Pink Slip Sniper

Kick the door off the hinges—

She-Samurai back, blood-lust grin, tongue dipped in venom,

comin’ for every cardboard clown that thought they could test her momentum.

I ain’t sparin’ nobody—

this is verbal war crime shit,

put your ego on a grill and let the grease from your pride drip.

First up: Stick-Man Stand-In,

talkin’ big like he’s built for combat,

but this bitch couldn’t lift a sentence without droppin’ the format.

“Stand on business”?

Motherfucker, you can’t even stand on logic,

three loads fucked up in a row—

your whole skillset microscopic.

You crack jokes about me?

Cute. Add it to the casket count—

I’ll bury your whole work ethic in one pound-for-pound breakdown amount.

Then: Mascot Mini-Torso,

fake-prison-posture wannabe, tatted like a clearance-sale gangster,

actin’ like toughness is somethin’ you order from a catalog and answer.

You bark loud, but I swear on my blade,

your whole aura’s made of Styrofoam—

one stroke and the bitch’ll fade.

You move like a side quest; I’m the boss fight stage.

I spit bars that beat your chest harder than puberty ever gave.

Management? Oh, sweetheart—

let me talk to this hollow mannequin puppet,

smile like a politician, backbone like soggy bread in a bucket.

Passive-aggressive princess, hidin’ behind protocol sheets,

you fold every time the deadweight bleats,

but when the real warrior speaks?

Suddenly you wanna critique tone, posture, and receipts.

Fuck that—

I’ll slam your excuses through the floorboards till the whole building creaks.

Supervisor Stand-In?

Buddy-buddy puppetmaster protectin’ the weaklings,

throwin’ shields over slackers while the real grinders bleed ink.

Favoritism drippin’ from your words like oil from a busted engine—

but you only lift that finger when it’s time for pretendin’.

I switch schedules, lose sleep, break nights, twist bones,

carry departments on my spine like ancestral stones—

while these sloppy replicas cry if they miss their phones.

But when I flame truth?

Everybody suddenly "don’t like my tone."

Bitch, my tone is war.

My tone is chrome.

My tone’s the blade your little plaster kingdom gets overthrown.

Let me get explicit:

I’m the cunt with a katana who don’t blink twice,

I’ll cut through your reputations like coupons—clean, precise.

You step in my way?

I’m the verbal bodybag vice,

tightenin’ every bar around your neck till excuses turn to ice.

I talk filthy—

explicit enough to melt latex off your fragile-ass pride,

vicious enough to make your whole imaginary crew divide.

I’ll skull-fuck your delusions with rhymes that collide

till your confidence slips out the back door and hides.

This is warpaint written in spit and spite,

a female reaper draggin’ her scythe across the mic—

if your little egos wanna fight?

Tell the fictional bitches in this storyline:

I don’t miss.

I don’t flinch.

And I don’t do mercy on sight.