Somebody put out an APB for the Lieutenant Ricky Ross and tell him he lost the battle. It’s over. Finito. Not that there was ever really any “beef” to begin with. The marketing plan was real slick Rick, though (no Ricky D.) You knew Deeper Than Rap was a solid album; not good enough to go the distance, so you needed an extra push that you couldn’t accomplish with your music. You went at then-dormant 50 Cent, in hopes of mooching off his celebrity to garner attention for your project. The reasoning was lame. Walked by you at an award show without smiling, took the last bear claw in the vending machine–whatever. Marketing ploys 101 at their finest.

It worked, kinda.

Trilla was essentially better but there was no hoopla behind it. Just the Bawse doing his civil duty on rap tracks. But as the real “L” in the 50-Ross fuckery is how Curtis played along with the game and kept it strictly on antics. Take Before I Self Destruct. There’s a couple of MCs that catch a bad case of the diss on there but nary a mention of the double R. He embraced the Curly shit and we laughed as your stared on incredulously. And you failed to convince anyone that Triple C’s was anything but a poor rich man’s G-Unit.

All the while, Fiddy’s been parading around with your baby mother–who’s now sparring with your other alleged nemesis, Pretty Boy Floyd. Spanking your son while you’re on the road.

Remember. “Mafia Music” did this to you. And you had the nerve to proclaim Deeper Than Rap was going to outsell Get Rich Or Die Tryin’. Negro please.