🚨“I Met The Devil In God’s Country” – DMX & Black Rob’s Chilling Warnings Reveal The DARK TRUTH About Hip-Hop Murders 👿🔪

The deaths of DMX and Black Rob, just eight days apart in 2021, were treated as separate tragedies. But if you listen carefully to the words both men spoke in the years before they passed, you begin to see a dark

throughline—a pattern of control, abandonment, and calculated destruction of artists who refused to play by the rules of the music industry.

Let’s start with DMX.

By the time he stormed onto HBO’s Def Poetry Jam in 2007 to perform his blistering piece The Industry, X wasn’t just venting. He was blowing the whistle. Every bar was a bullet aimed at the machine. He laid it

bare:

“The industry don’t give a f** about you. The industry wanted dead or alive new artists to sell their souls in order to survive.”*

It wasn’t just poetry. It was testimony. DMX wasn’t afraid to say that rappers were being lured into contracts that were less about music and more about ownership of their lives. He even admitted, years later, that

he had literal encounters with the devil—offers dressed up as opportunity, temptation wrapped in record deals.

He told Dr. Phil:

“To make a fair decision, you have to be aware of both sides. I recognized him by what he said to me and what he offered me. That’s how I knew it was the devil. And I stopped talking to him.”

Think about that. DMX didn’t just speak metaphorically. He claimed he was approached—offered something big—but it came with strings attached. He refused. And what followed? Legal battles, constant arrests,

substance struggles, rehab centers in Arizona that felt more like prison camps than healing spaces. He called Arizona “God’s Country” for its sunsets, but then admitted:

“I met the devil in God’s Country.”

He promised never to return.

Now connect that with Black Rob’s story.

Rob was no lightweight. His debut album Life Story went platinum. His anthem “Whoa!” is still considered one of the rawest New York street records ever made. But behind the scenes? He was being strangled

financially.

Signed to Diddy’s Bad Boy Records, Rob thought he had made it. Instead, he found himself boxed out the moment he stopped being profitable. When he was arrested in 2004, he says Diddy erased him—pulled his

name off the website, canceled his health insurance, and even pulled his albums from circulation.

Rob explained bitterly:

“They just left me for dead. I don’t got no house to live in. No insurance. Nothing. Puff wasn’t in the studio with me 20 hours a day. He just came in at the end and said, ‘Yeah, that’s hot.’ Then when I

got sick, they cut me off.”

Four strokes. Kidney failure. No money for treatment. By 2021, videos surfaced of Black Rob, rail-thin, lying in a hospital bed, gasping out condolences for DMX. Eight days later, he was gone.

And here’s the sinister symmetry:

Both DMX and Black Rob warned about snakes in the grass, about being approached with shady offers, about being pressured to “play the game.” Both refused. Both ended up sick, broke, and isolated despite

millions earned and decades given to the industry.

And both made cryptic references to a hidden enemy.

DMX in his poem:

“The industry vultures with nothing to feast on… test the wrong one in the industry and you will get hurt.”

Black Rob in his last interviews:

“It wasn’t love over there. It was never love. I was just being used. When I was no longer useful, they shelved me.”

Was this just two cautionary tales of bad contracts and bad luck? Or were they hinting at something far darker—a system that actively eliminates artists who won’t bend?

Look back at the 90s:

Tupac.

Biggie.

Big L.

Freaky Tah.

Aaliyah.

Young, rising stars—all gone under murky circumstances.

Meanwhile, those who stayed alive and thriving were often the ones who played the game, took the deals, or aligned themselves with powerful “handlers.” DMX and Black Rob weren’t willing to. And they both

paid the price.

Consider this: Black Rob claimed his medical benefits were cut while he was on dialysis. That’s not neglect—that’s a calculated move. DMX claimed he was “offered deals by the devil” in Arizona. He didn’t mean a

man in horns. He meant executives who smiled while offering chains in exchange for chains.

The pattern is unmistakable. The 90s wasn’t just an era of rap dominance—it was an era where dozens of artists who refused to be controlled ended up either dead, addicted, or imprisoned.

And now, years later, we’re left with the words of two fallen legends:

DMX, warning about the devil in disguise.

Black Rob, exposing how Bad Boy gutted him financially and medically.

Both pointing at the same truth: it’s not just the streets killing rappers. It’s the industry.

So the question becomes—how many other rappers in the 90s and early 2000s were silenced in similar ways? How many “overdoses” and “accidents” were really the cost of refusing to sell out?

And more importantly—are today’s artists safe? Or are the same vultures still circling, waiting for the next victim?