**#THENINJAVRSTHESAMURAI is available now! 16 tracks of real hip hop…prod. by Alpha Phunk, feat. C-Dash, Iron Gods & Flingstress**

Shurikens prod. by Alpha Phunk by elias-omar aka avarice

Werdz of Action & some N vrs S updates…

Just a quick update..Awhile ago, I recorded a joint titled ‘Open Season’ on a track produced by my man Existence. It’s featured on his latest project, ‘Werdz of Action’. Artists from all over the friggin planet have joints on this piece, and Existence’s production efforts are topnotch. It’s available for free download at

P.S…..The Ninja vrs The Samurai will be available shortly…here’s the tracklist…

STRAY BULLETS EP free download!!

This project features production from DJ AI, Heat Detector, and myself. Download it for free NOW!—

STRAY BULLETS by elias-omar aka avarice

Gonna be performing at Shabaam Sadeeq and Red Eye’s release party on the 28th…Lotta talent gonna be in the building, fall thru and support something real. Peace.


First, for those who don’t know, which is everyone, I’m an aspiring novelist. Here’s a quick sample of the book I’m working on entitled ‘Numb’…enjoy…

NUMB By Elias-Omar Esgdaille

Chapter 1

Sly Reynolds was on the verge of losing it. It was his second day in the hot and dusty cell. The smell from the broken toilet was unbelievably nauseating. Flies swarmed over a tin tray of food that was left for him earlier. He hadn’t touched the brownish slop, even though he was starving. His lime green sport jacket and trousers were dirty and torn in various places, he was missing a shoe, and one of the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses was cracked. On top of all this, Sly needed a cigarette. Badly. He sat on the cement floor, his arms crossed, rocking back and forth talking to himself. Most of his mutterings were one-word profanities, but occasionally he’d say a short, angry phrase: “Nobody’s gonna believe me” or “Christ, he was fast”. Every once in awhile a short man in a green undersized uniform would stroll by the cell. The guard was sweating profusely and looked extremely uncomfortable in his snug uniform. He always had his hand near the pistol jutting out of his waistband. A few times he had pulled the weapon out and pointed it at Sly while making some undoubtedly contempt filled comments in Spanish. The guard always punctuated his statements with a loud, hoarse laugh. Once Sly had given the guard the one finger salute and eloquently told him to ‘piss off’. In response the sweaty man yelled ,” Chinga tu madre!” He may as well have been speaking Hebrew. Sly had no idea what he was saying. Sly turned away with a dismissive wave. Frustrated, the guard shoved the gun back under his ample gut, tugged on his long mustache, and continued his rounds. There was a small barred window in a corner near the ceiling of the cell. From the bright ray of light that poured out of the aperture, Sly guessed it was early afternoon when Agent Mendleton arrived. “So, how have you been holding up, Mr. Reynolds?” “Look, just get me the hell out of here. Save the perfunctory conversation and do your job.” Mendleton smiled. He nodded to the tubby guard. Reluctantly, the guard opened the cell door. He glared at the taller Sly menacingly while slowly moving out of his way. Sly rushed past the guard and grabbed Mendleton by the lapels of his dark blue suit. “I should kick your ass!”, he yelled. “I’ve been sitting in this craphole for two and a half days! I helped you out, Mendleton! I risked my neck to assist the Federal fucking Bureau of Investigation! What do—“ “Calm down Mr. Reynolds.” Agent Mendelton’s relaxed tone was in direct contrast to the animosity Sly saw in the man’s blue-eyed glare. Sly released his hold and continued. “And what do you think the American public will think when they discover that their favorite investigative reporter Sly ‘the Eye’ Reynolds was left to rot in a Mexican jail cell. I’m a damn celebrity!” Mendelton smoothed the wrinkles out of his jacket and then adjusted his tie. While tugging on his cuffs he calmly said,” You are NOT a celebrity sir. You are a third rate tabloid journalist who got lucky and landed his own show. You report sensationalistic nonsense, and conspiracy loving left-wing nuts seem to enjoy it. Despite all of this, the FBI is grateful for your assistance in this unique….situation. I apologize for your suffering.” Sly ran his fingers through his hair, wincing when he grazed a nasty bump on the back of his head. “Well… whatever. Tell me you have a cigarette.” “Yes I do, Mr. Reynolds. In my car outside. Follow me.” He gave the fat guard the finger again and then followed the FBI agent. Sly sat in the back seat of a Ford Expedition. He had his tinted window rolled down and was smoking like a chimney. A female wearing a black baseball cap, a gray sweatshirt and sunglasses was driving the SUV. Agent Mendelton sat in the backseat beside Sly, talking in a conspiratorial whisper on his cell. He ended the conversation with a “Yessir” , smoothly slid the phone into his breast pocket, then turned his attention to Sly. “So what happened, Mr. Reynolds?” Sly was blowing smoke out of the window, watching the desert landscape roll by. He didn’t answer. “Well, whether or not you decide to tell ME what occurred, once we cross the border and get back to the office, you’ll be debriefed.” Sly flicked his cigarette out the window. He reached into the pack of Marlboro Lights Agent Mendelton had given him. He pulled a fresh cigarette out, lit it, and let the smoke roll out of his mouth. “Dammit, Reynolds, people died! A cop was shot in the face, for Christ’s sake! What happened , man?” Sly turned to Agent Mendelton and looked into his eyes. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “But you won’t believe me.”

