Entertainers going to jail is nothing new. We’ve all come to accept that although music, specifically rap, is indeed an art form, there’s always the slight chance that such art is imitated by life. Thus, dudes get caught up acting out what they hear about, or even more pathetic, what they themselves claim to do on record. In most cases, it’s another horrible episode of “When Keepin’ It Real Goes Wrong,” like the first time you see a bad broad without her butt pads, water bra and club wig, but we continue to watch. When they go to jail for real shit, that makes all the difference in a career. Sometimes, it even destroys said career, and the artist’s life in the process.

Almost 10 years back, I rapped with a dude named Regino, in a group called ‘Tha Most.’ We made a small amount of noise out here in Cali, hooked up with some cats called ‘Kali’s Finest,’ who were running around the L.A. underground gangsta rap circuit, turning a few heads here & there. They had a guy in their (our) clique, named Big Lurch. Dude was a Texas/California transplant who had a buzz rapping with a Northern Cali group called ‘RBL Posse.’ Wasn’t anything too special about him; your run of the mill street cat trying to get paid for what he deemed important enough to record and distribute. Kali’s Finest Klik’s studio was located in the heart of the Van Ness Gang’s territory, so the majority of cats who came in and out were more or less Bloods, with Lurch being no exception to an extent. In fact, it was only a couple of us who didn’t at least covertly claim a Blood affiliation. Not that the rest of us were Crips either, we just weren’t Bloods. But it was cool though, because it was about the music, and dudes had love for one another, like any crew should.

The big homies Big Gee and Wunder (Kali’s Finest) were putting the final touches on their second LP around this time, so there was a lot of collaboration going on between the whole squadron, and outside artists. All types of cats were coming through the studio: Roscoe (Kurupt’s little brother), Defari, Roger Troutman, Jr., Kali’s Finest even had a song with K-Ci and JoJo, although I wasn’t there when they came through. I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed them dudes. [||]. Regino and myself were slated to do a song with the homie Big Lurch, but between work, kids and police trying to shut down their side hustle *wink wink*, the song never emerged. I wish it had though. One evening, I went over to the studio to cop some medication, and in the backyard, going at it like two wolverines, were Big Lurch and the unofficial third member of ‘Tha Most,’ K-Borne. Lurch was getting served up, bolo’s to the nose & jaw bone, but that didn’t stop him from squabbling. The fight actually stopped when K-Borne took a step back and looked puzzled at Lurch, who was yelling and screaming like a man possessed. KB walked back inside, seemingly disgusted with the whole situation, rather than like a man who just beat the breaks off a nigga in front of a small crowd. Lurch wiped the blood from his nose and mouth, unfazed, and followed K-Borne through the back door, still barking. I broke out to drop off my kids, and returned awhile later to find out what was up with the turmoil. Somebody said Lurch showed up a couple of hours prior to the incident, loaded, and socked K-Borne in the face, for no reason at all.

“Damn, what’s up with that?”

“Grands! You ain’t know that nigga be gettin’ wet, dawg?!”

“Nah, word?”

I’d noticed that Lurch was always in his own world, but I’d never saw him bother anybody. The times I chilled with him, clowning, sipping some drank or standing in the driveway smoking a Newport, he was always a cool cat to me. I’m pretty good with my radar, and obviously he flew right under it, as I would eventually come to find out. After I’d gotten to know him better, I learned that he was indeed a sherm head, and had no problems letting niggas know. All of us blazed, some of us-especially me-were admitted alcoholics, a few dudes stayed thizzing off the X pills, but this dude smoked sherm (pcp, angel dust, water). Like Jake Hoyt. I’d heard mad stories about sherm smokers, thanks to Jayo Felony and various relatives, but he didn’t seem one bit like one of those types of people. Never judge a book by it’s cover.

Once Kali’s Finest started having personal problems and legal obligations, and decided to go their separate ways (shout out to the Los Angeles Police Department), the entire crew followed suit. Everybody branched off to do whatever it is that men do once reality becomes a dream deferred. In hindsight, some of the most fun I’ve had in my life was during the time we were recording, smoking, drinking, playing PS2, doing shows, etc. I really felt like a somebody, and even got stopped by “fans” out in the city a few times because of a performance the night prior. Once in North Hollywood, we even signed autographs for some young dudes, and shared some positivity thoughts and Hennessey wisdom. Albeit it was a showcase at the Church of Scientology, but inebriated, up and coming rappers couldn’t care less about semantics. We were paying dues.

