Finishing up his part of the ten-foot-high and twenty-foot-wide piece he and his crew have been working on since before any of the team got here, Sam climbs down off his rickety wooden ladder and pulls his respirator up over his hair as he walks back toward the DJ booth. The line of men outside waiting for their turn are visibly irritated. Some pre-recorded mix is playing and they still aint had their chance to spin yet? What the fuck? None of them give voice to their opinions for fear of being excluded altogether as the tall skinny human half-jogs back past them.
The roar of the music from outside slams into your eardrums as he whips the door open and loudly addresses the group. "AYO, TIME TO TALK SOME SHIT, YO!" He motions with his head to follow him before letting go of the door and strolling off into the crowd. The music has somehow gotten louder and the crowd, more animated. It appears the battles on stage have reached the semi-final round. Emotions are running high, on and off stage, whipping the crowd into a manic, frenzied organism made entirely of fists, elbows, horns, and tusks. Headed straight through this crowd seems stupid and a little dangerous, but there's really no way around it at this point in the evening. Everyone receives a minor accidental pummeling of some sort on the way through it and Shortstuff is nearly crushed under a massive troll boot at one point. His quick reflexes grant him only a stomped foot for his efforts, but DAMN did it hurt. [[OOC: everyone soak 4S]] One67 passes through it with no physical contact more than his occasional hand on a shoulder, gently and effortlessly guiding people of all sizes in directions other than his own. Watching him do it reminds you of the old stories of monks who could dodge raindrops.
Passing the elf ladies by the front door, one of them steps out in front of him briefly. She's a little on the heavy side, but wears it well, rocking a blue and cream colored set of high end basketball sweats, matching backwards baseball hat, and expensive looking chain around her neck with a jeweled Jesus piece hanging from the center. She's got black hair, a little too much makeup, a strong chin and low, rounded cheekbones. It's obvious from the way she stands and the "no-nonsense" look on her face that she's pissed even before the harangue begins. "Mawfucker, you aint shit, your rhymes aint shit, that bullshit ass throw-up you and Zane been workin on all day aint shit. It's fuckin semi-finals and you still doin side business?"
SixSeven makes a goofy smirk, rolls his eyes and steps around her on his way to the stairs, leaving the elf to look each of you up and down disparagingly, especially the two women among you. "I know one a yall be slottin him." She whispers with uncensored venom as you pass, just loud enough for you to hear. As the group rounds the first corner on the stairwell going down after One, you can hear her shout, "YOU GOTTA RAP IN TWENTY MINUTES YOU SLACK MOTHERFUCKER!"
One takes the group down one flight of stairs and out into the squatter's area. The place looks empty. No lights or movement at all. For a moment, you wonder what horrible thing was done to move all these people, all these families out of here, until SixSeven speaks, barely audible above the thumping music from above. "We pay a hundred nuyen to each squatter on nights we throw jams. They hate the noise and we don't want em callin the Star, so..." He motions his arm out like a gameshow host, presenting a prize. "Most of em get hotel rooms for the night or go out and get fucked up on dope till the show's done. They'll all be back by tomorrow. But tonight, this our spot, and the noise from upstairs mean as long as we keep usin our inside voices an drek, ain't no nare nadda neva way to record a mug, wiz?" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small green handheld white noise generator; a lower end model available in the household section of most department stores. "But we still gotta be careful, wiz?" He says with a giant grin as he flips it on, releasing the sound of cheaply synthesized waves crashing against a poorly rendered shore.
The group wanders through the empty "streets" that separate the vacant "homes" as One lays down the basics of the job. "Aight, so there's this rat shaman at the beach, like from the beach, wiz? Anyways, My client knows that her and a few other mugs she gathered up are gonna summon a watcher spirit tomorrow round six, jus fore sundown. Alls I need from yall mugs is three things. First, find the spot it's gonna be at. Second, fuck it up. Like, the summoning, y'know? Make sure it dun happen. Now, you aint need to go fuckin it up, like, forever, wiz? You just gotta fuck it up long enough that they aint get a chance to try again till sunrise. Third, don't kill no one." He stops and faces the team, all goofy shit and rapper persona removed from his mannerisms. "I cannot stress this enough. You can't kill no one. If you do, you aint get paid. At all. And if you aint have a damn good reason for why you did, you never work for me again. Am I clear on this point?" He waits until everyone has nodded or responded before sitting down on a folding canvas chair belonging to one of the squatters. He retrieves the spliff behind his ear and lights it before taking a huge hit from it and exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air, filling the space with a strange smell. [[OOC rolls may reveal the smell.]] Spreading his legs wide and leaning back against a plascrete support pillar, he passes the spliff to Shortstuff before saying, "Yall mawfuggers got some questions or sum?"
