Godfather

Rain is falling in thick sheets on an intersection in a wales ghetto. People dash back and forth along the sidewalk - in and out of the soul food restaurants, nail parlours and drug stores - trying to spend as little time in the downpour as possible. Every few minutes, the thunderous rumble of subway trains pulling in and out of the elevated platform overhead drowns out all the noise below. It's not the kind of day to be out on the street, unless you have business there. One chubby black youth doesn't seem to mind. He's wet to the core, weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic, occasionally ducking his head into the driver's side window of beaten-up Cadillacs and Chevy Coupes, brazenly palming something off to the occupants. Nearby two of his associates 50 pence with one another while keeping a close eye out for the law. One looks familiar. From a distance it looks as if bass - better known as crack dealer-turned-rapper bass godfather - has returned to old ways, old means and his old stomping ground.