Part 1 is here and Part 2 is here. To recap: Bryan has uncovered famous socially-conscious rapper’s Talib Kweli’s role in the death of his darling wife Amy and his baby boy, Dexter. He shot the rapper twice, but it turned out that it wasn’t the real Kweli. What’s more, there’s a nefarious European working with Talib Kweli on something called “Project Omega”.
Bryan woke up inside of the bottle, just like every goddamn morning. He looked around the room of the house and slipped off his stained, grainy blue futon and onto the floor. It was covered in discarded pizza boxes, empty bottles, and used syringes. He immediately felt terrible.
“These are not good times,” Bryan muttered to himself, before adding, “Fuck.”
Suddenly, the power company shut off all of his power and it started to rain. Bryan looked out the window and reminded himself that he had nothing left to live for. A single tear ran down as his cheek as he thought about his darling baby boy Dexter.
Bryan sighed, “I am sad.”
He tied off his arm and grabbed a syringe off the floor and filled it with heroin as Simon & Garfunkel’s Sounds of Silence played.
The European sighed and looked at his phone and said, “Now who the hell is this emailing me at 11:26?”
He turned to his friend Talib Kweli and continued, “Telling me that she 36-26, plus double-d, you know how girls on black planet be when they get bubbly.”
“She at NYU but she hail from Kansas and right now she’s just lamping, chilling on campus. She sent me a picture of her feelin’ on Candice, who said her favorite rapper whas the late great Francis W-H-I-T-E.”
The European finally answered his ringing phone and said into it, “It’s getting late mami. Your screen saver say tweet so you got to call and bring a friend for my friend, his name Kweli.”
The girl on the phone gasped and screeched, “You mean Talib, lyrics sticks to your rib?”
“I mean,” the European interjected.
The girl continued, “That’s my favorite CD that I play at my crib!”
“I mean,” said the European again.
“You don’t really know him, why is you lying?” the girl accused.
The European was frightened and turned to Talib Kweli and said, “Yo kwi, she don’t believe me, please pick up the line, she gon’ think that I’m lyin, just spit a couple of lines and then maybe I’ll be able to give her dick all the time. And get her high”
Talib was conflicted. He couldn’t believe that the European was using his name for picking up dimes but thought to himself, never mind. I need some tracks, you tryin’ to pull tracks out and my rhymes is finna blow, you trying to blow backs out.
Kweli turned to the European and said, “Well okay, you twisted my arm, I’ll assist with the charm,” and picked up the phone and said “Ayo ain’t you meet that chick at that conference with your moms? And sister’s the bomb, boy she got the bougie behaviour—always got something to say like an okay playa hater. Anyways, I don’t usually fuck with the internet or chicks with birth control stuck to they arm like Nicorette—you really fuckin’ that much or trying to get off cigarettes?—if she thinks it’s fly she ain’t met me yet. Now, I apologize if I come off a little inconsiderate but I got the bubba kush and a sister could get a hit of it?”
Kweli turned to the European, who was waiting with a sick high five.
Susan, the female character from the last part (try to keep up), burst into the crackhouse and walked to the reception desk and screamed, “Where is he? Let me see him!”
The receptionist screeched back, “I’m sorry ma’am, this section is for crackhouse customers only. Unless you’re here to tie-off, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
“Fuck off,” Susan bellowed, pushing the receptionist over and rushing into the back.
“Stop!” the receptionist yelled and jammered about.
Susan ran through the back.
She turned over one of the crackheads and it turned out to be Parker Ashley Angel from O-Town. Bryan was nowhere to be found.
Finally, after hours of searching, she noticed a door in the back, a door marked “private”. Could it be? Her dear darling Bryan back into her life? She moved with the alacrity of a really fast cat and opened the door excitedly, prepared to see her Bryan again.
The room was filled with snakes.
Bryan could barely see because of all the mescaline in his system. It hid the pain. It nearly made it stop. If Bryan ate enough drugs he could pretend for a moment that he had uncovered the conspiracy and revenged the deaths of his darling Amy, and his baby boy Dexter, with whom she was pregnant with. He knew he’d failed the second he’d saw the real Kweli’s numerous and detailed tweets about Ronaiah Tuiasosopo. What’s more, the trail had run dry. He’d heard rumors about Kweli’s ring having a European connection, but he couldn’t figure out why nor what they might be for. He’d had one contact, Puter Von Puter, who’d sent him one tweet, just one—“Project Omega is begun”—before dying in a freak pipe fitting accident. He had no leads and, what’s worse, he had no hope. And no money. And he had a sharp pain in his stomach that his doctor said was stress-related, but he wasn’t entirely sure.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Bryan saw out of the corner of his eye what appeared to be a clue. Could it be? Is it? There was something shiny; something that looked like jewels.
Like the jewels that Amy was caring the night she died.
“Steve, is Project Omega still happening?” One of the henchman asked his coworker.