Anyway, time moved on. One day, there was a rumor floating around my neighborhood that some dude ate his girlfriend. Literally. As per hood gossip, nobody had names or specifics, but they had the general locale of the event and an overview of what happened. And that was basically the extent of the information I’d gotten; some nigga ate his girlfriend. Ate, in a bad way. Supposedly, he was caught walking down Broadway, covered in blood when the police stopped and arrested him. Living in South L.A., you get used to hearing stories about people found dead or getting killed in bizarre ways. This story however, was a tad more eerie than some anonymous gangster and his baby momma being murdered in a Walmart parking lot . Plus, when a rumor hits the neighborhood so intensely, from various unrelated sources, than there’s inevitably some truth to it. Eventually, the buzz died down, and it was just another urban legend, about a crazy cannibal nigga who may or may not still be roaming the streets, in search of his next meal. Random folks that I knew, who didn’t live anywhere near me had even caught wind of the story, and asked me if I knew or heard anything about it. Yet and still, no one ever had a name.

The story probably came on the news, but really though, a lot of people get killed in Los Angeles. On a daily basis.

A year or so passes. One night, I’m watching ‘Dateline’ or ‘Newsline’ or something to that effect. They preempt a story about a neighborhood that looks vaguely familiar, and the story of a man who killed his friend’s girlfriend while he was high on PCP. Commercial break. In those days, I was still smoking weed and drinking, and with nothing else to do but zone out, I was drawn into the premise. When the show came back on, the story went something like this:

Antron Singleton, living in South Central Los Angeles, had allowed his friend and his friend’s girlfriend, Tynesha Ysais, to come live with them during a rough patch the couple was going through. One morning, the friend left the residence and left Ysais at the apartment, with Singleton. Reportedly, Antron was high on PCP, and confronted the young lady in an aggressive manner. She rebuffed him and the situation escalated. What happened next was unclear, but according to investigative reports, he was high, and the young lady was wearing a t-shirt with the ‘Tasmainian Devil’ on it. Singleton said that he vaguely remembered the cartoon character, and said it attempted to attack him, or was calling him, and he defended himself by stabbing it. In a strange turn of events, reports also confirmed that, upon interception by the police, Singleton had bits of flesh around his mouth, and was chewing something.

The police reported receiving a call from a neighbor hearing a violent scuffle, and when they arrived, they found a man staggering down the street dazed, confused and chewing what they later found to be human flesh.

Medical records confirmed that Antron had undigested human tissue, from the lungs, in his stomach. At the end of the report, they showed the man’s face. I jumped up & grabbed my cell to call Regino.

“What’s good, Grands?”

“Nigga! That WAS Lurch!!”

“Daaaamn…”

Regino had called me awhile back about the story when he’d first heard about it, and he had heard that it was Big Lurch, but the problem was that no one had seen Lurch in quite some time, so he and I dismissed it as rumor. Dude was a little off, but hey, who’s not? But that off? I couldn’t have imagined in a thousand years that the psychotic episodes he visualized in the booth would have ever manifested themselves in real life. Who’da thunkitt? We both watched the remainder of the show in silence, cracked a few inappropriate jokes, then got off the phone. That’s one of the weirdest moments in my memory bank. In theory, he could’ve decided to spaz out and snuff K-Borne that night a few years back, or anybody else for that matter. And I just happened to have my little ones with me, too. Chew on that for a moment-no pun intended.

At the end of the program, Lurch, sitting pathetically bounded by shackles behind bulletproof glass, told the viewers that he was sorry for what he’d done. He added that people should stay away from drugs at all costs. He’d finally got the fame he had been working towards for all those years. Too bad it came this way, attached to a price tag that only God can afford. He received life in prison after being found guilty on all charges. Perhaps the most bizarre aspect of the broadcast was after he spoke to the viewers, when the narrator emphasized that he was a rapper. It was apparent that the segment’s producer attempted to make some correlation between his actions and his music, and more specifically, rappers are dangerous people. No Dice. People who smoke sherm, among other things, are dangerous people.

With all the misogynistic, drug addled, pseudo-gangsters who live their lives by the sinister soundtrack that some rap music provides, one can only wonder how successful Lurch would be if he put out an album today, based around that unfortunate circumstance. Sadly, he’d probably do pretty well. But at this point, selling records is the least of his concerns, I’m sure.