[READ] The Autobiography of Gucci Mane {read online}
The Autobiography of Gucci Mane
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Gucci Mane, born Radric Delantic Davis, is a critically acclaimed, platinum-selling recording artist. He has released nine studio albums and dozens of mixtapes. He lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with his wife Keyshia Ka’oir. The Autobiography of Gucci Mane is his first book.Neil Martinez-Belkin is the former music editor at XXL Magazine and has written extensively about contemporary hip-hop with a regional focus on Atlanta. He lives in Boston.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.The Autobiography of Gucci Mane PROLOGUE September 13, 2013 The police had taken my pistol the day before but I wasn’t without heavy arms. I’d been stockpiling weapons at the studio. Glocks, MAC-10s, ARs fitted with scopes and hundred-round monkey nuts. All out in the open for easy access. I was in Tony Montana mode, bracing for a final standoff. I didn’t know when it would happen, who it would be, or what would force its occurrence, but one thing I did know: something bad was going to happen and it was going to happen soon. I looked around my studio. The Brick Factory. It seemed like just yesterday this had been the spot. Everybody would be over here. At all hours of the day for days on end. But now the Brick Factory looked more like an armory than a place where music was made. I’d seen the looks on people’s faces when they came through. My studio was no longer a fun place to be. Onetime regulars started dropping like flies until I was the only one left. Alone. Everyone was scared again. Not just scared of what was going on with me but scared of me. Scared to call me. Scared to see me. Keyshia had tried to be a voice of reason. She tried telling me the things I was stressing over weren’t as bad as I was making them out to be. That my problems were manageable. That we could figure them out together. But I was too far gone and even Keyshia had her limits. A few days earlier I’d snapped on her and she’d hung up the phone. She’d had enough. A paranoid mess, I went and checked the CCTV monitor for any activity outside. None. The parking lot was empty. The gate was secure. If that brought me any peace of mind, it disappeared as soon as I looked away from the screen, down at my feet. The ankle monitor. I was a sitting duck. Everyone knew I was here. And they knew I couldn’t leave. That wasn’t entirely true. I wasn’t supposed to leave. But I had, the day before, when I’d gone to my lawyer Drew’s office and the police got called. They found a loaded .45 next to my belongings. They let me go but took the strap with them to get fingerprinted and turned in to evidence. I knew my days were numbered. I’d violated my house arrest and had a run-in with the law while doing so. Fuck it. If I was going back to jail anyway, I might as well go find these niggas I’d been having problems with. These were my old partners, but things had soured and they’d been sending threats my way. I didn’t want to wait until I got out of jail to see if
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