Okay, let's unpack this. We are talking about
a figure today who looms so large. over music,
over culture, really over the entire city of
New York, that it's almost hard to see the human
being underneath the legend. It really is. We
are talking about Christopher Wallace. Better
known to the world, of course, as the notorious
B .I .G. or simply Biggie Smalls. Exactly. I
mean, the man is widely considered one of the
greatest rappers of all time. The GOAT, according
to places like Billboard and The Source. Right.
He's the savior of East Coast hip hop. He's a
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee. But when
you look at the stack of sources we have today,
biographical data, historical accounts, discography
notes. What really jumps out is just how short
this story actually was. It is a tragically compressed
timeline. We're looking at a life that ended
at 24 years old. 24. It's unbelievable. And yet,
in that brief window, he managed to fundamentally
change the sonic landscape of hip -hop. He shifted
the entire gravitational center of the genre.
That's what we're here to do today. The mission
of this deep dive isn't just to list his hits.
We want to move beyond the King of New York legend
and understand the man. How does a shy... English
prize -winning student from a strict household.
We've become a gangster rap icon. It's the central
question. It is. And we need to analyze his artistry.
what specifically made his flow and storytelling
so distinct that he didn't even need to write
lyrics down. That part just blows my mind every
time. It's a key part of his genius. And of course,
we have to untangle that tragic, complex web
of friendship and rivalry with Tupac Shakur that
came to define the mid -90s. I am so ready to
get into this. It's a heavy story for sure, but
it's also just an incredible story of... pure,
raw talent. It is. And to understand Christopher
Wallace, you cannot just look at the music charts.
You have to look at the sociological context
of Brooklyn in the 80s and 90s. You have to look
at the crack epidemic. You have to look at the
technical evolution of hip hop flow itself. Let's
start at the beginning. Part one, the origin
story, because I think a lot of people assume
Biggie was just born hard. You know, he came
out of the womb wearing a coogie sweater and
holding a mic. Not quite. Not at all. Actually,
Christopher George Latore Wallace was born. born
on May 21, 1972, in Brooklyn, New York. And a
crucial detail right off the bat, he was the
only child of Jamaican immigrant parents. That
Jamaican heritage is huge for his musical influences
later on, right? I feel like you can hear it
in the rhythm of his voice. Absolutely. We'll
get to the reggae and mento influence on his
flow, but... Culturally, it just meant he was
raised in a specific type of household. His mother,
Valetta Wallace, was a preschool teacher. A preschool
teacher. That already paints a very different
picture. And his father, Selwyn George LaTorre,
he was a welder and a local politician. But,
and this is a motif we see so often in these
stories, he left the family when Christopher
was just two years old. So you have the absent
father motif right from the start. It's Valetta
and Christopher against the world. Precisely.
She worked two jobs to support him. She was incredibly
dedicated. And by all accounts, Christopher was
not a bad kid initially. This is the good kid
narrative that so often gets lost in the legend.
What do we know about that side of him? Well,
for one, he was raised as a Jehovah's Witness.
A Jehovah's Witness. I cannot imagine Big Papa
going door to door with the Watchtower. It speaks
to the strictness of his upbringing. It was a
very structured, very disciplined home. He attended
Queen of All Saints Middle School, a Catholic
school. Okay. And get this, he excelled in English.
He was winning awards for it. That makes total
sense, though. When you listen to his lyrics
later, the vocabulary, the syntax, the storytelling,
it's literary. The man was a writer before he
was a rapper. He understood narrative. He was.
The foundation was there. And he went on to George
Westinghouse Career and Technical Education High
School. Now, if you want to talk about destiny
or just a concentration of talent, look at the
alumni list of that school. Oh, this is the famous
part. At the same time Wallace was there, you
had future peers like Jay -Z. Jay -Z. Busta Rhymes.
And DMX. And DMX all walking the same halls.
That is wild. Can you just imagine the cafeteria
rap battles? Just the energy in that building.
You have to wonder if they knew, if they sensed
they were all on the cusp of changing music forever.
So, okay, he's this good kid. He's doing well
in school, winning English awards. His mom is
a teacher. Where does the turn happen? How do
we get from honor student Christopher to Frank
White? It's the pull of the streets. It's the
environment. You have to understand what his
neighborhood was like. He grew up in Clinton
Hill, right on the border of Bedford -Stuyvesant.