Chapter 2 (4 days earlier…) Sly didn’t know what to expect walking into a hostage situation. The nut was holed up in a small restaurant that had ‘Jessie’s Famous Ribshack’ on a sign above a rickety screen door. There were several windows in the front of the building, but Sly didn’t see much when he looked in. Some tables with salt and pepper shakers, menus. An overturned chair. But no people. The wacko probably has everyone on the floor in a corner, he thought. Only a few of the cars in the small parking lot weren’t police vehicles, so he guessed there were only a handful of patrons stuck inside. Outside, the place was crawling with cops. The road was blocked off, and there were cruisers all over the place. A SWAT van was parked across the street. And of course, there was Agent Albert Mendleton, the FBI hostage negotiation expert who had gotten Sly into this whole thing in the first place. Not that Sly wouldn’t benefit from this. He was sure that a series of shows about his experience with a crazed gunman (probably some type of terrorist) would be immensely popular. He could see himself on sitting across form Keith Obermann, telling him what it was like to look insanity in the eye. His career would reach heights he’d previously thought unattainable. He just had to walk into this madness to get there. And then walk out, of course. Sly ran his fingers through his slicked back hair. He pulled a cigarette out of a pocket inside his lime green sport coat, lit it, yanked the door open and stepped inside. “Don’t move. Put your hands in the air.” Sly dropped his cigarette, stomped it out, and did what he was told while he looked around. The place was set up with booths against two of the walls and a squared off bar in the center of the room. There were stools surrounding the bar. Some cheap looking wooden chairs were set up around five small square tables. An open hallway in the wall farthest from Sly was marked ‘Restrooms’ and some double doors in the wall to his right probably led to the kitchen. Just as he guessed, the hostages were huddled in a corner away from the windows. Sly counted nine people. He didn’t see the bad guy until he got shoved towards the hostages. “Go over there. Hurry up. And sit down.” A black guy, bald headed. Mid-twenties to early thirties. Sly put him at about six feet, two hundred and twenty pounds. Comic-book muscular. He was wearing a black tank top, khaki cargo pants and black boots. In his right hand he held a nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol. Another was holstered on his right leg. His arms were heavily tattooed. But what stood out most to Sly were the gunman’s eyes. Fully dilated and bloodshot. Must be a meth head, Sly figured. “What the hell are you looking at? Get over there with the others.” He aimed the gun at Sly. The newshound quickly got himself in the corner. He sat crosslegged next to a blonde in a frilly waitressing outfit. Her nametag read ‘Brenda’. Sly grinned at the distraught woman. “Hi Brenda. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.” The gun was aimed at Sly again. “Shut the hell up. Do you have the tape recorder?” “Technology has advanced quite a bit lately, sir”, Sly quipped as he pulled out his smart phone. The gun stayed level with the reporters eyes as it’s owner launched himself at Sly. In the blink of an eye, the barrel was an inch from Sly’s face. “I’m REALLY not in the mood for smart ass comments. Get it ready.” “Jesus!” Sly yelled. The guy had been at least twenty feet away, and he’d closed the distance before Sly could blink. “Don’t yell again. Get it ready.” The man turned towards one of the other hostages. “Come over here Endercott.” A tall white male stood up. He had on a short sleeved white polo shirt and blue trousers. A gold watch gleamed on his wrist. Thinning black hair somewhat covered his head. There was a reddish scar under his left eye. He leaned on a cane. “Drop the stick, Endercott. Sit over there.” He pointed at a chair by an overturned table. Endercott let the cane fall at his side and walked towards the chair. His gait was hampered by a pronounced limp. Sly thought the guy looked like a retired athlete, as if his body used to be in peak condition before age had taken his toll. “You’ll never make it out of here, B-17. As soon as you step out that door they’ll fill you with lead.” B-17? Sly thought. “My name is Reggie, Endercott. Lost to some people.” Endercott half sat, half fell onto the chair. He smirked. “In the past, yes that’s what you WERE. But now you’re B-17X. You are a THING, a construct created by the Agency and now you’re malfunctioning.” Sly’s eyebrows raised. What the hell were they talking about? Quietly he put his cell into audio recorder mode and surreptitiously pointed it towards the two men. One of the hostages, a man wearing a green t-shirt and blue jeans caught Sly’s eye. He was clean shaven, his brown hair in a buzz cut. The twenty something year old nodded at Sly and mouthed,” Don’t worry.” Oh shit, Sly thought. A damn off duty cop. Sly could smell police a mile away. “God I hope he doesn’t try to play Bruce Willis,” Sly whispered to himself. Brenda overheard him and gave Sly a confused and frightened look. The reporter winked at her. Suddenly, almost faster than Sly could perceive, the gunman slapped the seated man with the back of his hand. The blow was ferocious and sent the receiver out of his seat and sliding across the green tiled floor. With an almost alien calm the muscle bound guy said,” I’m not a thing, you asshole. I’m a man. We all are men. You just used us. We were in a bad