The assignment came in the way they always did -- a note stapled to the face of a murdered and mutilated LAPD anti-gang plainclothes detective. The operative almost stumbled over it as he walked out of B&B's Arcade on Crenshaw, just north of Vernon.

The four words were written in two inch high, bold letters, scrawled in the typical straightforward type of the Soul Review Board's illustrious in-house scribe, Brandi Loco ...

"Foxy. Brown. Must. DIE!"

The operative sighed loudly. Sister Inga Marchand was one of the most picturesque, carefully sculpted women he had ever seen, a savory drink of chocolate milk that oozed sexuality across television screens, a dream made flesh. She was also a child -- born at best during the last days of the Carter presidency, and thus unrepentant in her alcohol swilling, brand-name materialistic, whorish and European ways.

While assembling the revered Ruger Mini-14 .22 caliber submachinegun he favored for this kind of dirty work, the operative remembered asking himself when this order would be handed down. The list of hip hop crimes already committed by Foxy Brown would choke a Green Bay Packer.

• The girl had gotten herself kicked off some tour with the Roots for unprofessionalism.
• She went toe-to-toe, hair pulling and shoe tossing with Vibe editor Danyel Smith.
• She's well known for her fits of temper and illogical behavior, ranging from berating reporters to ignoring appointments.
• Not to mention having Jay-Z and Nas ghostwrite most of her stuff to date, admitting her lack of creativity in print.

All this with her face and assets plastered all over the world, all this while she's still a teenager. The face of new hip hop, ladies and gentlemen, 100% preservatives, no original material, made solely to get your money.

No, that "Hot Spot" single finally pushed it over the top. As the operative checked his katana Nina in her scabbard, he sighed, remembering the day he heard that and the R. Kelly duet "Dollar Bill." Lil Kim called in from intensive care, her style coated with bite marks matching Ms. Marchand's dental records. To be a materialistic dick-chasing Nas is one (very irritating but almost tolerable) thing, but to carbon copy the style of another materialistic dick chasing female rapper is just going too damned far! After realizing it was Foxy and not Kim chanting from the radio, so blatant with her counterfeiting the sound, voice, inflections and even production of the Junior M.A.F.I.A.'s Queen Bee, the operative knew the time was near like Millennium.

So Foxy had to die, fine. She was no musical genius, and the world would definitely be better without her "contribution" to music and society. The operative checked his gear -- bullets, check, sword, keys, check, teleport device, check, sunglasses, weapons, check, smooth black leather jacket with mad inside pockets, "THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION" police stickers for posting on her dead ass, check, check -- and solemnly ascended the stairs to the helipad atop the Rap Pages offices, reflecting how many Black people seemed born to lead useless, self-defacing and publicly embarrassing lives that ultimately led to profit white folk.

With Kim's recent stylistic improvements and what looks like a third of a clue, the rap game would still have one freaky diva to fixate on. As the helicopter took off towards Gotham, the operative muttered to himself, "at least she'll make a damned good looking corpse.