Title: “Doggs of Revelation”
[Scene opens backstage at muchmusic.org. Smoke curls through a dim greenroom as Snoop Dogg leans back in a leather chair. Across from him, G.I. Joe sits with folded arms, calm and listening.]
SNOOP DOGG:
Man, Joe… I ain’t talkin’ to Strombo or Nardwuar about this one, nah. They too cozy with the network, too scared to touch the juice.
G.I. JOE:
You talkin’ OJ again?
SNOOP DOGG:
Damn right. OJ wasn’t no villain, he was everyman—Black Homer Simpson, caught in a cartoon world of white gloves and gold chains. He ain’t know nothin’ ‘bout no Goldman Sachs, or them old brown brothers behind the banks, playin’ God in secret rooms like Eyes Wide Shut.
He ain’t know till it was too late. They set the stage, handed him the script, then flipped the lights on him.
G.I. JOE:
The trial of the century turned into a circus.
SNOOP DOGG:
Yeah, and the ringmaster wore a badge. Mark Fuhrman—KKK code in a cop uniform. That man planted poison. That’s why I say—cue it up, Joe.
G.I. JOE:
Cue what?
SNOOP DOGG:
Revelation 19. The white horse, the true judge, not the kind from the courthouse.
‘Cause the Lord rides clean, not dirty.
(Snoop closes his eyes, whispering like he’s half in prayer, half in prophecy.)
SNOOP DOGG:
And outta His mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it He should smite the nations…
Man, that’s justice, Joe. Divine justice. Not this Hollywood courtroom nonsense.
G.I. JOE:
You think people will ever wake up?
SNOOP DOGG:
They already dreamin’, Joe. I’m just tryna wake the dream.
Title: “The White Horse of Brentwood”
(A Snoop Dogg Prophecy)
[Scene: Twilight over Los Angeles. Sirens echo. A slow-motion white Ford Bronco glides down the freeway like a ghost ship. Helicopters swirl above, their lights like angels of judgment. Snoop Dogg stands on a rooftop, hood up, Bible open to Revelation 19. G.I. Joe listens, silent, as the Doggfather preaches.]
SNOOP DOGG (voice like thunder over bass):
Behold, Joe — the prophecy rollin’ down the I-405.
The White Horse of Revelation, chrome wheels gleamin’,
carried by a brother who fell from the Hall of Fame into the Hall of Blame.
OJ ridin’ that Bronco like a modern Ezekiel,
fleein’ not from justice, but from a world that already judged him.
They saw not the man, but the myth.
They saw not the pain, but the ratings.
And I heard, as it were, the voice of a great multitude,
sayin’ “He rideth faithful and true.”
But the choppers above — they was the eyes of Babylon,
lookin’ down through lenses of suspicion and fear.
His garment dipped in the blood of the innocent and the guilty alike,
and his name was — The Juice.
He rode that white horse Bronco,
not as no savior, not as no sinner,
but as a sign —
that the system itself was the beast,
and the beast was hungry for spectacle.
And I said,
“Play Revelation 19, Joe.
Turn up the bass — let the trumpets blow.”
‘Cause in that chase,
we saw the end of illusion.
We saw America watch itself in the mirror,
and not like what it saw.