So I just added two voice acting songs as a means to demonstrate my mediocre talent.

You can check them out here and here:

However, in the first link (Mr. Darrel of the 313), there's a short story written by myself that you probably can't understand because my voice is terrible.

So I'll write it here.

I now present to you, Mr. Darrel of the 313.

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The process of pimpin' is far from easy.

Any country club member in Naval Valley can tell you this.

By my recollection, it was a warm summer evening and the grass had just been trimmed. The fresh smell of plant hung in the air.

Benjamin, my life companion, he was busy fetching my putter. I myself was looking over the field, making sure the sandboxes had been properly combed; and then I saw him, standing near the woods, dressed in a white coat and basketball shorts.

His name was Darrel, and he was reppin' the 313, bitches.

Darrel told me in a rather unsavory tone that he was there to snatch up all the duckets with assistance from his fine-ass honeys, n***a.

"Quite," I replied.

He informed me that his business strategy was to insert his honeys into the country club in a manner most subtle, so that they may prey on the unsuspecting men within.

When I informed Mr. Darrel that such an act was illegal, he simply shook his head and assured me, "Naw n***a. It's coo'."

Mr. Darrel then told me that he was thoroughly strapped, and if any old n***as wished to give him the time then the clock would strike six, as in six feet under.

Rather than pursue such a fruitless and mundane conversation, I wished Mr. Darrel of the 313 a good day and good luck with his endeavor, and returned to Benjamin.

Benjamin, flustered, asked if we may finally begin the game, and I looked back over my shoulder as the man who seemed destined for failure.

"Indeed, we may," I replied. "Indeed, we may."

The next day, which was by my recollection warmer than the day before, brought me a great surprise.

Mr. Darrel had returned, and he held in his company several women who seemed of very ill repute.

As I approached him, Darrel chose to shout at me that the unsightly women with him were the aforementioned honeys, and that I may have any one I so choose.

"Cream of the crop," he declared. "Cream of the mothafuckin' crop."

When I reached him and his companions, I told him that I must politely decline his offer of my very own pick of the pussy.

I told him respectfully that if he were to attempt to march his troop of what I mistook for homeless, cesarean*-scarred clowns into the fine country club, he would be met with rather impolite opposition.

But Mr. Darrel simply told me that he was a soldier, prepared to bang until the day he died,strapped to the teeth, a self-proclaimed pussy because you are what you eat.

One of the clowns began to imitate the sputterings of Father;s pristine condition Model T**, to the rhythm of a sporadic drunkard, while Mr. Darrel of the 313 followed the primitive tune and shouted in deep tones:

Detroit.

Detroit.

Detroit.

Detroit.

Mr. Darrel then pushed past me, the clowns followed him closely, and he declared that them duckets was his.

The story, as told by the patrons of Father's restaurant, is as follows:

Mr. Darrel and his company of poorly-covered clown women burst into the country club and begin shouting inaudibly.

Mr. Darrel then proceeded to shout things like step right up, your pick of the pussy, and cream of the mothafuckin' crop.

When one of the security guards politely asked Darrel to step down from the table, he produced from his waist a gun and informed the room that he knew just how to swing a gat.

They say, on that warm summer day, Mr. Darrel fired the first shot.

They say that as he fell, he wore a smile on his face.

Indeed, they say that Mr. Darrel of the 313 was the hardest n***a around, and the the 313-whatever it was-would respect him forever.

And to this day, I remember Mr. Darrel's wise words:

Give me them shoes, bitch.

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*Cesarean, as in a c-section.

**..sputterings of... Model T, she was beatboxing.