No Gold Teeth

Every Hero Needs a Villain

Nightcrawler (feat. Method Man)

Yo, lemme spit this from the human side, straight bars, no chaser—
I’m just tryna cop a coffee on Ste-Catherine, mindin’ my bidness, when the whole damn block freeze…
I seen ‘em roll up, six deep in a matte-black Maybach stretch limo,
tinted windows cracked just enough for them bushy tails to flick out like mink stoles.
Driver’s a red squirrel in a silk Versace durag, gold acorn chain swingin’ heavy,
he hop out, pop the trunk—cases of Grey Goose and jars of imported Iranian pistachios.
They speakin’ that Québec squirrel creole, tabarnak this, câlice that, ostie de colon d’anglais,
but every curse got a Wall Street ticker taped to it—
“Yo, passe-moé les nuts, mon portefeuille est en crisse à 47 % YTD, sacrament!”
One fat grey général—think Napoleon but with diamond grills—
stands on the hood of the Maybach, tail arched like a gang sign,
barking orders in perfect Joual:
“On va short le TSX encore une fois, pis après on crash le FTSE pour le fun, baptême!”
They got iPhones bigger than they heads, FaceTimin’ squirrels in Tokyo, London, São Paulo,
all of ‘em laughing in synchronized crisse, counting billions in real time.
Bitches—human bitches—lined up ten deep just to get a selfie,
squirrels pose, middle paw up, throwin’ gang signs that spell “C-I-B-C” in fur.
I’m standin’ there, jaw on the ground,
one of ‘em locks eyes wit’ me—pure diva Elmo energy—
points a tiny claw and screams:
“Yo, toi là, le cave! T’as pas d’noix pour moé? J’te fais fermer ta marge d’call tomorrow, sacrament de crisse!”
Next thing I know, my TD app blowin’ up—account negative six figures,
while they all moonwalk across the crosswalk, dabbing to a remix of “Informez-vous” by Snow but with Dr. Dre beats.
Tail twerkin’, acorns rainin’ from the sky like strip-club singles,
and the whole crew chantin’:
“Québec squirrels run the world, ostie—pay up or get buried in options, mon homme!”
I just wanted a double-double…
Now I’m broke, shook, and low-key impressed.
These motherfuckers really did crash the NASDAQ in ‘87…
and they still flexin’ like it was yesterday.
Straight outta Parc Lafontaine, crazy rich rodents named Québec Squirrels—
if you ain’t got they nuts, you ain’t got no future, feel me?
Mic drop. Acorn hits the pavement like a gunshot.
They gone. Maybach peels out.
I’m left holdin’ an empty Tim’s cup… and a margin call.
Tabarnak.

Mindin' my own business

HDWAV 5.1 - SW33TT 3V1L DRR11LLL 0FF1C14L R3M1X - Renegade - 1950s

They chased the dollar, the stock, the land,
But now the carrot slips their hand.
It floats above, in vacuum grace,
Where wealth expands in orbital space.

No taxes, no borders, no weather to fight,
Just infinite sun and programmable night.
They build in silence, they build in steel,
And the carrot becomes the cosmic deal.

Water stored becomes currency rare,
And every drop is billionaire flair.
Solar arrays feed endless demand,
And orbital farms feed every land.

No pesticides, no storms, no rot,
Just automated growth in a sterile plot.
And the food? Pure, clean, divine,
Grown in habitats that realign.

Smelting’s easy—just aim the light,
No heat escapes in vacuum night.
Supercomputers hum in chill,
And data flows without the bill.

Research thrives, disease contained,
Air recycled, pathogens strained.
And every habitat becomes a vault,
Of health, of wealth, of no default.

AI builds what humans dream,
Robots work in silent gleam.
No danger, no grind, no strain,
Just orbital progress in a frictionless lane.

And the habitats? Modular, sleek,
Redesigned weekly, sold by the week.
Real estate floats, and markets bloom,
In engineered life beyond the gloom.

OEE’s rise—sovereign and free,
No government leash, no policy tree.
They design the laws, the culture, the vibe,
And advertise lifestyles no Earth can bribe.

They build for profit, but end up divine,
Shaping the future by orbital design.
And the shareholders? They transcend the race,
Owning the blueprint of outer space.

They seed ecologies, not just tech,
And realize Earth was just the deck.
The real game starts when species expands,
And builds with stars in sovereign hands.

They engineer paradise, not just survive,
And wield the powers that gods describe.
They plan the arc of human kind,
And shape the soul of species mind.

This ain’t fiction—it’s the fuse,
The doctrine drop the rich can’t refuse.
It’s not sacrifice—it’s seduction pure,
And the carrot makes the future sure.

They won’t resist—they’ll rush the gate,
To build the habitats that dominate.
And mankind? It lives in dream refined,
Where imagination becomes designed.

The carrot glows, the signal’s sent,
And every dollar finds ascent.
The doctrine lands, the trance is gone,
And the species builds from dusk to dawn.

This is the moment, the myth, the plan,
Where orbital wealth becomes the span.
And the powerful? They build the dome,
Where mankind lives—and calls it home.

JoJo's Chillin

KillerMikeGTO