Fireworks 3 and 4

Fireworks: Forever Chapter Eighteen

    The conference room was left dark, with a sole projector serving as the only source of light in the room. 

    "The artists are procrastinating."

    "Let's call it what it is: They're stalling. Only a handful of them have started acting out their storylines, and it's been beyond a week."

    A toothy grin reflected light from the projector. "All that means is, we have to kick things up a notch."

~~~~~~

    "Oh nah, they definitely got me fucked all the way up," Westside Terror said into his cell phone, grabbing the large briefcase sitting in his passenger seat. He climbed out of a sleek, black BMW i8. Slightly shorter than average height, he had a compact, muscular build. His dark hair was styled in twists, and those twists sometimes swung in his eyes. "Right? I don't know why they think they can tell a fucking rapper, of all people, what to do." With the briefcase in tow, he peered at the motorsports shop ahead of him. 

    "They sounding like they want all the motherfuckin' smoke," his friend said at the other end of the line.

    "They sounding like they don't know how I move when someone thinks they can bark orders at me," Terror said, striding towards the front doors of the shop. "They sounding like they don't know who the fuck I am. They signed me to be who I am and do what I do, so they need to sit the fuck back so I can make them and us some money. They need to stand the hell out of my way."

    "Where the fuck you at? I hear honking and shit."

    Terror grinned as he reached the doors of the shop. "About to check out some bikes. I got fifty-k on me right now. We all might be cruising soon."

    "Ohhhhhh, shit!" his friend exclaimed. 

    "Don't tell the rest of the guys. I want this to be a surprise."

    "Fifty-k though?" his friend asked. "And you're there by yourself? You should've had me go with you, make sure you're covered, man."

    Walking through the doors of the bike dealership, Terror said, "Nah, this is a quick in and out. I'll be done in no time. Gotta go and do some business. I'll hit you back later." He ended the call and glanced around the dealership.

    An assorted collection of custom and stock motorcycles were on display. A gunmetal-colored bike caught his attention almost immediately, so he headed towards it. It didn't take long for a nervous-looking motorcycle salesman to invade his personal space. "Need any help?"

    "Did I ask for any?" Terror asked, without looking at the guy. His rap persona was extremely roughneck, and once upon a time he had been that guy. But these days, it would surprise a lot of people to know that he was one of the nicest people around. That was something his fans knew and cherished, but people who only knew him on a surface level only got surface Terror. And auto dealer chumps or store clerks who thought because he wore his hair in twists and sagged his jeans, he was a security risk only deserved surface-level Terror.

    The tall, dark-haired man who was sporting a God's honest pocket protector in the pocket of his button-down shirt raised both hands with palms facing outward. "I'm only checking to see if I can help out any," he sputtered.

    "You can help me by taking about five steps back," Terror said. Once in awhile, he liked to play into the roughneck persona. There were aspects of it that he missed, like the automatic respect it usually garnered. Only store clerks and music industry executives seemed to miss that memo. Most other people understood that you didn't test the patience of a man with Terror's appearance and demeanor. "This bike sure is beautiful though," he said, the real him creeping out into his voice. When you were in the presence of true beauty or art, it could be hard to keep the awe out of your voice or facial expression.

    "It's a rare beaut," the salesman agreed.

    Terror's face screwed up, and he turned to look at the man. "How did you even get this job?" he wondered aloud. "Motorcycles are cool by default. And forgive me for saying..."

    The man held his arms out. "They make us dress like this."

    "They force you to wear a pocket protector?" Terror quipped, shaking his head. "That's truly nasty work." He turned back to look at the bike.

    He was in the shop for close to an hour. In and out, just like he said. 

    There was a sharp bite to the Phoenix, Arizona, wind as he made his way back to his car. That didn't stop people from milling about and socializing on nearby sidewalks. The motorcycle shop wasn't in a ritzy part of town; some of the area looked a bit rundown. Two guys wearing hoodies stood on the corner talking to each other and glanced his way occasionally.

    Subconsciously, Terror's grip on the briefcase handle tightened. 

    The two men stopped talking altogether and stared at him.

    The doors to the BMW unlocked automatically once the car sensed his key fob. 

    "Hey man, let me talk to you for a minute," one of the two men from the sidewalk called out to him.

    The sharp wind picked up - in Phoenix, that meant that a dust storm could kick up anytime. The last thing Terror wanted to do was get caught up in one of those. "Maybe another time," he called back to them.

    "Another time? But I wanted to talk to you right now," the man said, jogging over.

    Terror opened the car door and got inside.

    "Is he for real?" one man asked the other. "He really tryna run off on us like that? That's so fucking disrespectful." His hand slid into the pocket of his hoodie.

    Wordlessly, Terror started his vehicle and started to pull off. A popping sound drew his attention just as the driver side window shattered into chunky, webbed pieces. A sharp feeling struck his temple, and then all sounds grew muffled. There were more muffled popping sounds. His vision blurred as the vehicle idled out into the street.

    "Ignore me again, motherfucker," the first man who approached shouted.

    "The briefcase, get the briefcase!" his partner called out to him.

    A young woman and her children gawked at the scene from nearby. She positioned her children behind her, self-consciously moving back from the scene playing out.

    After grabbing the briefcase, the two men allowed the car to keep idling. Other cars swerved to avoid it.

    "Stay here, hide here," the mother ordered her children before jogging into the street to check on the person in the car. A horrified sound erupted from her mouth, at the sight of the slack-jawed rapper with blood streaming down his face. "Oh my God! 911! 911, someone..." She gave the pockets on her jeans a pat, remembering that she was in the possession of a cell phone. 

    A small crowd formed around the car, with onlookers gasping and covering their mouths with their hands. Photos and videos were taken and people posted to social media, grief-stricken over the tragic scene.