position. Powerless. And you used us.” Reggie walked towards the prone man threateningly. Blood leaked out of Endercott’s mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, Sly saw the cop sneakily pulling a small gun out of an ankle holster. Oh damn, Sly thought. Don’t do it, you idiot. Not now. Endercott struggled to his feet. “ you and the rest of the units,” he said while wiping blood from his mouth. He spat on the floor and continued,” You and the rest of them were useless! A burden to society. You would have rotted away, burning taxpayers money.” “I wasn’t a lifer Endercott! I would’ve gotten out!” Endercott laughed. Crimson raindrops flew from his mouth. “Yes you would have. In eight years. Then you more then likely would wind up right back.” “Who the fuck do you think you are! What right do you have to—“ The cop fired his gun into the ceiling. Screams came from the other hostages (including Sly who was so enraptured by the conversation that he’d forgotten about Pseudo Bruce Willis). “Put that piece down mister! I’ll put a bullet in your crazy ass, I swear to God!” The cop was on his feet now, shaking and obviously scared. Reggie turned to face Pseudo Bruce.”You don’t know whats going on, man. Relax. I don’t want to hurt you.” Movement outside of the restaurant drew Reggie’s attention. He turned his head and glanced thru one of the small windows. As soon as Reggie’s gaze was off of him, the cop fired. With unbelievable speed, Reggie sidestepped to his right and returned fire. The young policeman’s head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ground. He fell awkwardly, onto his knees and bent backward, his shoulders touching the floor. There was a moist looking hole on the bridge of his nose, a ragged, oversized and misplaced nostril. Vermilion fluid pooled on the floor beneath the dead man’s head. “You’re slowing down. He hit you,” Endercott said. “Shut up! Just shut up!” Reggie stormed towards Endercott. In one fluid, frightening motion, he grabbed Endercott by the throat, picked him up with one hand and slammed him against the bar, smashing a stool in the process. Endercott fell from Reggie’s hand onto the ground face down. He wasn’t moving. Reggie pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. He hit a button and held the mobile to his ear. His back was to Sly and the remaining hostages. Sly turned and glanced at his fellow captives. Besides Brenda, the deceased cop, and Sly, there was a young couple with a little girl, an older man with a dirty white apron who was obviously a cook, and a scrawny guy with long, ratty brown hair in a blue tank top and jeans. Sly figured he was just a guy who got hungry at the wrong time. Everybody looked anxious and worried. The little girl had been crying since the policeman was shot. Her parents were huddled over her, shielding her from the madness with there bodies , promising her that ‘everything was going to be alright’ and that they’d be ’leaving soon’. Brenda was crying , too. Sly wondered if he should say something reassuring to her. Yeah right, like don’t worry you won’t get shot in the face too, he thought wryly. Suddenly Reggie was in Sly’s face. “Get your shit together, reporter. We’re about to move.” Sly was scared stupid.”Get my…stuff together? We’re gonna muh-move? Uh, OK..just umm…where are—“ Reggie slapped the back of Sly’s head. Before he realized it, Sly was on the ground. His head was ringing. Sly pushed himself up into a seated position and scooped up his glasses. One of the lenses had a spiderweb pattern of cracks in it. “Don’t make me repeat myself, man. It’s been a very stressful day. Our ride will be here in a minute. Can you drive standard?” “Uh.. yeah, yeah no problem, no problem.” Sly was trying his best not to soil his pants. “Good. I’ve been having a hard time feeling the clutch lately…anyway, just get ready.” Reggie turned and moved towards the still motionless Endercott. He walked past him and reached over the blood-stained bar. Reggie’s hand returned holding a large black duffel bag. He unzipped a small side pocket and pulled out a large hypodermic needle. He pulled the protective plastic cap off of the syringe and stabbed it into his thigh without any sort of pain or discomfort registering on his copper face. He depressed the plunger and pulled the needle out, put the plastic cap back on, and put the syringe back in the bag. He zipped the bag closed and slung it over his shoulder. Then Reggie bent over and yanked Endercott’s shoes off. He slapped the black hardsoled wingtips onto the bar and started unstringing the shoelaces. While doing this, he said, “I apologize for involving all of you in this In a few minutes I’ll be gone. You’ll all be free to go.” Once Reggie had the shoelaces out of the shoes, he bent down and pulled Endercott’s hands behind him and began tying them together at the wrists. He continued,” If everything goes right, maybe you’ll hear my story. I hope that, if you do, you’ll forgive me for this day. And maybe pray for me.” Once he finished tying Endercott’s wrists, Reggie stood up. After about twenty seconds of silence his phone rung. He answered and listened intently for what seemed like an eternity to Sly. Finally he said, “Alright. We’re coming out.” He put the phone back in his pocket. Then Reggie reached down and grabbed Endercott by his waistband. With one arm he lifted the man up and slung him over the shoulder that the duffel bag was hanging off of. He waved his gun in Sly’s direction. “OK. Ride’s here. Time to go.” As they walked out the door, Sly heard the little girl whisper,” Mommy, he was strong.”

