Rickoe. He holds his pen in hand, looking at the sketched lines of rhythm, that have flowed into conception. His hands are all stiff and rigid by now. Rickoe has not had even a sniff of sleep all night. He has been cracking and banging his head all night long, trying to get this done. On the floor, under his chair, little blue cans of red bull, squashed into flat despicable pieces of aluminum lay there. He had the moments, when he needed them, when he would grab one from the fridge in the other room while he put on some heavy trap music, that would tremble the doors, windows and walls of his house, and he would wave his hands all around, bobbling his head, and feeling the energy engulf him in a trance, then, with both hands, he would place the empty can in between his palms, and have no mercy. It would fall out of his hands flat, and roll into one of the corners of the room. Then, he would sit down, with his back straight, in his orange vest, grey shorts, and socks, Rickoe would draft some more lines-rhyming and flowing. While he fell into his groove, Rickoe would try hard not to stop, because the seamlessness of the lines is what made them genius. The way his muscles moved -the way they tightened and relaxed on every word noted down, on every line joined together, seemed to be part of his biology. The way he would bite his lip when he holds the next line of rap in his mouth, and the other one in his heart, as if he was pumping them out, breathing. He had to write fast. Sometimes, when the flow got really fast, he had his mixer next to his bed, with the recorder. For then, he could let the words pour out like water.
But now he was upbeat. Rickoe felt himself drift away, and his mind slip away from him. He had stretched himself to get this done. But he was used to it. So much so that his pals would find him sleeping there every time they came in for recording. Manda, Mustee, CJ and Josh, would all put their heads together to craft something special, and indeed, their music was special, it was beautiful. Rickoe’s house was the studio, so they always found him in his little man cave.
But that day, they had something in mind for Rickoe. While it is true that dreams would not occur more often for Rickoe, but they made his sleep deeper and sweet. When he dreamt, Rickoe would smile and talk in his sleep, sometimes even laugh.
Rickoe knew he hadn’t willed himself to wake when he felt a thundering sensation fall on him. It was cold. It was icy cold, he jerked up and fell in the process. He felt the cold water that had hit him freeze him to the core, he was frozen, confused, and wet. Fuck. He was now angry.
In the studio, he heard Manda and the rest of the guys laugh his lungs out. Oh, those niggaz are dead now, this was the third time round. They had gone too far.