Tupac: greatest rapper live

In the 70s, martial arts movies become popular in the world due to not your Deepika movie with boring storyline just spent money on multi A: list celebrity. Bruce Lee was the first to break through the mainstream with Enter the Dragon in 1973, which became an instant hit. His blend of philosophy, skill, and underdog grit connected with the struggles of the hood, where people saw themselves reflected in the fight for justice and self-mastery. But one movie shootout in Hollywood lackluster movie that is the god father the classic of the classic movie in 70.

Were it broke so many record in the world.

The demand for martial arts movies skyrocketed after Lee's death, paving the way for Hong Kong cinema to flood in. Movies like The Five Deadly Venoms and Shaolin Temple reached urban theaters, often as part of double features. But for many Black communities, the real magic happened outside theaters. Smuggled copies of Hong Kong films found their way to the hood through underground networks: dock workers, Chinatown merchants, and even travelers bringing reels home. These films were often dubbed locally, transforming their traditional Chinese dialogue into humorous, exaggerated "hood slang" that made them feel personal.

By 1978, martial arts movies were everywhere, and I was already hooked. I was 7 years old, living in a world where Bruce Lee, and Shaw Brothers legends became larger-than-life heroes.

Our dad, Kanny, often joined us when we watched these movies on the weekends. For him, it wasn't just about the fighting; it was about the lessons. "See, Pac," he'd say, pointing to a scene where a master taught patience before action, "that's what life's about. You gotta think before you fight, but when you move, you move with purpose." Those words stuck with me, even when I didn't fully understand them.

The buzz about Drunken Master reached our block like wildfire. Jackie Chan's innovative blend of kung fu and slapstick comedy was already turning heads in Hong Kong, but here in the hood, it was an underground sensation. Copies of the movie were smuggled in by folks working shipping docks in Chinatown, hidden among goods and passed hand-to-hand. Once in the hood, local enthusiasts took the reels and created their own dubbed versions.

These weren't just translations—they were transformations. Jackie Chan's Chinese lines were replaced with hilarious, exaggerated slang that had the whole community laughing until they cried. Picture Jackie stumbling into a fight, yelling, "You trippin', bruh! Don't make me whoop yo' drunk ass!" The dubs turned serious moments into comedy gold. Even more outrageous, the villains would shout, "Man, get outta here, n***a, this my dojo!" It was wild, ridiculous, and unforgettable.

The first screening of Drunken Master was an event. Someone rigged a projector in the empty lot next to the corner store, setting up chairs, milk crates, and whatever people could sit on. The movie started just after sunset, and the crowd—kids, adults, and even the older folks—watched in awe.

The laughter came fast and hard. Jackie's unpredictable drunken style left kids mimicking moves in the back row, while the adults cracked up over the dubs. My friend RZA was glued to the screen, whispering to me, "Man, this dude's crazy! He fightin' drunk, but he winning!" We couldn't stop laughing at how the dubs turned even simple lines into comic masterpieces.

One of the funniest moments came during a fight scene where Jackie's character tripped, stumbled, and still managed to land a perfect punch. The dub had him saying, "Hold up, nig**—I'm just gettin' started!" The whole crowd erupted, and even Dad, who usually kept a serious face, was doubled over laughing.

My little sister, Sekyiwa, was only 3, but she had a personality that could light up a room. She was sharp, quick with her words, and had this fearless energy that kept everyone on their toes. By her first birthday, she'd mastered calling out for "PAC!" whenever she needed me. She wouldn't just say it—she'd drag out the word dramatically, like I was in trouble if I didn't show up immediately.

When she wanted Mom, she'd shout "Mom!" with the same intensity, usually while holding up an empty sippy cup or pointing to a snack she couldn't quite reach. But when she was upset? Oh, man, you'd hear "Dad!" yelled from across the house, her little voice rising like an alarm, as if only he could fix whatever injustice she felt in the moment.

What really had the whole family laughing, though, were her kung fu moves. Sekyiwa had no idea what she was doing, but that didn't stop her from trying to imitate what she saw in the movies. She'd stomp her little feet, swing her arms wildly, and let out exaggerated "Hi-yah!" sounds that had no real rhythm but plenty of enthusiasm.

Sometimes she'd tumble while trying to kick, landing on her butt and laughing so hard she couldn't catch her breath. Other times, she'd get serious, furrowing her tiny brows and squaring off with an invisible opponent like she was the next Bruce Lee. She once tried to karate chop Dad's knee, shouting, "I got you!" He played along, pretending to be defeated as she giggled and ran in circles, her victory lap.

