This cat appeared out of nowhere. I mean, I literally blinked and he was five yards from me. His black suit and red tie stuck out amongst the skinny jeans dress code of the night. We were looking at each other as he floated towards me. His glare felt like he was piercing my soul. Who in the fuck is this dude?

"What up, Young Blood? You sure humbled him. I saw you perform inside. Great show."

Maybe I have sales after all. We shake hands. "If you like that, you'll love my CD."

"How much?"

"Seven."

He pulls a black money clip full of bills out of jacket pocket. What's up with dude and black? It was some sort of character on it with horns. I couldn't really study it because after a couple of seconds I had to look away. I can't really explain the feeling, but it felt wrong. Maybe I was feeling guilty for being jealous of a nigga having that much bread in his pocket when I was out here hustling just to get a percentage of that. I didn't even notice the seven ten dollar bills he pulled from it.

"Here's seventy."

Oh, he's one of them flashy niggas. "Seven is good. I ain't nobody's charity."

He gave me a ten. "Keep the change. You deserve it."

"Thanks."

"Can I ask you a question?"

Oh Lord. I should've went home with E and K. Put on my happy face. "Absolutely. Doesn't mean that I'm going to answer it though."

"How is it that someone of your skill and talent is outside of a club like this selling CDs for seven bucks?" It threw me off, because it was basically the same way the cat from a few minutes ago came at me. This dude did it more elegantly though. He's up to something. I should walk away. I should, but...

"Three kids and a wife, homie. Can't really afford to be high and mighty."

"I can relate to that. I have children from two previous wives."

"Damn son, two?"

"I love my work. God knows that I've been told that I love it a little too much at times. I guess it was like hell for them. Anyway, I would like to work with you."

And there it is. "Work with me like how?"

"I manage artists." I should walk away.

"No thank you. I don't do managers."

"I don't blame you. I'm different though. I can actually get you where you need to go."

"I bet." If I had a dollar for every music business douche that told me they were different, I'd be vacationing with the Obamas and Carters (Hov and B). This is why I need to walk away.

"Tell you what. Just take my card, and if you're interested give me a call."

I took his card. It was black and shiny, almost like obsidian. What's up dude and black? In red was his company name, address, phone number: Natas Music Management. What the fuck is a Natas? I should've walked away.

He continues, "If you work with me, I can promise you more money than you've seen from your music thus far, fame beyond your wildest dreams, and a fan base that will appreciate your worth. Oh, and you won't have to sit your ass outside a place that you just smashed selling CDs." Who the fuck is he talking to like that? I should slap the shit out his ass. He's right though. I should've walked away.

I look down at the card. Natas Music Management, huh? Well let me ask you.... He was gone.