“KING VON’S ALLEGED LAST WORDS — FANS ARE IN TEARS 🥺🔥”
A new clip and eyewitness accounts are circulating, revealing what King Von supposedly said in his final moments. Fans are dissecting every second, with emotions running wild across social media.
Was it a message to loved ones? A final thought on the streets? The internet is debating every word… and the full context will leave you speechless.
👇 Full story + fan reactions are in the comments — don’t miss it 👇
In the raw, unfiltered world of Chicago drill music, few voices cut as deep as King Von’s. Dayvon Daquan Bennett, known to the world as King Von, wasn’t just a rapper—he was a storyteller, a survivor, and a symbol of the relentless grind that defined South Side Chicago. His lyrics painted vivid pictures of street life: loyalty tested by betrayal, love entangled with violence, and the ever-present shadow of death. Tragically, at just 26 years old, Von’s own narrative ended in a hail of bullets outside an Atlanta nightclub on November 6, 2020. But in his final moments, as life ebbed away, whispers of his last words emerged, igniting debates, grief, and revelations about the fragile bonds that held his world together.
The phrase “Y’all let them niggas get up on me” has become the haunting refrain associated with Von’s dying breath. Uttered amid the chaos of gunfire and flashing lights, these words—according to those closest to him—carried a sting of accusation and sorrow. They weren’t just a lament; they were a indictment of the very crew he rode with, the ones who failed to shield him when it mattered most. As Von lay bleeding, reportedly telling his entourage to “stop crying,” his message pierced the veil of bravado that drill artists so often wear. It was vulnerability laid bare, a king dethroned not by enemies alone, but by the erosion of trust.
To understand the weight of these words, one must rewind to Von’s origins. Born on August 9, 1994, in Chicago’s Parkway Gardens—better known as O’Block—Von grew up in a crucible of poverty and peril. His father, Walter Bennett, a former Black Disciples gang member, was incarcerated for much of Von’s childhood, leaving the young boy to navigate the streets with his mother and siblings. O’Block, a low-rise housing complex on the city’s South Side, was a breeding ground for both talent and tragedy. It birthed legends like Chief Keef and Lil Durk, but it also claimed countless lives in gang crossfire. Von, affiliated with the Black Disciples’ STL/EBT faction, immersed himself in this ecosystem early. By his teens, he was entangled in the violence that would later fuel his music.
Von’s criminal record was as extensive as his rhyme schemes. Arrested multiple times for armed robbery and attempted murder, he spent stretches in juvenile detention and Cook County Jail. In 2014, he was charged with first-degree murder in the death of a rival, Malcolm Stuckey, but the case was dropped when the witness recanted—under suspicious circumstances that hinted at the code of silence, or “no snitching,” that governed his world. These brushes with the law weren’t footnotes; they were chapters in a life that Von chronicled with unflinching honesty. His music, raw and narrative-driven, turned personal demons into platinum plaques. Tracks like “Crazy Story” from his 2018 debut Grandson, Vol. 1 went viral, blending confession with menace: “I been in the streets since I was a shorty / I seen bodies drop, that’s why I’m so heartless.”
His rise was meteoric. Signed to Lil Durk’s Only the Family (OTF) label in 2017, Von became a cornerstone of the drill revival. Albums like Welcome to O’Block (2018) and LeVon James (2020) showcased his prowess—sharp wordplay, vivid storytelling, and a delivery that felt like a whispered threat. Critics hailed him as the genre’s next evolution, a poet of the pavement who humanized the hustle. Complex magazine called him a “thoughtful, skillful lyricist” whose ferocity outshone peers. By 2020, Von was on the cusp of mainstream dominance, collaborating with heavyweights like Polo G and 21 Savage. He embodied the American Dream twisted through a South Side lens: from trap house cyphers to sold-out tours.
Yet, beneath the accolades lurked the inescapable pull of the streets. Von’s loyalty to O’Block and OTF was absolute, a bond forged in shared scars. He and Durk were like brothers, their music a testament to unbreakable code. In one of his final Instagram posts, Von wrote to Durk: “L’une des 5 personnes que j’aime le + au monde je t’aime jumeau ❤️,” translating to “One of the 5 people I love most in the world, I love you, twin.” This fraternal devotion extended to his crew, a tight-knit circle that traveled with him, amplifying his presence but also his vulnerabilities.
It was this entourage that accompanied Von to Atlanta on that fateful November night. The city, a hub for hip-hop’s southern faction, had become a powder keg of rivalries. Von was there promoting his debut studio album Welcome to O’Block, fresh off a performance. Around 3:17 a.m., outside the Hookah Lounge on Trinity Avenue, an altercation erupted. Witnesses described a heated exchange between Von’s group and a contingent linked to rapper Quando Rondo, whose crew included Timothy “Lul Tim” Leeks. What started as words escalated to shots fired—six people wounded, two dead: Von and 21-year-old Markel Stephenson, an innocent bystander caught in the melee.
