Yo, real talk. This Brady Ebert cat, used to play guitar for Turnstile, done messed up. Word on the street is he tried to off his bandmate's pops wit' his whip. Attempted murder? That's some next-level crazy, fam.

See, this is why we can't have nothin' nice. These cats get a little fame, a little paper, and they start trippin'. Now somebody's pops is hurt, and Brady's lookin' at serious time. This ain't no diss track, this real life consequences.

Turnstile was blowin' up, too. Now their name is gonna be mud. All that hard work, down the drain 'cause one dude couldn't keep it 100. This is why you gotta choose your crew wisely, man. Snakes in the grass everywhere.

And the fact that it's his bandmate's FATHER? That's a whole different level of disrespectful. Where's the loyalty? Where's the code? This ain't how we do things in the streets.

I ain't condonin' violence, but I'm sayin' there's always more to the story. What pushed this dude to this point? Was he stressed? Was he off the meds? Whatever it was, it ain't right.

But at the end of the day, you gotta own your actions. You can't go around tryin' to hurt people and expect to get away with it. The streets always talk, and the law always catches up.

Now this dude is gonna be sittin' behind bars, thinkin' about all the choices he made. And Turnstile's legacy is forever tainted. All because one dude couldn't chill.

Keep ya head up to the Yates fam, hope pops pulls through. And Brady, you gotta take responsibility for your actions, cuzzo. This ain't a game.