#10 LIKE A BOSS…

By J.J. Colagrande

Yeah, I fucked Melody Rain. I hit that shit, playurr. I mean, you would too. She’s fine. I thought she was fine the moment I met her at Oracledang. It didn’t take long, neither. Not the act of hitting it, just the amount of time before we were getting it on. I don’t go out like no two-minute Tommy. Nah, that ain’t me. Whatever. I was just happy we had a possible lead on the Scruffy Guy. After dipping Lollapalooza, I had to get Melody some gear because she was looking too hippie-ish. If we needed to roll through nice spots, I wanted her looking fly. Booking a room at the Hard Rock should’ve been impossible, it’s the hottest hotel in the city duringĀ  Lollapalooza and completely sold out–but it didn’t prove difficult because apparently someone at the desk recognized me and all of a sudden a 900-square room penthouse Extreme Suite became available. Maybe this whole celebrity thing ain’t so bad, I mean if you could turn it on only when you need it. Anyway, pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. All of this shit that happened to Thelonious had to do with that fight we had at Oracledang. I figured as much, but I didn’t know for sure. I had learned a little bit about these gangstas from Curtis and Geri, at the hospital, but they didn’t know half as much as Melody Rain. Curtis and Geri knew a group of people ran nitrous oxide at festivals, but they didn’t know names, or the depths of the organization. Melody Rain understood the infrastructure. There were bosses. And she seemed to know about a needle, a way to transmit poison. She didn’t know what was in it, but she’d heard stories about the Falafia taking people out with what she called the Deer Creek Needle. If I could find out what what they injected into Thelonious, maybe it could help the doctors. It seemed the key to finding out exactly what happened to Thelonious, or to finding the Scruffy Guy, lay in locating someone a little higher up in this Falafia chain-of-command. I asked Melody Rain why she didn’t grill the guy selling food at the festival about what happened to Thelonious, but she insisted that they were low-level associates that only knew about grilling falafels. She guaranteed that there would be someone higher up floating around the hotel. Did I believe her? I didn’t really have a choice. But on my mom’s soul, I didn’t trust her. My moms didn’t raise no dummy. By the way, did you think I was going to talk about having sex with Melody? I bet you did, huh? Well, just so you know, I ain’t the kiss-and-tell type-of-guy. Nah, that ain’t even me. I’m the bawss, playurr.

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