Bids do do or die. Exactly. And this is the 1980s
and early 90s. The crack epidemic is tearing
through New York City. It wasn't just a drug.
It was an economy. It was a social force. It
changed everything. It was everywhere. And he
got into dealing young, right? Around age 12.
12. Wow. That is incredibly young to be navigating
that world. It is. And the juxtaposition between
his home life and his street life is fascinating.
There's this one detailed anecdote in the sources
that I love because it perfectly captures that
duality. What was it? He was making good money
dealing, but his mother was so strict, he couldn't
just come home with new sneakers and wads of
cash. She would have known something was up.
Right. The preschool teacher would not be having
that. So he would hide his earnings on the roof
of his apartment building. He'd climb up there
and stash the money so she wouldn't find it.
That is such a vivid image. Yeah. hiding the
drug money on the roof so his mom doesn't find
it while she's like grading papers downstairs.
And she didn't know. According to her, she didn't
find out about his dealing until he was 20 years
old. He kept that double life going for eight
years. A complete double life. But, you know,
the streak started winning. He started gaining
a lot of weight, which is where the nickname
Big came from among his friends. He started losing
interest in school. He eventually dropped out
at 16. And that's when the legal troubles started
ramping up, I assume. Yes. It went from hiding
money on the roof to arrest for weapons charges,
probation violations. The stakes got higher.
And then the really serious one. The jail time.
Right. He was arrested for dealing crack cocaine
in North Carolina and ended up serving nine months
in jail. Nine months is a long time to sit and
think. Especially when you're that young. Do
we know if that was a major turning point for
him creatively? It seems to be part of the incubation
period. It was a harsh reality check. But his
musical education had been happening all along,
even before that. Because of his Jamaican roots,
he grew up hearing reggae and mento. You can
hear that in his cadences sometimes, that sort
of melodic bounce. For sure. He also listened
to soul and funk artists like Curtis Mayfield,
Teddy Pendergrass, and of course the early hip
-hop greats. Run DMC, LL Cool J. He was a student
of the game. I read somewhere he also dabbled
in jazz. That seems like an outlier. It's a critical
piece of the puzzle that often gets overlooked.
He worked with a local jazz saxophonist named
Donald Harrison. What did he learn from him?
Harrison taught him about breath control and
phrasing, not just rhyming, but how to use your
breath to write a beat, to pause, to create tension
and release. So when you hear Biggie rap later,
and he's so smooth, almost like a horn player.
That's the jazz training. That's the jazz training.
He's not just shouting rhymes. He's playing his
voice like an instrument. That connects so many
dots. Okay, so he gets out of jail. He's back
in Brooklyn. He has this incredible, eclectic
musical knowledge. How do we get from ex -con
to superstar? It starts, as it so often does,
with a demo tape. He wasn't even trying to become
a professional rapper, really. He was just doing
it for fun, to entertain people on the block.
So it wasn't a serious career ambition at first?
Not according to the sources. He recorded a tape
called Microphone Murderer with a local DJ named
50 Grand. Just messing around, basically. But
the tape found its way to DJ Mr. C. Mr. C from
the Juice Crew. Big Daddy Kane's DJ. I mean,
that's hip -hop royalty. Exactly. Mr. C was a
major tastemaker. He heard the raw talent, the
voice, the storytelling, and he knew it was something
special. So he submitted the tape to the Source
magazine for their legendary Un - Unsigned hype
was the Bible back then. If you were in there,
your phone was about to start ringing. It was
the ultimate cosign. It was the gatekeeper. And
he was featured in the March 1992 issue. And
that column caught the eye of a young, ambitious
A &R executive at Uptown Records named Sean Combs.
Puffy. At the time, he was still Puffy. Sean
Puffy Combs. And the rest, as they say, is history.
But it wasn't a straight line, was it? I remember
reading about some drama with the record labels
that almost derailed everything. It was the industry
game, as he might put it. It was messy. Puffy
signed him to Uptown Records first. That's where
he got his first real taste of the industry,
recording on a remix of Mary J. Blige's smash
hit Real Love. He sounds so young on that track,
but the voice is already there. It's unmistakable.
But then, disaster struck. Puffy had a falling
out with Andre Harrell, the head of Uptown, and
he got fired. Ouch. So your champion, the guy
who discovered you, gets the booth. What happens
to Biggie? He's just left hanging. He's in limbo.
