MOSS | Bigg K vs Illmaculate


Illmaculate vs Bigg K took place at King of the Dot's BOTB6 battle event in Oakland, California on October 12, 2013. The 2nd ever installment of MOSS rap scoring - this video contains a primer on how to leave feedback, a very quick primer on the mechanics of the scoring system, and a front-to-back scoring of the entire battle.

MOSS is interactive! Score the battle yourself below, then comment on YouTube or through one of the Social Media buttons at the bottom of the site, and let Skip know what you got!

(NOTICE** - contrary to the first couple of MOSS video primers, all score boxes in the fillable sheet here are /10 for the sake of simplicity. If a score box represents multiple bars of rap, please give an overall score out of a 10-point maximum to those bars in that box. For example, if a score box follows 2 bars and you think: poor setup bar, strong following punchline bar, you might put a 6 or so in that score box - 4 points for the setup, 8 for the punchline; 6-point average for those 2.)

Rapper Points Bars PPB Avg
Bigg K

Bigg K Round 1 Score (/10)
I did your man 9D real fuckin dirty. That’s why you set this up like this?
You hand pick your opponents, prewrite all that tough guy shit?
And that’s cool, but what happened to that
footage out in Portland? Somebody cut my shit.
Before the third round, I told that whole room,
him included, to suck my dick.

True story, I was in your city showing no respect.
In the crowd spilling Henny, giving shoulder checks.
I would’ve stretched your whole hood like a cobra neck,
Punched your fuckin face in half, then headlock you til the bones connect.

See, this was your idea. I said, "long as them bills right."
We hung out once or twice; bitch, I know we ain’t real tight.
But how you ask to battle TheSaurus, Ness Lee, AND 9DM?
You know what this feels like?
You set up battles ‘cause you’re too pussy
to tell people you don’t like them in real life.

While you was at Scribble Jam, I was in state boots and prison tans.
We both rap, but no wrap, I’m a different man.
Real rap, I’ll lift Illmac through a ceiling fan,
and drop money on his grill like a dental plan.

Let this f***** teeth bang on the concrete.
You 5’1"; I bet your feet hang out the car seat.
This right hand knock your ass from Oakland to Long Beach,
and you gonna make it Smack, when your nose and my palm meet.

Like hey hater, showstopper; face breaker; throw a haymaker, wake up a day later;
with your cap peeled. Mac built like a eighth grader.
I’ll quick slice your windpipe with a straight razor.
You act tough when you rap stuff: play gangster;
but you’re really pussy, that’s fake heart — pacemaker;
You come from a nice crib in the ‘burbs, with a gay neighbor.
I was running through the fire and rain like James Taylor;
’caine slangers, chain yankers and gangbangers.
Fuck a vet; I’m in this spot for my rep: weight trainer.

And I ain’t come here to outrap you. Just disrespect.
So go ahead and spit that nerd shit for all these nerds, so I can get my check.

Illmaculate Round 1 Score (/10)
That shit was good, but what everybody’s thinking is that outfit is flavorful and bright.
Right everybody’s wondering how bumblebees are capable of flight.

I hope you take this personal, ‘cause when he’s focused he’s incredible.
And we’ve all seen the worst in you when your emotions get the best of you.

Shit, to me this is a walk in the park. To him, this is a walk in the plank.
For him, this is a shot in the dark. For me, this is a shot in the face.

They asked me, where you been? Stayin’ polished.
Meanwhile, lot of him have came and gone, I’ve remained the hottest.
Deregulate the game — Reaganomics.
Take him hostage; breaking eggs, making omelettes,
don’t mistake us, pay me homage,
you’re comparing satin to Satan, angel cake to Pagan prophets.

That’s an ominous thought; my style is ungodly.
Now you have to ponder the quandary you got in boxing a combo of Ali and Rocky.
This is honestly a body, a homi, homie, I’m small, but you’re tiny beside me;
I’m tall when I hop on the pile of bodies that I leave behind me.

You said I was top 5 on your account.
I was watching, I saw it, I was like "Aw, he can count."
The respect is mutual except when you’re alone with your thoughts in your house,
and all that salt in your mouth, calling the homie, what was you talking about?
I was talking him up. He thought I was talking him down.
I was calling his number to see what he thought of his, now,
fuck it, I’m mopping him up, hauling him out,
calling his number on my list of bodies to count;
instead of "click", it’s (click), this’s the difference
between calling you up and calling you out.

One thing I don’t wanna hear in this ring is: "…I’m fuckin up. Go ‘head, man."
Dog. That’s like showing up to a fight and right before you swing, being like:
"…I’m fuckin up. Go ‘head, man."
I got a trick that might help you choke less, fam.
Imagine a strap on your temple like an old headband;
soon as you forget your shit, then that chrome lead blam.
Would you show up to a shootout, forget the clip, and be like:
"…I’m fuckin up. Go ‘head, man."

