There he sits, upon his throne in the hood. Every year, the cops hold a raid against his Trap House. Every year, they have failed. After several agonizing seconds, a loud cough escapes his mouth. He took a hit. Then another. His eyes glow a bright white, just like the pillars made entirely of Cocaine that hold the great structure up.

"Sup, homie."

His voice echoes through the halls, his voice so powerful that the hookers that once stood tall fall to their knees, groveling. Another smoke-filled cough.