Tupac: greatest rapper live

That evening, as the sun dipped low, my friends rolled up outside my house, blasting music from a beat-up tape deck and hollering my name. "PAC! Let's go!" they shouted, their voices full of energy. I didn't need convincing. I threw on my jacket, stepped outside, and hopped into the car. A beat-up white Toyota Corolla, the seats reeking of old weed and soda spills, was the usual ride. It wasn't much, but it was freedom.

Inside, everyone was smoking. The air was thick with the smell of cheap weed and stale chips. J-Rock passed me a joint, leaning back with a grin that showed the gap in his teeth. "PAC, hit this," he said. "It'll put you on a whole new level."

I hesitated for a second, hearing my dad's voice in my head. But then I thought, What's the harm? I took a hit, the smoke burning my throat but leaving me feeling light and untouchable. The world around me shifted—brighter, funnier, and a little more chaotic.

From then on, it became part of the routine. Smoking, laughing, vibing—it was all about being in the moment. At school, my rep grew. People didn't just see me as a guy who could rap; I was the guy who made things happen, the one who turned ordinary moments into something unforgettable. We'd hit the courts, freestyle in the park, and ride through the boroughs, feeling like kings in our little world.

We'd mess with girls, too, pulling up to corners where they hung out. Sometimes we'd holler, sometimes we'd just play it cool, but the energy was always electric. I started dating a girl —a sweet, smart girl who didn't really approve of the crowd I was running with. She'd tell me, "PAC, you've got too much going for you to be wasting your time with this mess." I'd nod and promise to do better, but the streets kept pulling me back in.

A few weeks later, my friends came to me with a new plan. "Yo, PAC," Rico said, his voice low and serious. "We've got a move tonight. Easy money. You in?"

I hesitated. "What kind of move?"

J-Rock smirked. "A house job. Quick in, quick out. Jewelry, cash—whatever we can get."

I wasn't sure. This felt bigger than anything we'd done before, but the excitement in their eyes was contagious. They'd been talking about this for weeks, mapping out the house, memorizing the routine of the family inside. I nodded. "Aight. Let's do it." The promise of quick money, the chance to rise above, to be more than just another broke kid on the block—it was too tempting to resist.

---

That night, everything moved in fast-forward. We hit the house, sliding in through a back window with practiced precision. The adrenaline pumped through my veins like a drumbeat. It felt like we were unstoppable, like nothing could touch us. Drawers were yanked open, jewelry boxes tipped over, cash stuffed into backpacks. The excitement was electric, but then I heard it—a faint creak from upstairs.

"Yo, there's someone in the house," Rico hissed.

"What?" I froze.

"I said, there's someone in the house!" His voice cracked with panic.

"Shit!" J-Rock dropped the jewelry box he was holding. "We gotta go!"

We bolted, tripping over each other as we scrambled back to the car. I was the first out, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. "PAC, start the car!" Rico yelled. I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking, but the engine roared to life.

"Go, go, go!" Everyone piled in, the car doors slamming shut as I floored it. The tires screeched against the pavement as we sped off, but the flashing lights of a police car lit up the night behind us.

"Shit!" I yelled again, slamming my foot on the gas. The car swerved through the streets, the sirens growing louder. My heart was pounding, but I couldn't stop laughing. The thrill was intoxicating, even as fear crept in. Left, right, another left—I drove like a madman, I guess that's a lucky night with your homies.

Finally, we lost them, pulling into a dark alley to catch our breath. The rush faded, leaving behind a heavy silence. For the first time, I started to wonder if this life was really what I wanted.

Every weekends, I'd take my beats to the park, where local rappers would gather. I'd hook up my drum machine to a small speaker, and we'd have impromptu freestyle sessions. This time everyone in the hood will come park.

J-rock introduced me in the park " everyone lets welcome our top dog nig*** Tupac aka lady killer " after the names lady killer everyone laughing because everyone knows that Tupac is lady boy. PAC play with J-rock joke " thank you thank you here is address of Amara." He trow the paper in the group of people.

Everyone started take that paper

But when they open the paper they find it empty. Everyone laughing at the people who try to get that address because everyone knows that PAC is not going give anythings.

Back to the story.

As PAC begins rapping.

[Tire marks, tire marks

Finish line with the tire marks

When the relay starts I'm a runaway slave

Ugh, walking on water and running on waves]

the crowd quiets down, intrigued by his delivery. A few people exchange glances, impressed with his flow.

[God MC Oh my God you gotta see

There's never no I's in me

Of an Odyssey, I'm a block away

Fire marshal's moving in

Marshmallows inside my pen

Sweet sixteens]

As the beat drops, more people start nodding their heads, feeling the rhythm, while others whisper to their friends, "he killing it ."

[Got a sweet sixteen and they deadlier than sin

I'm so appalled

With the prototype with a godly protocol

You an amateur, they wanna pro to call

I damage ya on camera, in Compton, in Canada]

The energy builds slowly as PAC continues, with a few starting to mouth the words along with him.

[I don't care where ya are

Just blink twice and I'm there where you are

Like a shadow in the dark, you a paddle in the boat

In an ocean full of sharks bout to come up short

Water in the pot]

The younger crowd begins to vibe, exchanging smiles and nods.