He had recorded material, but he lost access
to it. He was stuck. But this is where loyalty
and maybe a bit of Puffy's legendary salesmanship
kicked in. Puffy went out and started his own
label, Bad Boy Records. And Biggie went with
him. He followed him immediately. It was a huge
risk. He was betting on the guy who just got
fired to build a new empire from scratch. But
it was a bet that paid off, obviously. It certainly
did. But they had a branding issue right away.
He had been performing as Biggie Smalls, which
was a character from the 1975 Sidney Poitier
film, Let's Do It Again. A great movie, by the
way. A classic. But the name was legally taken
by another artist. They couldn't use it. So they
needed a new name. Something bigger. Enter...
The notorious B .I .G. And here's a fun fact
that I think really speaks to his mindset at
the time. Moving from the streets to the boardroom,
he said the acronym B .I .G. stood for business
instead of game. Business instead of game. I
love that. He's signaling right there, I'm done
playing on the corner. This is a career now.
This is a business. Exactly. And the career started
taking off. His first official solo track was
Party and Bullshit on the Who's the Man soundtrack
in 1993. What a debut. i was a terror since the
public school era that opening line is iconic
it is but listen to the subtext of that song
the title sounds like a simple party track but
the song was actually inspired by the last poets
the revolutionary spoken word group really how
so he was using sarcasm to critique the lack
of political seriousness in the youth culture
of the time even while making a brilliant party
anthem it was layered he was playing both sides
And then came the remix that changed everything.
Craig Mack's Flava in Yair. The remix was stacked.
LL Cool J, Busta Rhymes. Everyone was on it.
But Biggie's verse is the one everyone remembers.
N words, wanna know who's the best? I'm the B
.I .G. He just came in and completely stole the
show. That remix hit the top ten. That's what
put him on the map commercially, right? That
was the moment. After that verse, everyone knew
who he was. He was no longer just an unsigned
hype. He was ready for the album. Ready to Die,
1994. The debut. Just the title alone sends a
shiver down your spine. It's so fatalistic. It's
incredibly intense. And there's an interesting
backstory there. Biggie originally wanted to
call the album the Teflon Don. The Teflon Don.
Like John Gotti. Exactly. He was leaning into
that mafioso persona. But Puffy... ever the marketing
genius insisted on a title that was more vulnerable
something that he felt represented the masses
more effectively he wanted that emotional connection
and they settled on ready to die the themes on
the album perfectly matched that title it was
this semi -autobiographical journey swinging
wildly from the celebratory highs of making it
in juicy it was all a dream to the absolute rock
bottom depression and suicidal ideation of the
final track suicidal thoughts. That song is still
one of the darkest, most honest tracks in hip
-hop history. It felt real. That's what I remember
from first hearing it. It felt like a documentary
on wax. That was its power. And it shifted the
entire landscape, didn't it? Because before this,
the West Coast was running everything. Oh, completely.
Dr. Dre's The Chronic and Snoop Dogg's Doggy
Style had the radio in a chokehold. It was all
G -funk. Ready to Die shifted the hip -hop power
center back to the East Coast. It was a massive
cultural correction. It brought that New York
grit back to the forefront. And the marketing
was so authentic. Busta Rhymes tells a story
about Biggie personally handing out cassette
tapes from his home on Fulton Street. Imagine
knocking on a door in Bed -Stay and Biggie Smalls
himself hands you a cassette. That's legendary.
But let's pause here. and really dig into the
how. We've talked about the jazz influence, the
storytelling awards. Expert, break down the style
for us. What technically made his flow so superior?
Well, it starts with the instrument itself, his
voice. He had this deep distinctive baritone.
Rolling Stone once described it as a thick jaunty
grumble. That's a great description. It took
up space in the mix. You couldn't ignore it when
it came on. It commanded attention. But the most
legendary aspect of his craft, the thing that
other rappers still marvel at, was his process.
He did not write lyrics down. I've heard this,
but it still just blows my mind. How is that
possible? He just thought of these incredibly
complex verses. He composed them entirely in
his head. Producers and engineers who worked
with him said he would just sit in the studio,
sometimes for hours, not saying much. Maybe smoke,
listen to the beat on a loop. Just absorbing
it. Exactly. And then he would get up, go into
the booth, and lay it down perfectly in one or
two takes. The entire verse fully formed. That
allowed for a different kind of rhythm, I bet.