He’s used to rapping locally; he does that shit openly.
He’s got some shit; he’s above average vocally.
But if you can’t remember the raps you wrote for me, battle’s over, please
buy a ticket, leave the ring and watch from where the fans supposed to be.

Bigg K Round 2 Score (/10)
When you listen to him rap, you’d think he’s on some mafia or some wise guy shit.
But you talk to him after the battle, he talk about the government and sci-fi shit.
How he do research on his computer with like a turbo booster wi-fi chip.
And in his spare time, he sit up in Oregon in tie-dye shit.

Yeah you little fuckin weirdo. Where’d the rest of your beard go?
It looks like your feet shrink every time that your ears grow.
See I could rap like that if I wanted to star in this qu*** show.
But let me get back to what the fuck I was here for..

That gutter shit. Handgun with the rubber grip.
I’ll lift your soul through the beam like a mothership.
So who you fuckin with? Little man suck a dick.
You’re fragile, I’ll break your shit wearing oven mitts.

I keep a level head in trauma; you seem shook.
I’m bi-polar — nice jab, mean hook.
I lift his carcass up one hand like "Team, look."
Then ride around with his body on top of the van — Teen Wolf.

If he’s a animal, what do you call me?
All it take is two shots, the gun is in arm’s reach.
A chrome MAK-90 up in your dog’ tee,
This ill MAK ring twice, that’s W.R.C.’s
But I ain’t giving you props. That’s just a scheme that seems sick.
Broken doorbell — your two rings don’t mean shit.
I was running to the bookie, with a gun up in the hoodie;
you can take them two rings and shove ‘em in your pussy.

Fuck your track record, my shit’s deeper than rap.
I’ma let you talk greazy for 2 more rounds, but leave it at that.
I want to swing with a bat, upside your cheek til it crack,
your chin snap and the impact break a piece of your back.

I draw Blood for the Sport like a Van Damme flick;
I’m on the road with these drums — band camp trip;
Some shit in the trunk that’d make a TransAm flip,
Hit this clown with a sweeper on some Sandman shit.

I don’t belong in battle rap. I’m in the streets with the crooks.
This is where you’re home. ‘Cause you’re just as sweet as you look.
But as long as every time you gotta battle a black guy you gon’ keep getting shook,
it’s gonna be a motherfucker like me that’s gonna keep getting booked.

Illmaculate Round 2 Score (/10)
That last line, that shit’s corny.
Losing to a black rapper, well if that’s his story,
I don’t think he realizes he don’t fit that category.

It’s rebuttal time, listen closely and hold me down.
I made him cater to me, so what’s your slogan now?
I made him switch his whole style when he wrote these rounds,
I thought it was all bars, no personals. Yea, act like you know me, clown.

Look, I’m trying to get through to pimpin’,
’cause by the looks of him, he’s got issues with women
like a swimsuit edition.
Dog, he’s so forgetful with writtens, I ain’t got a line about this fool in prison,
’cause at least there he can actually get through a sentence.

Listen Pesci.
You’re unlikable you choke a lot. That must make you URL’s Loe then.
You must’ve been high in your debut. But you was URL’s low then.
I bet the thought of me murking him, URL’s loathing.
But this a fight for your life, so keep your eyes on the sights
like the URL’s loading.

Y’all seen the trailer right? They didn’t put this face in, but the best part?
You should thank them, in their blessed hearts.
Between the eight chins and the stretch marks.
and the customized beard so it’s clear
where his face ends and his neck starts..

Dog, you want a Smack rapper? Here’s what all of ‘em would say:
could’ve called it with his name,
if this B.I. acting too(two) G, he’ll get followed with the K.

I’ll put him in a bag when I spray and hit whoever.
Then keep busting til there’s nothin(nuttin) in the mag
like the pages stick together.

I see him, I’ll start clapping in broad day, like…
He sees me, he starts clapping the wrong way, like…

Dog, I may not have a fortune, but at least I don’t have a four-chin,
now do you want to battle for ‘em or argue with fans some more on battle forums?
(THAT shit’s corny.) Look, you’re here,
you’re not that important, I’m battling my last performance,
and look: I ain’t drunk, I still got a leg up on him like Captain Morgan.

