The order to kill Tupac didn't come soon enough.

As a duly appointed operative of the Soul Review Board and the Chosen, of course the discussions to terminate Afeni Shakur's wayward son had been public knowledge for years. He was out of control, the talk went. Too much potential and not enough direction, they said. Better to terminate now before he continues on or worse yet falls into the wrong hands.

The operative sighs heavily.

Of course, the operative had sent subtle messages after Tupac won the "World's Most Confused Rapper" award for the second year running in 1995, the operative's column again ended with the subtle suggestion, filled with understanding and affection: "Tupac must die." So when the order finally was faxed to his North Hollywood hideout du jour, of course there was celebration with his butterscotch paramour du jour. And, save the incompetence of some subcontractors the operative mutters something about "damn non-aiming freelancers ..." all went well. The bad music and poor example of the loudest son of the movement had been stopped ... or had it?

Bad enough were the posthumous packages of unreleased material and tribute filler. No, worst of all was the spearhead of a new Thuglife invasion, the Relativity Records release of Hussein Fatal, aide-de-camp to the late Mssr. Shakur. Here is where the timing was crucial.

Had the order to assassinate Tupac came down in 1995 or so, then his star would have been considerably dimmer. No movies, no Death Row, no high profile Vibe covers and stories, et cetera ad nauseam. But due to the timing, now every vulture can make a buck off his name as his corpse spins fruitlessly in his grave at 33 1/3 revolutions per minute.

To say Fatal (he dropped the Hussein somewhere before the last Iraq flare up and it intermittently returns like the signal of LA's KJLH if you're driving north of the hood) is "wack" is like saying Pauly Shore may not get the Oscar nod. It's like saying there were some leaps of logic in the script of Woo. It's just so bleedingly obvious that, save the existence of one Tupac Amaru Shakur, Fatal would have been a pointless punk kid tryin' to act hard and probably ending up getting' his corny ass shot.

Why is he wack? There are so many reasons ...

His Makaveli-enhanced delivery first of all is bitten directly from his late mentor.

He also has a great deal of difficulty making an entire song without referring to aforementioned Shakur.

To say his topic matter has been done before and better (i.e. Spice 1, Above the Law, much of the NWA catalogue, Daz Dillinger, early Snoop, some Mystikal, et cetera) is also an understatement.

Fatal serves no purpose other than to swing Spider Man style on the rotting nutsack of the dearly departed.

So consider this an all-points bulletin. If you see Fatal, kill him before he can say another wack word. If you see his record in the stores, hide it behind Mel Torme or the opera section or something. If you call in to a radio station to request a song, say, "Oh, and please never play any songs by Fatal" before you hang up. If you can find any way to retard the progress of this malignant tumor on the backside of hip hop, please do and feel free to forward them to Damage Control Headquarters so we can stamp out this plague before any more of his friends get record contracts. And let's hope 'Pac can finally rest in peace.

The operative loads his HK90 and humbly dedicates this column to Grace Heck.