[flow crack rock like Bam Bam nigga

Have two grams nigga pay up or blam blam nigga

Had a black Camry, bumpin' Dipset, Killa Cam nigga

I had been around niggas, killas, pimps]

I was rapping so fast that I veins in the face started pop up. I was speaking saliva, wrapping so far that many people couldn't even understand the lyrics.

[Look at my shirt, Polo on it

It's gon' sell if my logo on it

I fear no opponent

A demon come near and I might throw a spear at the omen]

When PAC drops the verses everyone goes nuts right after that lyrics.the crowd responds with soft cheers and murmurs of approval, getting more engaged as the performance.

[You looking at the 1987 Romans

Empire, Hiiipower HP, in ya face like HD

And I spit like a HK

I'mma shot like a H3, H-U-B-C-I-T-Y, A-B and Y-G

Problem and Hootie nigga

Tell the government come shoot me, nigga]

As PAC raps started hit like pens igniting like dynamite and rhymes hitting harder than a heavyweight fight, the crowd begins to move to the beat, clapping and getting louder.

As PAC brings the energy back up with references to style and hustle, the crowd gets hyped, cheering loudly and moving to the beat. By the end of the performance, the applause is deafening, with the crowd fully immersed in PAC's raw talent and confidence.

Sure! Here's the revised version with more natural Black vernacular in the dialogue:

---

The crowd in the playground was lit. Kids were clappin', yellin', hyped up from the freestyle I just dropped. I was feelin' good, the beat still thumpin' in my chest, when I spotted him in the back of the room.

Eric Lynn Wright.

Or, as we called him on the block: Eazy-E.

"Yo, Brother Eric!" I called out, pushing through the crowd. You didn't just spot Eazy and not acknowledge him—that was disrespect. He was a legend out here. Stories about him ran through the hood like water. They said he'd been gangbanging since he was just a kid, made stacks sellin' weed before most folks even got a job, and bought himself a clean, shiny ride with the cash. And he wasn't just about his come-up—Eazy always looked out for us. He'd kept me and my boys safe from rival crews more times than I could count. Hell, he even fronted us product to move in school when we needed money.

As soon as I shouted, heads turned.

"Yo, Brother E's here?!" someone in the back yelled. "Damn, I ain't even see him!"

Eazy just leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, grinnin' like he owned the place. He gave me a quick nod and stepped forward. "Aight, PAC. What's good wit'chu? What was that sh** I just heard? That was fire, lil' homie."

I grinned, feelin' my chest swell up. "You liked that, Brother E? I'm just tryna do my thing, man."

Eazy laughed, low and gritty, and clapped me on the shoulder. "Man, don't play wit' me. That sh** was hard. You gotta run that back, though. Do it one more time."

"Aight," I said, smirkin'. "For you? Bet."

Eazy pulled up a chair, flippin' it backward and sittin' down. He leaned forward, elbows on the backrest, lookin' straight at me. "For real, though, PAC. That's some talent you got there. I been hearin' folks talk about you, but now I see why. You write all that yourself?"

"Yeah, yeah," I said, noddin'. "All me. I even made the beat on my DMX last night. Kept it in my pocket, just in case."

Eazy raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Sh**, you smart. Always gotta stay ready, lil' homie. That's how you make moves out here. You remind me of me, back in the day. Ain't nothin' stoppin' you if you keep goin' like that."

The crowd around us started whisperin'. "Yo, Brother E really said that?" one kid muttered. "That's big time."

"C'mon now," Eazy said with a smirk. "I ain't no rapper like PAC. But I know talent when I see it."

We kept talkin' while the rest of the group started to thin out. Eazy leaned in, his voice low but firm. "You know this sh** ain't just about rhymin', right? It's about tellin' your story, puttin' somethin' real out there. These streets? They don't love nobody. But you? You got somethin' bigger than this. Don't let the corners take it from you."

I nodded, takin' in his words. He wasn't just talkin'—he meant it.

Then, almost casually, Eazy reached into his jacket and pulled out a small baggie. "By the way," he said, handin' it to me real smooth, "I got some more of that good sh**. You wanna move it?"

I glanced around, makin' sure no one was watchin' too close, and took the bag, tuckin' it into my backpack. "Yeah, I got you, Brother E. I'll move it at school."

Eazy nodded, standin' up and stretchin'. "Aight, PAC. Keep doin' your thing. You keep spittin' like that, you gon' be outta here in no time."

"Thanks, Brother E," I said, shakin' his hand with respect. "For real, for everything."

He smirked, turnin' to leave. "Don't thank me yet. Just don't waste it."

As he walked out, the air felt heavier, like he'd left somethin' behind. Eazy wasn't just a name out here—he was a reminder of what the streets could make you or break you. I wasn't tryin' to be the next Eazy-E. I was tryna be somethin' bigger. But still, his words stuck with me. And his respect? That meant the world.

By the Just for your information I don't sell weed in my school but the around Compton.

Because IF i am found on my school they will cancel the scholarship that's huge loss than selling weed.