Metadibs®

Greetings Mob 🏍️💨 We are beyond excited to unveil the details for the launch of our very first OREMOB premium branded T-shirt, a masterpiece designed by ORE ORE ORE. 🗡️

Shibuya knows. We let them know ⭕️✨ 2h to go, OREMOB!!! #oremob

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You can't spell KYC without KC.🤫⭕️✨️

SABUKARU x OREMOB Drop 01 is live ⭕✨ The BPM snatched their Long Sleeve + NFT bundle, and are now (not so) patiently awaiting their package, arriving from Tokyo. OREMOB 10K holders head to oremob.io/shop/ to grab yours!! Confirmation emails will be sent to enable address checks. Let Them Know ⭕✨

MARIAN AND JIRO ⭕️✨ While the deep, white smoke from a Cohiba slowly and inexorably rose to the ceiling, Cling, another empty tumbler, hit the dirty countertop of the Newsome. The foggy air was drenched in a sour stench, the one that impregnates the walls, yellows the whites, and can't be washed off. To the patrons of that derelict excuse for a pub nothing mattered, the only thing of importance was that the whiskey was strong as the pool tables were levelled. Light wasn’t a priority, the whole room appeared submerged. A few old lamps, like a tired sun, shed some light from the ceiling, and like a bullet through water, slowly reached the haggard faces of the Newsome’s patrons. A wide collection of ugly snouts could be seen there, if only an anthropologist knew of this place, they would pay to study some of the specimens populating it. Simple thieves and career criminals were entangled with boxers and pool players. Well-known faces like Liam Pidgeon and Mark Shaper had their usual spots in a small cubicle, hidden even more so than the others and shielded by that percolating light. The green leather of the cushioned seats was the only piece of hide left intact in the Newsome. Almost a status symbol for those seasoned criminals that nicknamed that booth “the pristine”. The business conducted there was off-limits to most citizens, after all, earning the rights to that spot wasn’t a simple feat. On a slow night, a strange night, the perpetual impact of pool balls was confounded and melded with the low growls uttered by the few lowlifes that were present. On that bastard night, a grave mistake was about to be had: A dark setting Sun, Bore, bewildered and helpless, A bastard, black night. “What the fuck am I looking at Liam?”- a sharp, electric voice suddenly cut through the background noise. “You tell me, mate”- replied a small, round man while smiling with a sinister grin. That same cutting voice grew louder, almost impertinent, and smugly stated: “You know what? Maybe He can tell us. So, come on, tell me, What the fuck are we looking at? - A hooded guy slowly diverted his gaze from the whiskey glass placed right beneath his nose and met the perverted eyes of the two men in front of him. “I don’t want any trouble”- these leaden words said with care and a smudge of fear, travelled slowly and inexorably reached the two men standing in front of the pristine. At that moment the few patrons present completely stopped whatever they were up to and, unabashed, began to stare at the violent scene that was about to unfold before them. "It's not a matter of what you want now mate, you fucked up...The Pristine is ours, it’s mine."- right after uttering those words, the small man, Liam, took a glass ashtray that was sitting on the table, and in a sandstorm of ash and butts, proceeded to shatter it on the head of the unfortunate man occupying the pristine. “Never sit here again! Fucking BOZO!”- Liam shouted at the helpless victim. “This is property of Liam MOTHERFUCKING Pidgeon! You understand?!” As the question was posed, the patrons of the Newsome decided to turn their heads and pretend that nothing happened, while the young hooded man lay unconscious on the ground. Two young hoodlums, part of Pidgeon’s entourage, appeared to clean up the scene, they took that battered man and nonchalantly threw him outside, he landed in the back alley of the Newsome where rats and roaches alike find their home, to thrive and prosper in a giant pile of trash. The night became morning. Small droplets of dew were starting to form on everything exposed to the humid climate of District 7, spreading from the gutter in a downward motion, this moisture happened to land on a staggered guy, who appeared to be sleeping right on top of a slippery black bag full of rubbish. In a quick, confounded moment the man, like a zombie reclaiming the right to live, jolted upwards, finally gaining back consciousness after being out for several hours. “Here we go again”- he uttered to himself. Many thoughts were rummaging through his head, and after assessing what happened, out of the blue, he finally remembered the predicament he was in. He arduously descended that pile of thrash he was resting on while a black avalanche of disgust surrounded and followed him until he was free. “I’ve had worse wake-ups”- He thought. After shaking off the debris like a wet dog he took his first step, finalising his second mistake. That bastard night quickly turned into a cursed day: A pure Moon, crying, Hid her beautiful visage. Cursing the new day. As he exited that filthy alley, still a bit confused, and worse for wear, he would have never thought to see, yet again, such a gruesome sight. It’s not something that one sees often, especially in a lively city. To explain what happened would be futile, the deed was already done, the image imprinted in his head leaving him completely numb, once more. He knew, unfortunately, that something that gruesome surely could be real. A small man, gutted and opened like a book, was lying there in an ocean of blood. That crimson liquid was covering every inch of the wall, it was plastered on every surface, turning that filthy, blackened alley into a miasma of blood and gore. “What the fuck?! And I thought my night had taken a turn for the worse” - Marian thought. The monologue going through his head was interrupted abruptly by a faint noise coming from afar. It was becoming louder and louder. After only a few seconds that sound presented itself as a full-fledged siren. Someone was coming and they were coming fast. A chill starting from the base of his neck permeated his whole body, and after a moment an adrenaline rush took over Marian's senses. He didn't feel the different bruises from the prior night and in a second he took off running. He was headed towards Tampopo, the only place he remembered that had a caring owner, one that would provide refuge that early in the morning. After running like hell for minutes, in what appeared to be a deserted suburb, he finally arrived at the restaurant, sweating like a pig. Now that the adrenaline faded away he could only knock twice on that small red door before collapsing right in front of it. Miraculously the door opened, and right in front of Marian stood an old man, carrying the weight of intense labour on his face but elegantly dressed, wearing a beautifully crafted Yukata, clean as freshly polished white marble. The man, all shrivelled and greyed, took in the poor refugee and swiftly double-locked the entrance behind them. End of part 1. Written By: @FredMartani