by Terrell Jermaine Starr
There is a cruel inclination in me not to feel shock or much remorse for Slim Dunkin,’ the young Atlanta-based rapper who was gunned down this weekend.
As unfortunate as it was for Mario Hamilton, the rapper’s real name, to lose his life, I cannot help but feel that the violence he promoted so creatively in his music gave every indicator he would die a most violent death.
Take his music video “I Gotta Eat,” for example. The opening scenes are of he and a crew of masked men sticking up a couple walking through a project thoroughfare.
“A Yo! Lemme run these n—-s pockets B,” is heard in the backdrop in the soundtrack. Soon after, a swaying Slim Dunkin appears, standing in the same spot where the reenacted stick-up took place singing the most violence-laced lyrics.
“Black gloves, black mask, I gotta eat n—a,”
“I’ll do anything for the cash, I gotta eat n—a.
“Body parts in the trash, I gotta eat n—a.”
The rapper’s songs are a discography of violence, sex and the most degenerate aspects of society. “Dunk/Same Shyt,” another rap video of his, shows him sticking up rival drug dealers. “Man Down,” boasts of how easily Slim Dunkin and his partners in crime claim they can take a life. Given all of this, should we really be shocked that he met his death with a single gunshot wound to the chest? If it sounds harsh, it shouldn’t.
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