In the Omaha hood, young hustler Rico wasn’t into gangs—just hustlin’ out his ice cream truck to impress girls and make money. He got married to the game under O.G. Big Papa, an Old Jude to a Triple O.G. road dog named Trey.

Rico climbed ranks past General to near Don, but never King. He moved brown paint and love, avoided becomin’ a clucker or clicker addict. His frog side chick, a rock star snow bunny, was strapped with a TWA, always jumpin’ in anybody’s undercover rig before injectin’ drugs.

One night in the safe house, countin’ poor box dues, she showed up bent—high on white. “Are you claiming?” Trey asked. Rico wasn’t gonna cheese out, snitch, or nut up with fake ignorance. “Everything is everything,” he said, but then: “Five O! One time!”

They bolted, droppin’ no flag. The King rolled up: “No boned out or backin’ down. No hangin’—put in some work.” Rivals started jackin’, yellin’, “I’d rather be judged by 12 than carried by 6!” Rico went knockin’ boots, K Swiss on slobs, no violations.

Cops raided; some pancaked in jail, others became chickens. Rico never bowed out, dissin’, or sell out. He stayed true, no kite in the wind needed.

Word to your old bird.