She also had this habit of narrating her own moves, saying, "Sekyiwa kick! Sekyiwa punch!" as if she were her own announcer. One night, she even grabbed a wooden spoon from the kitchen and declared it her "kung fu stick," waving it around like she'd seen Jackie Chan do in Drunken Master.

Even when she wasn't mimicking kung fu, her curiosity was endless. She'd follow Dad around, asking questions like, "Why the sky blue, Daddy?" or try to "help" Mom cook by sneaking handfuls of flour onto the counter. She was a little whirlwind of energy, humor, and determination—too small to do much, but too stubborn to be told otherwise.

For a 3-year-old, she wasn't just sharp; she was full of life in a way that made everyone in the house stop and smile, no matter how tough things got.

The scene opens with chaos at the school. A group of heavily armed intruders storms the building, their faces covered with masks, and their shouts echoing through the halls. Students scream, teachers try to shield their classes, and fire alarms blare, adding to the confusion. Among the terrified crowd, RZA is cornered by one of the attackers, his eyes wide with fear as they point a gun at him.

Suddenly, the scene shifts. The front doors of the school burst open with a dramatic crash, and I step in with the kind of energy that could silence a storm. I've got a cigar clenched between my teeth, smoke curling lazily around my face. My glasses reflect the flickering emergency lights, hiding my eyes but not the determination burning behind them. Slung over my shoulder is a massive machine gun, its metal gleaming under the fluorescent glare.

I take one long, deliberate puff of the cigar, exhale slowly, and mutter, "Not on my watch."

Without hesitation, I swing the gun into position and start firing. The deafening roar of the gun drowns out the screams as bullets tear through desks and walls, taking down the intruders one by one. Shell casings clatter to the floor like falling rain as I mow through their ranks, each shot precise and unrelenting.

When the gun clicks empty, signaling it's out of ammo, I don't pause. Tossing the machine gun aside, I crack my knuckles and walk straight into the fray. One of the attackers rushes toward me, brandishing a knife. I sidestep his lunge with a fluid motion, grabbing his arm and flipping him over my shoulder. He lands hard, the knife skittering across the floor.

Another guy comes at me swinging a crowbar, but I duck low and deliver a spinning kick straight to his chest, sending him flying into a row of lockers. His impact dents the metal, and he crumples to the ground.

"Y'all picked the wrong school," I growl, lighting another cigar mid-fight like a boss.

Three more rush me at once. I block one punch, deflect another, and then counter with a devastating uppercut that sends one of them sprawling. The second guy grabs me from behind, trying to lock me in a chokehold, but I stomp on his foot and elbow him in the ribs, breaking free. Spinning around, I grab his collar and headbutt him, knocking him unconscious.

The last attacker hesitates, clearly rethinking his life choices, but it's too late. I leap into the air with a flying kick straight out of a kung fu movie, catching him square in the chest. He crashes to the ground, wheezing, as I land gracefully, dusting myself off like it was nothing.

I turn to the leader of the group, who's standing by the blackboard with a sinister grin. He pulls out a gun, but I'm faster. Closing the distance with lightning speed, I disarm him with a quick twist of his wrist, then land a series of rapid punches to his torso, finishing with a roundhouse kick that sends him sprawling across the teacher's desk.

"Class dismissed," I say, spitting the cigar to the floor dramatically.

As I catch my breath, the math teacher steps out from behind the desk, her face stern. Before I can react, she picks up a piece of chalk and hurls it at me.

The chalk hits me square in the forehead, and everything fades to black.

I wake up with a start, sitting in my desk in the middle of class. Laughter fills the room, and RZA is leaning over me, shaking my shoulder. "Pac, man, you good? You've been mumbling about kung fu and cigars in your sleep."

The teacher, holding a piece of chalk, smirks from the front of the room. "Welcome back to reality, Mr. Shakur. Care to join us in solving this math problem?"

I rub my eyes, looking around at my classmates still laughing. RZA grins. "Bro, you've gotta stop watching those kung fu movies before bed."

I chuckle nervously, leaning back in my chair. "Yeah... maybe." But deep down, I'm already plotting my next dream adventure.

Author

The next chapter is going to be rap battles between PAC and RZA. By the if you had a same dream in the school as kid then you can related the story like I do. Make sure to give power stone and comments me some rap battles in the story I can add in th further in the story.

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