Wakizashi vrs Katana update…free download!

Just wanted to hit yall with a quick update…’The Ninja vrs The Samurai’ project has evolved into an out of control, genre crushing, mind expanding, musical Iliad in a class all its own. We figured about 10 tracks in the beginning. Now we’re at 16, and everything sounds better than the last. I could see us easily reaching 20 plus tracks. To those of you who are truly interested in the end results of our collaborative efforts, please be patient. Humbly, I offer you this morsel of audible anarchy in the hopes that your hunger for authentic artistry is only partially sated, leaving you near enough to the edge of starvation to yearn for sustenance akin to manna from the heavens. You know, more of that good shit

newness, collabs, and snowshovels….

Okay people, I hope you’re prepared, because I have a lot to cover right now. Some reviews of some artists that are new to me ,plus some updates on new material of my own, including some collaborations….so with further ado…

Smiz Metropolis. That’s an ill name. Anyway, I recieved a surprising amount of submissions to be featured (I only put it up on like 3 or 4 Facebook posts) and these tracks stood out to me. I checked the video at v=use6yVqFv2w and honestly I didn’t dig it. Not that it was garbage or something, just not my kinda vibe. But I did recognize that for those who like that sound, they’d feel it, if that makes any sense. So, I decided to check the 3 tracks that were attached to the email. ‘My Hood’ was the first one. Lyrically and beatwise, solid shit. Pretty dope. As was ‘Heartbeat’. But the standout to me was ‘Harder’. That’s my joint. The beat has like a freaked atmos pad (I think) driving it in the background, and son’s delivery is a staccato, almost reggae-tinged cadence. Gotta give props for that one. You can check out Smiz Metropolis’ getdown at

Echo is son’s name. It’s not an ep. Or an album. It’s a project. Said project is called ‘The Repetition of Sound’. 10 tracks deep. Download it for only free 99 at

Magneko is a member of the Ghost Smokers, a crew of ill emcees and producers, one of whom happens to be named C-Dash, but we’ll build on that cat later. Magneko, or Neko, is a dope emcee, point blank. Check his shit out at

So finally, I’ve completed 2 collabs with 2 talented artists. Both joints will be on ‘The Ninja vrs The Samurai’. The first is with my man, the aforementioned C-Dash(@dashtastic740). It’s called ‘Soul Medicine’. The second, ‘Insanity’ features some ill bars from the lyrically intricate RadioRebel(@radio_rebel1) Both were produced by Alpha Phunk (@tarryn_Edwards). You can listen to them on the player below.