I see him, I’ll start clapping in broad day, like…
He sees me, he starts clapping the wrong way, like…

You said I was nerd rap, right? Them lies you spreading.
The Kalashnikov rinse him off, pyrotechnics fall from the sky and wet him,
suppressors with extended clips, I got a motherfuckin rifle fetish.
As far as knife collections? Mine’s impressive. Bioweapons,
a pair of eagles, that Glock 18 like a barely legal,
trigger finger give him hypertension…
Equipment check, ballistics best, you final destined our paths intersect,
(woo!) insert a violent reference, like:

I got that Larkin for a bargain, it’s in the car ‘cause the pound’s light,
I got that carbine with a beam for when I’m targeting down sights,
I made a custom potato muzzle for that A.R. if a clown might
hop that fence, that bull pup’s got a quiet bark and a loud bite.
I can’t wait til my fans hear them bars in the sound byte,
but I used that part of the round right:
before you bring up Arsonal, figured you aught to know
what a real arsenal sounds like.

Bigg K Round 3 Score (/10)
We in two different lanes; that’s something I found out quick.
’Cause you only aggressive when you rap. You just a loudmouthed bitch.
You ain’t tall enough to reach my chin if you threw a roundhouse kick.
You think all I got is gun bars. …So how bout this.

I will smack the shit out you. With both hands.
You a grown man the size of DJ from Roseanne.

Maybe I’m real old fashioned, but I don’t feel yo rapping.
Who is Ill toe-tagging? You tall as Bilbo Baggins.

I be twisting a cigar. That pie that’s in the jar.
Thirty wishes, dirty dishes, in the kitchen whipping hard.
When Illmac rap, I ain’t listening at all;
I could throw him in the air and kick him fifty yards.

You’re a suburban f***** that raps and think he hard.
Like you got some type of street cred
’cause you caught a motherfuckin weed charge.
I will beat slob down your chest like a retard,
for three large I’ll send Mac to Steve Jobs.

If he ill, this HIV, meets cancer;
I come to any league and work, I’m a freelancer.
I made your boy 9DM look like a Pink Panther,
and caught a body behind your back like a swing dancer.

**Three-Second Choke**
…I bend the block, dump the Desi and ride off,
swing back through, the shit sound like July 4th.
Hop out the whip, stomp his head til it slide off,
no tap dancing, I’m kicking Gregory hind(/Hines) parts.

Fuck being humble, I want the best of the best.
I’m a true gunner from newcomers to the legends and vets.
That long Desert Eagle hit you dead in the chest,
that’s how To Kill a Mockingbird, shoot Gregory pec(Peck).

But to be real y’all, this battle rap shit is corny.
I only do it for the paper.
If you say somebody nice, you a dickrider.
But if I say you wack, I’m a hater.
And this top tier ain’t based on skills,
This shit is favor for a favor.
I don’t take you serious ‘cause you’re not.
Now pay me for my labor.

Illmaculate Round 3 Score (/10)
He did exactly what I thought he’d do: act like he’s so damn hard.
Motherfucker you look like Roseanne’s husband.
Now that’s a Roseanne bar(Barr).

This troop is in training, salute. It ain’t the music, the fame, or the views.
Don’t blame the rules of the game, you’ll lose;
use it train as fuel for the flame that grew.
Review the tapes, do what I say to do,
and watch the moves that you make improve.
See, K, I could step my game up while still doing the same for you.

Salute when you see me; tell em to let them horns blow.
This is my second coming; my forthcoming was foretold.
This is his corpse cold on the floor, blood on the wall,
swinging a sword slow through the torso of the torn soul.

My hands reach out from the abyss, remove the ground under his kicks.
His soul lifts from the ground up and it drifts into cloud cover and mist,
he shouts, clutching a fist but feels his mouth’s covered and stitched,
he’s now stuck in a glitch where sound doesn’t exist.

He could see though that he’s marked for death;
that revelation made him reload even though our bars reflect
the scene with Neo and The Architect —
we are connected like DARPAnet;
I’ll fly a charter jet in your thought bubble and park directly
in front of the verse you’re bout to start with next.
This is plastic army men to nuclear armament,
every dollar spent on defense and the HAARP project.
Each bar: an armored mech, alarm detection,
armed and set to target threats,
Each word: a sharpened edge, scar his flesh,
carving through his heart’s contents to my heart’s content.

Rewind it first..
Instead of threatening you’re gonna die in verses, I reverse it:
they’re paying me NOT to kill you. Let your mind interpret,
soon as that contract was signed in cursive, your life was purchased.

Rewind it further..
Before you lost this battle to a vet.
Before you seen Organik in the flesh yelling "Rapper to my left!"
I accepted this matchup as a matter of respect,
so you should feel honored when I decapitate your neck.
Blood splashing on the steps,
in the cracks of the cement until the avenue is wet, but wait.
That’s when you snap out of it, wake up, drowning in a sweat,
grabbing at your chest, gasping for a breath,
you look around you but instead of a casket, it’s your bed
and you realize we haven’t battled yet. This all happened in your head,
just imagine what’s going to happen at the actual event!