It created what's been called an effusive rhythmic
style because he wasn't reading from a page.
He was feeling the beat in the moment. It feels
more conversational, more natural. Right. It's
not rigid. And he was a master of onomatopoeia,
the famous. intros, the little clicks and breaths,
they're all part of the musicality. Then there
are the rhyme schemes. He was a master of multi
-syllabic rhymes. Can you break that down for
us? Sure. A simple rhyme is rhyming cat with
hat. A multi -syllabic rhyme is rhyming a whole
phrase with another phrase, like in Hypnotize
when he rhymes sicker than your average with
pop -a -twist cabbage. He's rhyming multiple
syllables across the bar. It's incredibly difficult
to do, let alone to do it in your head. And the
storytelling. He could be so funny too. It wasn't
all doom and gloom. That's the key to his genius.
The range. You have a track like... just playing
dreams, where he's just fantasizing about sleeping
with R &B singers. It's hilarious and lighthearted.
I'll fuck RuPaul before I fuck them ugly ass
Xscape bitches. It's so raw. But then on the
same album, you can get Nigga's Bleed, which
is this cinematic, violent, mafioso narrative.
He mixed gritty reality with humor and exaggeration.
He even admitted in interviews that the lyrics
weren't 100 % autobiographical facts. He was
heightening the narrative for dramatic effect.
He was a storyteller. He understood that a good
story needs a little spice, a little fiction.
Precisely. But while his professional career
was absolutely exploding, his personal life was
getting incredibly complicated. And this leads
us to the relationship that would come to define
the era. Tupac Shakur. Yeah. You can't tell the
Biggie story without the Tupac story. And it's
so sad because they started as friends, right?
Like genuinely close friends. Very close friends.
That's what makes the fallout so tragic. In the
early days, Biggie would stay at Tupac's home
whenever he was in California. Lil Cease, Biggie's
childhood friend and member of Junior MAFIA,
confirmed they traveled together, celebrated
birthdays together. Pac was like a mentor. Piers
even noted that Biggie's early style, his showmanship,
was influenced by Tupac. They were brothers in
the game. They really were. Until November 30,
1994, the incident at Quad Recording Studios
in New York. Tupac gets shot and robbed in the
lobby. Five times. A brutal, near -fatal attack.
And by what seemed like a terrible coincidence,
Biggie and Puffy were upstairs in the same building
working on a session. And that's where the paranoia
starts. Tupac, recovering in the hospital, came
to believe that they had to have had prior knowledge
of the attack, that they set him up. Biggie always
denied it, right? He swore it was just a coincidence.
He did. He was reportedly devastated by the accusation.
But the seed of paranoia was planted. And when
Tupac, while in prison for a separate sexual
assault charge, signed with Sudanite's death
row records. The personal beef became a corporate
war. It became bad. Bad Boy vs. Death Row, East
Coast vs. West Coast. It escalated beyond just
two men. And then came the war on wax, the diss
tracks. It started, in many people's eyes, with
Biggie releasing the song, Who Shot Ya?, shortly
after the shooting. Now, Biggie and the Bad Boy
camp have always maintained that song was recorded
months before the Quad Studios incident. But
the timing. I mean, if you're Tupac, sitting
in a jail cell, hearing that song. How do you
possibly interpret that? Exactly. The public
perception was that it was a direct taunt. And
Tupac responded with nuclear force. He released
Hit Em Up. Hit Em Up is, well, it's arguably
the most vicious, most aggressive, most personal
diss track ever made. He didn't just insult Biggie.
He tried to destroy his life. He claimed he had
an affair with Faith Evans, Biggie's wife. He
went after Biggie's street credibility, his weight,
his friends. It was absolutely brutal. And what
was Biggie's reaction to that? Publicly, he mostly
stayed silent or tried to brush it off with humor.
In the song Brooklyn's Finest with Jay -Z, there's
that famous line where they joke about it. If
Faith have twins, she'll probably have two packs.
Get it, two packs. It's a clever line, but man,
you can feel the tension underneath that joke.
He said in an interview he had to make jokes
like that because he couldn't be the guy running
around all serious and angry all the time. It
wasn't his persona. But the turbulence wasn't
just with Tupac. His personal life at home was...
