50 Cent, whose real name is Curtis Jackson III might want to think twice before sending awful-expletive laced messages to his 16-year-old-son next time. In today’s world, those messages could end up on the Internet like these.
RadarOnline has obtained a series of hurtful messages sent by 50 Cent to his son Marquise.
The In Da Club singer also demanded Marquise take a DNA test to prove he was his biological son because his mother, TLC Starter Wives star Shaniqua Tompkins, had supposedly been promiscuous during their relationship.
“I need a blood test cause that d*ck sucking b*tch you call mom was f*cking the hole [sic] time,” he wrote in the text message exchange on January 5.
The clash appeared to occur after Marquise failed to answer the door at his home to his Grammy Award-winning father.
In another missive, 50 Cent wrote: “Tell your mother she won. She has you and ill [sic] make another. I will have nothing to do with you. Don’t text me ever again.”
Read the series of messages below. For more on the story, visit RadarOnline.
50 Cent: Hey I’m outside the house at the front door.
50 Cent: I came to the front door then lights went off. What’s up?
Marquise: U lying u outside?
Marquise: Lol u fronting.
50 Cent: I saw you looking out the window good luck in life. Your gonna need it.
Marquise: Lol u fronting hard body now, how u going to see me when I’m in the basement lmao
50 Cent: F*ck you
50 Cent: You are your mother child
Marquise: Lol why would u lie about that lol
50 Cent: I need a blood test cause that d*ck sucking b*tch you call mom was f*cking the hole time
50 Cent: I don’t think your funny at all. I drove out here for nothing.
Marquise: Pops ur trippen now, why u won’t been get one u had 16 years lol, I know u lying bc u didt even call me too go outside
50 Cent: Are you f*cking crazy I don’t have time to play boy. I told you I would come see you. I came motherf*cker start turning lights out and looking threw the blinds.
50 Cent: Are you f*cking stupid. You had me drive over there why do you think I needed a address sh*t head. I saw the lights go out then some one playing in the blinds and there no party going on. F*ck you to
50 Cent: You your mother and your sister f*ck all of yal.
Marquise: I might dumb, come thru then, no need to get upset
Marquise: Stop by and say hello too ur son
50 Cent: What the f*ck are you taking about I’m not f*cking with you after this I leave Atlanta in the morning.
Marquise: So come thru then
50 Cent: F*ck you
Marquise: No need for all that
50 Cent: You are bigger enough to know better so f*ck you stop texting me
50 Cent: Tell your mother she won. She has you and ill make another. I will have nothing to do with you. Don’t text me ever again.
Marquise: U keep texting me lol
50 Cent: It’s cool I will never go out of my way again. You disrespectful little mother f*cker.
Marquise: Lol u never do I don’t know not that doesn’t even call there son for his birthday
Marquise: Or get him a gift for his b-day or for Christmas.
50 Cent: You are your mothers son. I don’t have a son anymore.
50 Cent: F*ck you all you want is a gift. Like your mother and your ungrateful sister.
50 Cent: Delete my number.
50 Cent: You never call what the f*ck I’m suppose to call you to give you something sorry
Marquise: Welp if u feel that way, I don’t about no gift it’s the thought that means the most, remember this money ain’t everything
Marquise: I’m tired of calling u, why don’t call me and please can’t wait to hear this excuse
50 Cent: Good luck with you life man. I tried to come talk to you. You din’t have to have me come all the way out there if you don’t to see me you little ass hole.
50 Cent: I don’t have to make a excuse for anything. I’m a grown ass man boy. You talking about money ain’t everything. Your right but when you don’t have any your gonna understand why I work so hard. I’m done texting you delete my number. Marquise: Thank u, and u know dang well u ain’t come out here too see, but if that’s what u want to stick then I’m sorry, and I know why u work hard, ok, god bless
50 Cent: Are you f*cking stupid.