Evan Nabavian owns several styrofoam factories.
Bricc Baby Shitro watches a familiar scene through the shattered window of his unofficial place of business. Inside, shadows exaggerate the already ample physical proportions of a woman with bleached hair and the complexion of feta cheese. She stands topless before twin mountains of cocaine, but Shitro knows that if she turns around, he’ll see his crew affiliations marked permanently on either of her ass cheeks. He can’t remember her name right now. He likes her because for some reason, she responds to the rasp in his voice, a rasp that sounds like someone fed James Brown a selection of twenty-first century drugs. Shitro tries to name the six that are in his system right now.
Closer to the door, he can feel the bass from the stereo in his feet. The woman is smiling at him or maybe at something else. Likely something else, something in her bloodstream right now that got her kicked out of high school at some point. She whips her hair to a clatter of hi-hats and her curves ripple to the 808s as if by their own accord. Shitro makes a mental note to save this beat. He has never needed to separate work from pleasure. What the fuck is her name? He pushes open the door with end of an automatic weapon — merely a precaution — and turns right to face Death himself. Fuck this! Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. Shitro empties the clip and Death hits the floor, the scythe landing between an unzipped duffel bag full of cash and the woman’s outstretched heels. Neither she nor her friend on the couch have noticed the disturbance. Smoke trails from the barrel of the gun rise to the ceiling to spell the name of Shitro’s new mixtape.