Frankly, a mess. It was incredibly chaotic. Let's
talk about the relationships. He married the
R &B singer Faith Evans in August 1994, pretty
much right after meeting her. It was a whirlwind
romance. A very, very short time. But he was
simultaneously involved in a long -term, very
passionate and very volatile relationship with
Lil' Kim, who he was mentoring in his protege
group, Junior MAFIA. And then later there was
Charlie Baltimore as well. Right. It was a love
square, essentially. A lot of drama, a lot of
heartbreak, and there was real pain. there. I
mean, Lil' Kim has spoken openly about being
pregnant with his child at one point, but terminating
the pregnancy, feeling he wasn't ready to be
a father with her. It's just so much to deal
with, especially when you're in your early 20s
and the whole world is watching. And amidst all
this emotional chaos, there was physical trauma,
too. We often forget about the car accident.
This was in 96, right? The rental car crash?
Yes. He was in a rented Chevrolet Lumina with
Lil' Cease. The brakes were faulty. They crashed
into a rail. And it was a very serious accident.
This wasn't just a fender bender. This shattered
his leg. It broke his left leg so badly that
it had to be surgically repaired. He was confined
to a wheelchair for months. And even after that,
he had to use a cane for the rest of his life.
That cane you see in all the later videos and
photos, the one from the hypnotized video, that
wasn't just a fashion statement. It was a medical
necessity. Not at all. He was in constant pain.
And he references it in the song Long Kiss Goodnight
from his second album. Used to be as strong as
Ripple Bee till Lil Cease crippled me. He turned
his pain into rhymes again. But it had a profound
effect on him, physically and mentally. There's
another weird detail from this period I want
to bring up. The Michael Jackson collaboration.
This time around from the History album. Yes,
1995. A huge moment for him, artistically. But
there's that strange story about Lil Cease not
being allowed in a recording session. It's a
surprising detail, and it comes from Little Cease
himself. He said that Biggie wouldn't let him
in the studio with Michael Jackson because, and
this is a direct quote from Cease relaying what
Biggie said, he didn't trust Michael with kids,
referencing the 1993 child molestation allegations
against Jackson. That is just, it's wild. It
shows a certain protective side or maybe just
how street smart and cynical he was. He wasn't
so starstruck that he dropped his guard completely.
And yet the engineer on the session said that
Biggie was nearly in tears from the excitement
of meeting Michael. It's that duality again,
the hard, cynical exterior and the sensitive
fan inside who couldn't believe he was working
with the king of pop. So we move into late 1996.
The climate is getting incredibly dangerous.
The coastal feud is at its absolute peak. And
then Tupac is murdered in Las Vegas in September.
And immediately, the rumors and accusations swirl.
A lot of people looked at Biggie and the bad
boy camp. Was there any evidence he had anything
to do with it? No. Subsequent police reports
and investigative journalism have largely suggested
the murder was the result of a conflict between
the Southside Crips and Tupac's entourage from
earlier that night. And Biggie's family and camp
provided alibis that he was in a recording studio
in New Jersey at the time. But in the court of
public opinion and certainly on the streets,
the tension was at a boiling point. Biggie genuinely
feared for his safety. I can't even imagine that
kind of pressure. He was getting death threats.
He had to hire more security. But he still felt
he had to go to the West Coast. Why? Why would
he go to L .A. after all that? He wanted to try
and make peace. He said in interviews he wanted
to show there was no beef. But also he had to
promote his new album, the double LP Life After
Death. So in March of 1997, he traveled to L
.A. for the Soul Train Awards and to film the
video for the album's first single, Hypnotize.
The Hypnotize video with the speedboats and the
helicopters, it looked so triumphant, like he
was on top of the world. It was meant to be his
coronation, but the trip ended in tragedy. On
the night of March 8, 1997, he attended a Vibe
magazine afterparty at the Peterson Automotive
Museum in Los Angeles. This is the night. The
party was packed. So packed, in fact, that it
was shut down early by the fire marshals due
to overcrowding. So around 1230 a .m., everyone
is spilling out onto the street. It's chaotic.
Biggie gets into his vehicle, a green GMC Suburban.
He's in the front passenger seat. They leave
in a two -car convoy. Puffy's in the car ahead.
