Colder

Need

Fuckin Phillipan. Who needed him anyway? Semore had been fine living on the streets. Christ, he a bum for AWHILE, he knew these streets like the back off his hand. Except this one. And the one before that. Oh god where the hell was he? Well, that didn't mean anything, he had to start making more money. Maybe he'd become a clerk or streetwise magician or, something. Semore walked into a store and bought a cardboard box, sleeping bag and sharpie. He headed to Main Street were he wrote "hungry veteran dead wife work for food ask my story anything helps give me money godamnit lik if u cri evry tim" across the now flattened box. Soon enough it was 9:00 at night. Christ, the city got cold at night. The people did to. Semore couldn't sleep on the ground, so he walked down the most sketchy places ever. As he walked past a warehouse on Jane and Finch, he noticed to sidewalk shook.

"What the fuck...." Semore said, crawling down to look into one of those basement window things. A crowd of black people, and a stage. Sweet baby motherfucking jesus, rap battles!

"Oh, shit ya baby."

He jogged to the backdoor. Their was two thugs guarding it.

"Uh, hey. I'm here for the rap battles." Semore said quietly.

"What's the password?"

".... Give me a hint...."

"(Sigh), ok. I show no love,..."

"To homo thugs?"

"Come on in." The guy said, opening the door.

Score. People were putting bets on the performers. Semore could rap. But he couldn't write. But by gods will he could try. He was there the whole the night, listening, cheering with the mob. God it was fun. You know, scientists say that 90% of white people that have black friends are 75% cooler. True story. Semore was hyped up, he took all of his money (700 dollars) and put on one guy. He won. Semore had the feeling of deep happiness when they handed him his 1400$. The whole club was cheering him on. Women were getting closer, like he was the king of the underground or something. Than a brilliant idea hit him like his father had slapped him. Semore could be the king of the underground. With hard work and dedication, he could do it. And after the mafia incident, he had some street cred left in him.

"Who runs the club?" Semore asked the man to his left, over the rapping.

"Oh, Marcellus. He's right there." The man pointed to a ripped black guy leaning against a wall in the back corner. "They say he always wanted to be a record producer, but never made it. Shame, would have made a good one."

Semore was taking notes.

"Thanks, friend."

He'd learned a thing or two from years of doing this. You have step on ants to get the top.