That’s enough for now. Gotta get ready for this snowstorm. Peace.

the usual suspects…

Alright, so this installment of Slang Therapy is going to focus on two cats, both of whom I’ve had the oppurtunity to collaborate with. Let’s start with the homie C-Dash.

I’ve known C-Dash for awhile now. Dude is mad talented. Lyrically he’s a beast, hitting you with mad wordplay, multis, and basically all kind of slick shit. Plus he’s an incredible producer, with a unique style. This link you need to hit up. You’ll get free downloads of The Mic Holds The Man volumes 1 and 2, plus a sneak peek at the third. Get that.

My man Dj AI. This dude has blessed me with some incredible tracks, and made the beat for one of my favorites, Right Now. You can check that at Anyway, my man has a huge amount of incredible material, with some talented artists, but being that this is unsolicited and I don’t know what he’d want me putting up here, I decided to roll with Building Robots. It’s an instrumental album, and to me, if Isaac Asimov needed soundtrack for his version of 8 Mile, this is it. Trust when I say this shit is dope. You can download it for free, or pay whatever you want for it at


bundle up

It’s brick outside. Winter seems to be rearing its ugly ass head fareal fareal right now. I don’t mind though. Hoop is on, the Knicks are promising this year. I got a lot of changes for the good in my personal life. Plus a cd ’bout to be released. But that time isn’t here yet, so I’ll devote this installment of Slang Therapy to other artists I feel are deserving of shine.

Vitiate is an emcee outta BK. Split Personality is dude’s third release, and being 20 tracks deep, this one is substantial. Lyrically he gets it in, and the beats are solid throughout. Download it for nathan at

My man Existence connected with me not to long ago and blessed me with a ill track. I did my thing, and thus Open Season was born…The song is going to be on Existence’s soon to be available Sidetracked mixtape. You can hear Open Season at
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2012 anno domini

2012 is here. The Ninja vrs The Samurai is not…yet. So here are some free DL links (not just mine) to hold you down.

Some of the illest indie artists. Including myself. Download for free at

‘Flingstress Music’, 5 tracks by my homey, the inimitable Flingstress, put together by Tek Nalo G. Very dope. Flingy got soul, kids. (For the record, I spit a lil sumthin sumthin on the illest joint. I’m just saying…),

Zoo Sunday! Love this. All production by Monkay Beats. Artists from all over. Featuring Shinobi Kush, Steve Kawalit, Fess Gotchu, Gabriel Rath, Fiascoe Barz, Pretty Mo, TightamMic Offiziell, Kevin Prince, Todd Jaime, Monkay Beats, Cence Caledo, Ladi Slav, Loock John Tänzer, Costa Esteban Papopel, Till Ill, Gossenboss Mit Zett, Ronny Lienkämper, Katha Demonios Sekt, Detlev Disko Degenhardt, Mdz Hölle, Gour Met, Doggtor Dresden, Joca von Kapuddniks, Speche MC and ,yes, Avarice. Gotta add this to your collection. To download for free, go to

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classic material

1witdastreet prod. by heat detectorJust about done with ‘The Ninja vrs The Samurai’ project, and I’m excited to see the reaction that heads will have to it. During the last recording session, I had not so much a revelation, but a sort of enlightement or epiphany or whatever…What really makes a great, even classic, album? In hip hop, even in the so-called ‘golden era’, there’s always been a tendency to copy whatever’s hot at the time. Every cat on your top ten list probably has at least a couple cheap imitations who got over on the strength of the blueprint’s success. But invariably, the groundbreaking cats were just that. Originality (talented originality, not garbage labeling itself abstract to camoflague wackness) is a common theme for what would be called legendary albums. A perfect example could be made of the Wu…their debut dropped, and the raw grimmyness of it shocked the game. Nirvana’s take over is a good example, even though its from another genre….The next key attribute would definitely have to be consistency. Allotta cats can make a good song, but creating a cohesive and diverse collection of songs that captures peoples minds takes an artist. 10 or more quality tracks, no fast forward joints? Not many cds like that, anywhen. But that’s the goal. I feel like its a goal that’s we’ve already reached.
Yes, I’m biased, but I’m also honest…
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