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This is the original silver screen tantrum, the gateway city brass band blaring backseat anthems and snatching handbags with a snapback tandem full of devilish grins and a couple black and milds re-rolled with a couple of friends. This is pure eight track magic pumped through your stereo until the room starts to blur into head nod parables and prophecies from a puff puff past when the present hip hop gods were just getting classic. When they were just getting drastic, and opening up their destinies like they were covered in plastic. This is a modern nostradamus putting pen to paper over madhatter half notes and high hatted brass throats. This is how the story goes: two outlaws shooting free throws while the world burns and letting the status quo know it's been disrespectfully adjourned.