Biggie's car, driven by his friend, stops at
a red light on Wilshire Boulevard, just 50 yards
from the museum, and a dark -colored Chevy Impala
SS pulls up alongside them. And we know what
happens next. An African -American male, described
as wearing a blue suit and a bow tie, rolls down
the window. The shooter, he fires multiple shots
from a 9mm pistol into the suburban. Four of
the shots hit Biggie. And here is a heartbreaking
medical detail from the autopsy report. The first
three shots were not immediately life -threatening.
One in the forearm, one in the back, one in the
thigh. It was the final shot, the fourth one,
that did the fatal damage. What happened? It
entered his right hip and traveled up through
his body, perforating his colon, liver, heart,
and the upper lobe of his left lung. That was
the fatal blow. He was rushed to Cedars -Sinai
Medical Center, but it was too late. He was pronounced
dead at 1 .15 a .m. He was 24 years old. 24.
Just a kid, really, with a son and a daughter.
And then in the most eerie... surreal piece of
timing in music history just two weeks later
the album drops life after death the timing is
just chilling the album debuted at number one
on the billboard 200 it eventually went on to
be certified diamond selling over 11 million
copies and the tone was so different from ready
to die completely ready to die was desperate
it was about the struggle to survive Life After
Death was about having survived and now dealing
with power. It focused on those mafioso themes,
a slick pimp persona. You hear the paranoia and
anger in tracks like Niggas Bleed and What's
Beef, but you also hear the polish and the success.
And the records just kept coming even after he
was gone. He became the first artist to have
two posthumous number one singles. Kidnatize
and Moe, Money Moe Problems, they were everywhere
that summer of 97. You couldn't escape them.
And we can't forget I'll Be. missing you the
tribute by puffy faith evans and one tool that
song became a global anthem of grief it cemented
his legacy not just as a rapper but as a beloved
almost mythical figure who has gone too soon
so let's look at that legacy now all these years
later we mentioned the king of new york title
For many, it's undisputed. He influenced an entire
generation of rappers. Jay -Z, Nas, Eminem, 50
Cent. Everyone who came after had to reckon with
the bar that Biggie set, both lyrically and commercially.
He proved you could be deeply lyrical and have
massive pop hits. You could be gritty and smooth.
You didn't have to choose. He contained multitudes.
And the brand lived on, of course. The Brooklyn
Mint clothing line, which was one of the first
to really cater to plus -sized apparel and streetwear.
And his mother, Valetta, started the Christopher
Wallace Memorial Foundation, which hosts the
B .I .G. Night Out books instead of guns. Using
his legacy for something positive. And his influence
pops up in the strangest places. Even in pop
culture, like the villain Cottonmouth Stokes
in the Marvel Netflix show Luke Cage. Right.
He had that huge, iconic Biggie portrait on his
office wall. The character was inspired by that
King of New York persona. It all comes back to
that short life, long shadow concept. Two official
studio albums. That's it. And yet, here we are,
decades later, still breaking it down, still
finding new things in his verses. It really makes
you wonder about the what ifs. That's always
a tragic question. It hangs over his entire story.
If he hadn't been killed at 24, where does he
go? Does he become a Jay -Z level mogul? I think
he had the business mind for it. Business instead
of game, remember? I could easily see him moving
into executive roles, starting his own label,
signing artists, maybe even acting. He had incredible
charisma. Or just musically. Where would he have
taken the art of rapping? He was so adaptable.
He could rap fast with bone thugs and harmony.
He could rap slow and smooth over an R &B track.
He would have evolved. The potential was limitless.
It's one of the greatest losses in modern music
history. You know, you look at the titles of
his two albums. Ready to Die and Life After Death.
The irony is just... It's chilling. It's almost
Shakespearean. It's like they unintentionally
prophesied this short, explosive impact. He was
ready to die, in a sense, on that first album,
and he found eternal life after death through
the music he left behind. That is a profound
and, I think, very accurate way to look at it.
So I want to leave our listener with a thought
today. We live in an era of manufactured viral
stars, of TikTok snippets, and algorithm -driven
fame. In this landscape, could a talent as raw
as technically proficient and as unwilling to
compromise his gritty reality as the notorious
BIG even exists today? Or was he a singular product
of a specific time and place that we will simply
never see again? That is the question. A true
original. Thanks for diving deep with us. Always
a pleasure.