Surveillance footage captured the pandemonium: Von, dressed in a black hoodie, fleeing toward his Dodge Charger Hellcat as bullets riddled the air. He made it to his car, collapsing inside as his team scrambled to drive him to Grady Memorial Hospital. En route, amid screams and sirens, Von reportedly uttered his final words. Asian Doll, his on-again, off-again girlfriend and fellow rapper, shared them publicly on Twitter (now X) hours later: “Von’s last words: ‘Y’all let them niggas get up on me,’ ‘Stop crying. Y’all let them get me.’ Y’all left my boy when he was unarmed & he would’ve hawked mfs down for them & spent AGAIN & AGAIN & AGAIN.” Heartbroken and furious, she changed her handle to “Queen Von,” posting intimate photos and videos of their time together—a Hawaii birthday trip, nose-to-nose cuddles—declaring them “soulmates.”
These words struck like a gut punch, exposing fractures in Von’s inner circle. Asian Doll’s tweets implied betrayal: his so-called “friends” abandoned him, leaving him exposed and weaponless in a moment of peril. She vented about his unmatched loyalty, how he’d ride for them endlessly, only to be left vulnerable. The post, now deleted, sparked immediate backlash. Von’s manager, Track (real name Jameson Francois), who was also shot that night, refuted her claims on a live stream with DJ Akademiks. “She’s talking about she talking to Von through her spiritual advisor from after death,” Track dismissed, suggesting the words stemmed from a psychic medium rather than firsthand accounts. He emphasized the chaos—multiple shooters, bystanders hit—and urged against speculation that could hinder justice.
The controversy amplified the tragedy. On Reddit’s r/Chiraqology, fans dissected the rumor with a mix of reverence and ridicule. One thread mocked fabricated “Marvel story ending” versions, like Von allegedly saying, “Tell Bosstop I left a pack of diapers near his door”—a absurd nod to O’Block lore. Others pondered the realism: “I think he thought he was finna go thru surgery & be cool tbh… On the ride to the hospital he was telling them to not panic.” In another X post, a user reflected, “Nothing has really been said or confirmed… Tbh it was probably just chaos with so many people shot.” Yet, the emotional core persisted: Von’s words, true or not, crystallized the isolation of street life, where even kings fall alone.
Legally, the aftermath was swift but unresolved. Atlanta police arrested 22-year-old Timothy Leeks, charging him with felony murder in Von’s death. Leeks, wounded in the shootout, was treated at the same hospital where Von was pronounced dead at 3:55 a.m. from multiple gunshot wounds to the torso. The case closed quickly, but ripples extended far. Von’s killing ignited a feud with Quando Rondo’s camp, culminating in tragedy. In 2022, Saviay’a “Lul Pab” Robinson, Rondo’s cousin, was fatally shot in Los Angeles—allegedly in retaliation, carried out by OTF affiliates. This chain of vengeance led to Lil Durk’s arrest in October 2024 on federal murder-for-hire charges, a plot prosecutors say Durk orchestrated to avenge Von. Durk, Von’s “twin,” remains in custody, his loyalty to Von’s memory now a legal noose.
Von’s death wasn’t just a loss for OTF; it was a seismic event for hip-hop. Posthumous releases like What It Means to Be King (2022) and Grandson, Vol. 1 (2023) debuted high on Billboard, proving his enduring pull. Fans stream “Crazy Story” billions of times, finding solace in lines like “Before he died I really cried / I told him love you, wish I could hug you.” Tributes flood X annually: “I cry everytime I hear king Von say ‘I’ll risk it all for you’ 😭,” one user posted recently. Another marked the fifth anniversary: “5 years ago today a dude in my math class broke down into tears over king Von dying.”
But beyond nostalgia lies a deeper reckoning. Von’s story underscores hip-hop’s deadly toll. From Juice WRLD to Pop Smoke, the genre loses icons to the very narratives they glorify. “2018 – 2020 is the reason hip hop is in such a predicament now,” lamented an X user, listing Von alongside those fallen stars. His last words echo this: a plea not just for protection, but for the authenticity that drill demands yet so often destroys. In accusing his crew, Von highlighted the paradox—loyalty preached in bars, but fractured in reality.
Five years on, as Durk fights his charges and Asian Doll honors their bond through music, Von’s legacy endures. His final utterance, whether whispered in agony or channeled through grief, reminds us of the human cost behind the beats. King Von didn’t just tell stories; he lived them, loved through them, and died by them. In the end, “Y’all let them niggas get up on me” isn’t mere rumor—it’s a requiem for a life cut short, a warning to those still chasing the crown. Rest in power, Von. The streets may forget, but the stories won’t.
