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One particularly dark night, on a weathered curb in the dopest street of the dopest hood of the dopest city you’ve never been to, G-Money rolled out his mumma’s baby nest and landed face first in a gold-laced cot. Before he could even talk, this sick little mother fucker was spitting beats like other kids ate fruit loops, wowing his steezy gal pals like it was no ones business. He drank wine like his homies downed breast milk, sipping on the good stuff while planning his rhythmic revolution of rap. Few knew it back then, but this little OG had already solidified his state in a world he still knew very little about. G-Money doesn’t play no tricks or plant no lies. His game plan is simple: spit the hoodest rhythms, slay the thickest booties and smoke the stickiest gank. Shying away from shithouse songs and planting all his focus on resin bongs was the best thing G- Money ever did. In a haze of herb, the well-hung Hercules simultaneously cleared his mind and consciousness, giving him