💀 “The Rise & Brutal Execution of E.Moneybags: The Stick-Up Kid Who Crossed the Wrong Legend”

Eric Smith didn’t get his name from rap.

Not really.

He was a hustler before he ever touched a mic, a stick-up kid whose reputation in Queens was whispered with equal parts respect and fear.

His nickname — E.Moneybags — was earned in dice games, robberies, extortion runs, and street hustles, not in recording booths.

He was one of those rare figures who seemed to straddle two worlds — the grimy alleys of Queens and the glossy dreamscape of hip hop — but the streets never let him go.

And in 2001, those same streets claimed him back.

E was born and raised in New York, shuttling between Brooklyn and Queens, but it was Queens where his legend hardened.

He had crossed paths with greatness early on.

He attended Westinghouse High School — the same hallways that shaped Biggie, Jay-Z, and Busta Rhymes.

He brushed shoulders with destiny but carved out his own in a darker way.

By the late ’90s, he was moving heavy in the streets.

People in Queensbridge and beyond knew his crew — dangerous men with reputations carved in whispers.

“Don’t play with Bags,” they’d say.

“He’s the kind of dude you don’t cross unless you want to disappear.”

Yet, like so many hustlers, rap dangled in front of him.

He was close with Queensbridge legends Nas, Capone-N-Noreaga, and especially Prodigy from Mobb Deep.

That friendship gave him access to studios and soundtracks.

Prodigy put him on projects like Murder Music, handing him payouts in the thousands.

But rap wasn’t his survival.

It was a side hustle, a way to launder reputation into legitimacy.

The streets were still his primary grind.

And in the streets, mistakes are fatal.

The fatal spark began small.

A car deal.

Just another day in Queens hustle culture.

E put down a $1,000 deposit with a woman named Z, connected to Supreme’s camp, for a “tag car” — stolen, cleaned up, ready to flip.

At first, it was business as usual.

But when Prodigy handed him $2,500 cash for music, E had a change of heart.

Suddenly, he didn’t want the hot ride.

He wanted a legit silver Navigator.

Clean.

Official.

So he asked Z for his $1,000 back.

That’s when the air shifted.

Z said no.

Not because she wanted to, but because Supreme said no.

Kenneth “Supreme” McGriff wasn’t just another hustler.

He was Queens royalty.

The Supreme Team, in the ’80s and early ’90s, had turned crack cocaine into an empire.

$200,000 a day.

Bodies in the street.

Loyalty bought in blood.

To cross Supreme wasn’t just a mistake — it was a death sentence.

But E.Moneybags wasn’t the type to fold.

So he pulled up.

Outside Jamaica’s Coliseum Mall, E rolled on Supreme’s Land Rover and opened fire.

His target: Supreme.

His bullet’s victim: Colbert “Black Just” Johnson, Supreme’s closest friend.

That single moment — whether intended or not — sealed his fate.

Black Just wasn’t just a soldier.

He was family.

He had kept the empire stable while Supreme was locked away.

He was loyalty personified.

To kill Black Just — even accidentally — was to write your own obituary.

Witnesses remember E’s face after.

He told friends, “That wasn’t for Just.

That was for Preme.

” But apologies don’t resurrect the dead.

And Supreme, cold-eyed, green-eyed, merciless, put a bounty on E.

Moneybags: $50,000.

What followed wasn’t fast.

It was surgical.

For weeks, maybe months, a team shadowed E.

One woman, the girlfriend of a Supreme enforcer, even filmed him from her apartment window.

A dusty VHS tape later recovered by the feds showed E alive, unwittingly starring in his own surveillance film.

Every move documented.

Every habit logged.

It wasn’t just murder — it was theater.

Supreme wanted the show.

On July 16, 2001, the curtain fell.

It was supposed to be a barbecue.

Family.

Food.

Laughter.

E sat in his silver Navigator outside the house, a plate waiting for him inside.

That’s when the four-man hit squad arrived.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just gunfire.

The Navigator lit up with bullets, glass shattering, smoke filling the air.

E was hit again and again until his body slumped lifeless.

Neighbors screamed.

Children cried.

Queens lost one of its most feared sons.

The hit was clean.

Cold.

Professional.

A message to anyone who thought they could cross Supreme and live.

But the aftermath told an even darker story.

A month later, the feds raided a stash house in Baltimore.

Drugs, money, the usual.

But in the corner, collecting dust, was that VHS tape.

The footage of E being stalked.

Proof that his death wasn’t just a hit, but a performance for Supreme’s eyes.

Revenge as entertainment.

When prosecutors built their case years later, that tape became a centerpiece.

By 2007, Kenneth “Supreme” McGriff stood trial for racketeering and murder-for-hire.

E. Moneybags’ death was Exhibit A. Supreme was convicted and sentenced to life, the final nail in a saga that had haunted Queens for two decades.

But even with the legal resolution, the streets kept whispering.

Some said it was never about the car.

Never about Black Just.

They pointed to the fact that E was close with 50 Cent, who at the time had enraged Supreme with “Ghetto Qu’ran,” a track that named names and cracked open Queens’ dirtiest secrets.

Being too close to 50 — at that exact moment — was enough to make anyone a target.

Others, especially prosecutors, rejected that theory.

To them, this was simple.

Street beef.

Drug turf.

Retaliation.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

But the people who lived it knew better.

Because E.Moneybags wasn’t just another hustler.

He was the rare figure who straddled both worlds — feared in the streets, known in the studios.

His name floated next to Nas, next to Prodigy, next to Jay.

He could’ve gone one way.

He chose the other.

And once you choose, the streets don’t let you back out.

Even in death, his story became legend.

The cautionary tale of the stick-up kid who aimed too high.

The rapper who almost made it but couldn’t leave the block behind.

The man who made Supreme run for his life once — and paid with his own.

Today, his memory lingers in whispers across Queens.

In the bars of old Prodigy interviews.

In the shadows of Supreme Team lore.

In the tragic irony of a hustler who wanted a clean Navigator but couldn’t steer out of the dirty game.

The question remains: was E.Moneybags doomed from the start? Or was he just another victim of Queens’ ruthless code — where loyalty is everything, and one wrong move erases everything you’ve built?

Maybe the answer lies in that VHS tape.

The silent footage of a man walking, talking, laughing, unaware that death was watching him from across the street.

That’s the final truth of E.Moneybags.

Not the rap cameos.

Not the stick-ups.

Not even the Navigator.

Just a man under surveillance, a marked target, living his last days without knowing it.

And in the streets of Queens, that’s the deadliest sentence of all.