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Fourteen Years After His Death, Fat Pat's Legacy Continues Acting Bad For Scrilla

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In Huntsville, back somewhere around 2000, there used to be this club called The Tin Can. There are a bunch of reasons to remember The Tin Can; two stand out and another is unfortunately appropriate today.

The most nefarious of the three: It had to have been the most unsafe club in American history. Not because the people that went there regularly were unruly and dangerous, because they weren't. It was mostly college kids and, historically, college kids are total pussies. It was unsafe because, structurally, it was a goddamn furnace waiting to happen. It looked like a gigantic soup can had been cut in half and laid on its side. It was like whoever owned it had wanted to be an actual club owner but couldn't afford a proper venue, so he bought a discarded solid metal building, hired a DJ and said, "Hey, come to my new club. It's only $5 to get in. Free drinks before 11 for ladies. Oh, and by the way, pray to God it doesn't catch on fire or all of you bitches are going to be cooked alive. Alright laters, dudes."

The most awesome of the three: Since the place operated like a giant convection tube within itself, it used to get incredibly hot inside, which, for whatever reason, made the people absolutely loopy. They would do things, presumably because of heat exhaustion, that they would never do otherwise. It was totally proper etiquette for a guy to walk up to a girl while the music was playing and just start grinding his penis on her butt (this has become commonplace club behavior). If she wasn't interested, she'd just stop dancing. If she was interested, and the Tin Can was the place that they were ALWAYS interested, she'd dry hump you back until Juvenile ceased ordering her to back her thing up. If there's ever been a more convincing piece of evidence that God existed than the encouraging of stranger-on-stranger dry humping social construct, it's never been made public.

But the most relevant of the three: Each Thursday (Huntsville was a suitcase college which means on Friday people beat feet the fuck out of there towards Houston), they would always, always, always play a strong Houston rap set that included a gorgeous Fat Pat triumvirate. The songs, obviously:

"Tops Drop"

"25 Lighters" (Technically not a "Fat Pat song," but relax.)

"Wanna Be A Baller" (Yeah, yeah, yeah.)

Fourteen years ago Fat Pat was murdered.

Sucks.

Honor and all that.

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