Warning! Incoming Writefaggotry!:
They called him Ice, aka Ice Dre, aka Andre the Iceman, aka Swift Thug, aka Ice Skater.
If you were to ask Ice what his favorite kind of music is he'd tell you classical. He loved Afrika Bambaata, Kraftwerk, Rodger Troutman, P-Funk, and the Funkadelics. His crew didn't understand it, never understood how he could keep his flow with beats so slow. But there was no doubt he had the skill on his Blades, he could glide. The ground had relinquished its hold on Ice long ago, theirs was now a fitful relationship, growing ever more distant and violent. The ground and Ice often had domestic disputes.
Tonight, though, he didn't just glide, he blazed. It hadn't been a courier mission it had been a set-up. Pigs were thick on the streets, a herd of boars squealing their sirens, red and blue lights of the eyes of the beast flashing menacing, hungry for his flesh.