I confuse two of the other guys who work for Ross-one’s name is Red and the other’s is Black, and I think Red wears a black hat. Darren, a kid from Milwaukee, is still in the basement, editing what must be just server-melting amounts of Rick Ross video. Ross’s bodyguard, a gentle-looking man with sleepy eyes who is nearly seven feet tall, lopes through the kitchen still wearing this strange headset that makes him look like he’s getting translation at the U.N. Though I do notice a strange lull in the house, a subtle shift in metabolic state. Rick Ross lives in his own personal time zone, and when you’re around him, you’re subject to it. Normally, due to domestic circumstances, I’m asleep by ten. It only occurs to me after midnight that it might be past 8 P.M.
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