn at the corner, aimed for the Bronx River Parkway. Fastest exit route. And fuck consequences. In Rick's mind, the was all self defense. That monster kept robbing him, threatening his family. This was the righteous kind of drive by and he had no intention of having to explain it to a judge. But it was too late. He and Lisa were only a couple blocks from the parkway with multiple blue and white Crown Vic sirens blaring, whipped around the same corner he just fled and began drafting in his wake. No way the ruler was going out like this. Rick put the pedal to the floor, closed the last couple blocks and hit the on ramp. There was only one move here. Gain some distance on the squad cars. Stunt the sharpest turn he could at the next ramp to surprise them and lose the Cops behind in a few lanes of traffic. He gunned it as hard as he could up the parkway. Lisa prayed in the seat next to him. Guns to God. In under six seconds, Rick made a hard yank with the steering wheel and skidded in a wide arc from the far left lane towards the far right ramp. Knowing that the move would either make or break his escape. This was it, his getaway. He thought that right up until he lost control of the car and the turn, sliding out of the angle he was aiming for and slamming full force into a tree along the parkway embankment. They crashed. After a moment in a concussive shock, Rick came to and looked around. The front end of the car was a smoking, crumpled heap. The dashboard had intruded on the cabin from the impact. Lisa was frozen in shock, and for a second Rick feared she was dead. But no, he could see her breathing and her belly and her baby were unharmed. But her legs were clearly broken. Pinned by the collapsed front end of the car, the platoon of police Crown Vics pulled up and surrounded the crash site. An officer, gun drawn, approached the driver door. Don't move, shit bird. You're under arrest. The disastrous drive by and car chase landed Rick in prison for five years on attempted murder charges. It stunted his recording career, but Def Jam Recordings stuck by him and allowed Rick to produce an album from behind bars titled Behind Bars. Lisa had the baby and Rick started a correspondence with another beautiful woman named Mandy, his future wife. It wasn't all bad. And after humiliating Rick on that cruise ship in Miami, when INS began their decade long attempt to make an example of Rick and have him deported, judges based out of York New the score. The feds were just playing red tape games while fishing for headlines with a hip hop star on the hook, hoping to keep Rick locked up long enough so they could boot him out of the States. It wasn't on the level. Back in New York, Russell Simmons and Rick's fans, famous and otherwise, had his back. The free Slick Rick movement launched and it worked. He was freed. He got a full pardon from New York governor and longtime Slick Rick fan David Patterson. In the city of the blind, the one eyed man is king. Or at least the ruler. After it all died down, Rick became a full US Citizen and was eventually inducted into the Bronx Walk with Fame. Finally, Slick Rick understood the real power of hustle. The payoff wasn't the money or the women or the drugs or any of the bullshit the billionaire boys club back at Lima were peddling. This was the payoff. Community empowerment. Young years of grinding on the block, on stage and on record, creating music. True art had inspired legions of fans who, when his back was up against the wall, had his back. And all the sentimentality aside, isn't that what America is really about? Being there for your neighbor in their time of need? Or is it just about rewarding hard work? Or more specifically and cynically, rewarding the hustle? No matter that this Disgrace I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com Membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Disgracelandpod Rockarolla He's a bad, bad man. If you're alignment in charge of keeping the lights on, Grainger understands that you go to great lengths and sometimes heights to ensure the power is always flowing. 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