The moon still orbits. Still doesn't turn. The Earth still spins without a purpose. For all my NGHs know, the sun only sets these days because we live only in the shadows of night. We be passed out with 5 mutant honeys up in our crib by the time the Nuclear Godfather, Sol returns to scorch the desert plains of Oakland.
The year is 2095.
It has been nearly a century since The Great Beef reached atomic proportions. Mutually assured annihilation. Our ancestors packed the REAL HEAT; didn't never back down. Now the globe is scarred, the deserts brittle with fused glass. We tighten our thick leather boots to keep the dunes from slicing our flesh to ribbons. It's harsh in the ruins of The Bay, but the West Coast will forever be the Best Coast.
Rumors and myths surface about the East: the craters and mutant jungles of Philly, Manhattan has cracked and returned to the bottom of the Hudson like an upscale Atlantis. The burrows stand like the 5 pentagram points from which to view the void: the end of civilization, the blank future. Mutant landsquids and sirens have gentrified Brooklyn, The Bronx is an warzone of countless asthmatic tribes. Only ghosts walk the alleys of Harlem.
We know not who struck first. Who pushed Tha Button? Who retaliated? How did this all happen?
History has been torched and smoked like a big ass blunt, but I'll tell you which stone was cast first: It happened outside the MGM Grand, and I caught it between my ribs. I bled out and civilization ended.
Welcome to the ThundaDome my NGHs!! Gather 'round. Show me them hands. Nod your heads to the beat and I'll pass along the knowledge of the World We Lost.
Keep ya head up, my children. My name is 2Pac and I have seen the way. We 'gon rebuild this bitch.