fire.
I knew she was supposed to be bad, but as I listened to the boos and jeers and laughter of the crowd, I couldn’t help feelingsorry for her. There were so many gorgeous girls around, and she was so obviously not gorgeous I found myself hoping she’d drop the act and end up being great after all. No such luck, though. She was horrible from start to finish.
“That’s going to be hard to beat,” I told Audrey.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’d better start off with our big guns. Let Randy go first.”
Nash introduced us as if we actually were three badasses from the wrong side of town, even going so far as listing our supposed crimes: barbecuing a baby, killing a hobo with a pitchfork, and stealing all the stuffed animals out of the game machine in the lobby of Pizzalicious.
The karaoke machine cranked up the beat as soon as we took the stage, and Nash handed off the microphone to Randy. The crowd cheered and booed at the same time. Randy wasn’t involved in our journalism fund-raiser performance, so he had a hard time with the lyrics, but he made up for it with his god-awful dancing. Moving to the very edge of the stage, he grimaced, twisted, threw up his version of gang signals, and grabbed his crotch. At times, he looked like he was being riddled by machine-gun fire. It was pretty hilarious, except I knew he thought he was phenomenal.
When his part was done, he pranced back and handed the microphone off to Lil’ Dynamite. Rocking her shoulders in perfect time to the beat, she launched into the lyrics of “Bullet Head” with a vengeance. No pretending to be bad for her—she ruled. But about halfway through, she veered away from Insidious’s rhymes and started freestyling her own. I’d seen her do this before—the girl could seriously throw down:
Boys in the hallway putting up a cockfight.
Losers and winners, they both the same at midnight.
Girlie-girls with satin gloves twirling in their ball gowns.
Everyone bleeds red every time they fall down.
Flashing cash creeps they never see the real me.
And all of you straight fits don’t know how to feel me.
Then it was back to the “Bullet Head” chorus, and for the first time, the crowd was neither cheering nor booing. I don’t think they quite knew how to process what just blew at them.
Then it was my turn. Lil’ Dynamite handed off the microphone, and I knew I couldn’t stick to the script either. After a couple of lines, I started in about how I was a real investigator who wouldn’t stop digging till I found the perpetrator. Didn’t matter if they were rich or if they were poor, they’d better look out ’cause I’d be knocking at their front door.
But I was a journalist, not a rapper, and the rhymes came unraveled pretty quickly. The boos roared after that, and I doubt many people heard the rest. Before I wrapped it up, though, I caught a glimpse of Tres standing in the front row. He had this weird expression on his face like he was angry or worried or both. Or maybe it was just sweet but evergreeny weed paranoia. Whatever it was, it seemed personal and aimed at me.
After our performance, we remained on the stage, and Paige Harrison joined us for the award—or anti-award—presentation. Rowan took the mike first and crowed about how awesome Paige was, heavy on the sarcasm. Then Nash grabbed the mike away and argued that Nitro, TNT, and Lil’ Dynamite were way awesomer than anyone who had ever done karaoke in the history of the art form.
Now it was time to vote by popular decree. First, Rowanheld his hand above Paige’s head and called for the audience to voice their support. Boos rolled toward the stage like a huge dark wave, and Rowan smiled. Apparently boos were a good thing in this kind of contest. Next, Nash held his hand over my head, and again the boos rose up—only this time they came crashing like a tsunami.
We won by being bigger losers than probably the biggest loser girl at Gangland. I wasn’t really sure how I should
I knew she was supposed to be bad, but as I listened to the boos and jeers and laughter of the crowd, I couldn’t help feelingsorry for her. There were so many gorgeous girls around, and she was so obviously not gorgeous I found myself hoping she’d drop the act and end up being great after all. No such luck, though. She was horrible from start to finish.
“That’s going to be hard to beat,” I told Audrey.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’d better start off with our big guns. Let Randy go first.”
Nash introduced us as if we actually were three badasses from the wrong side of town, even going so far as listing our supposed crimes: barbecuing a baby, killing a hobo with a pitchfork, and stealing all the stuffed animals out of the game machine in the lobby of Pizzalicious.
The karaoke machine cranked up the beat as soon as we took the stage, and Nash handed off the microphone to Randy. The crowd cheered and booed at the same time. Randy wasn’t involved in our journalism fund-raiser performance, so he had a hard time with the lyrics, but he made up for it with his god-awful dancing. Moving to the very edge of the stage, he grimaced, twisted, threw up his version of gang signals, and grabbed his crotch. At times, he looked like he was being riddled by machine-gun fire. It was pretty hilarious, except I knew he thought he was phenomenal.
When his part was done, he pranced back and handed the microphone off to Lil’ Dynamite. Rocking her shoulders in perfect time to the beat, she launched into the lyrics of “Bullet Head” with a vengeance. No pretending to be bad for her—she ruled. But about halfway through, she veered away from Insidious’s rhymes and started freestyling her own. I’d seen her do this before—the girl could seriously throw down:
Boys in the hallway putting up a cockfight.
Losers and winners, they both the same at midnight.
Girlie-girls with satin gloves twirling in their ball gowns.
Everyone bleeds red every time they fall down.
Flashing cash creeps they never see the real me.
And all of you straight fits don’t know how to feel me.
Then it was back to the “Bullet Head” chorus, and for the first time, the crowd was neither cheering nor booing. I don’t think they quite knew how to process what just blew at them.
Then it was my turn. Lil’ Dynamite handed off the microphone, and I knew I couldn’t stick to the script either. After a couple of lines, I started in about how I was a real investigator who wouldn’t stop digging till I found the perpetrator. Didn’t matter if they were rich or if they were poor, they’d better look out ’cause I’d be knocking at their front door.
But I was a journalist, not a rapper, and the rhymes came unraveled pretty quickly. The boos roared after that, and I doubt many people heard the rest. Before I wrapped it up, though, I caught a glimpse of Tres standing in the front row. He had this weird expression on his face like he was angry or worried or both. Or maybe it was just sweet but evergreeny weed paranoia. Whatever it was, it seemed personal and aimed at me.
After our performance, we remained on the stage, and Paige Harrison joined us for the award—or anti-award—presentation. Rowan took the mike first and crowed about how awesome Paige was, heavy on the sarcasm. Then Nash grabbed the mike away and argued that Nitro, TNT, and Lil’ Dynamite were way awesomer than anyone who had ever done karaoke in the history of the art form.
Now it was time to vote by popular decree. First, Rowanheld his hand above Paige’s head and called for the audience to voice their support. Boos rolled toward the stage like a huge dark wave, and Rowan smiled. Apparently boos were a good thing in this kind of contest. Next, Nash held his hand over my head, and again the boos rose up—only this time they came crashing like a tsunami.
We won by being bigger losers than probably the biggest loser girl at Gangland. I wasn’t really sure how I should
Similar Books
