Trouble Shooters - DJ Muggs, Ill Bill, Joaquin Gonzalez

We them trouble shooters in bubblegooses, hit you with double Rugers

Son we ruthless, guns and goon flicks, we run this goon shit

Slit your throat and fuck you with pool sticks, too sick

Super gruesome, intrusive and abusive, shoot you with uzis

Ill Bill, cult leader, a/k/a the ultimate assassin

Show you how to turn a broken cell phone into a ratchet

Veterans of stone, venomous and cold

Terrorists with messengers of chrome, settlements explode

Apocalyptic face off, Babel to Bilderberg, witch’s curse

Pistols burst, incestuous sisters flirt

Seduce you in Lucifer’s church, crucify you, kiss the dirt

Information is power, now put that shit to work;

let the light be revealed

From the Triple Stage Darkness to the Seven Seals

Ebbets Field, forever real, rebels kill

Devil’s fill your glass with forbidden fruit

Hidden truth

Vikings drink blood, gangsters drink gin and juice

I’m surrounded by preachers of porn, creatures of war, leaches and whores

Billionaires with features in Forbes, the creeps and the crawls

Reaching across to touch my enemies with a sword

Put them in they place, represent the deceased with a corpse

With a silver dollar left behind to lay on his eyes

For the boatman at the river Styx to pay for his ride

Saudi businessmen fund terror from their American summer homes

While W lay nude in a coffin for Skull and Bones

Undertones never dumb though, he played the villain

Dumber people think you are

The more surprised they are when you kill them

A never-ending war descending us all, epitome of enemy brawls

Send you to Hell and through heavenly doors

Lebanese arms to sever the devil, heavenly cause

The deadly spar, immortalized in felony bars

The melody’s dark cause of the death metal he brought

And caused by total meth bark, of seventeen blunts

Yeah the streets got a, lot of heart and soul and the Sicksider

Make the block hotter than Hell fuckin with my mind

It’s not a game, the Sick and Infamous is born insane

You do it wrong and they respond with pain

Heroin vein, the pigs stink they’re all the same

Homeland terror got named, the federal came

So it’s troubleshoot, reprogram cannons to damage jaws

Banned hammers from shooting bandanas and camouflage

We killed the man for status, or dead president mathematics

And now we shake the fans tryin to get at it

I was a small crack packin' to the wall jack macking

All swollen on parole, now I’m back black rapping

Soon as I came home I went to my man crib

He give me a quarter brick — get it how you live

Momma I want to sing, momma I got to sling

Delaware trips made a nigga feel like a king

Bling bling, karats on my neck, nah

Carrots in the cup after doing ten sets

Been fresh since Brandy was fuckin' with Ronday

And brown Macy bags used to cover the Con-way

Matter fact when Willis was fuckin' with Charlene

I wrote my first rhyme and since then every bar’s mean

Sean Price, the best rapper in New York

And plus 49 states, nigga my rhyme great

Primate, Sean Don Cornelius

It’s maximum stupidity, par mall silliest

My gift of gab is a gift from God

I will, get you stabbed and get you robbed

On wrong, four-four long

Sean Price didn’t give it as a gift on some Brooklyn shit

Cracked the box with Gemstar then tossed the ox

Slip on my Nike Shox, snatch a Guinness from icebox

Michael Jai White, felony spawn, hell if I’m gone

Fuck atonement for my sins, enemies I’m comin for 'em

On the run like Lucas, preventin niggas from reproducin

Heirs to thrones so I cut short your feature

«Soliloquies of Chaos,» trouble shooters what they are

Bill sends you commission for facilitatin the seance

My mans Sick guardin corridor two

These +Game of Death+ levels does not include Bruce

One thing fo' sho' is a foot in the chest

Like Abdul Jabbar, black shades, arms crossed

So goes the process of elimination

Bound, gagged, and wired up for detonation