![]() This whole time, Metro has kept up the phone call. We pile into an Uber, then head out to Lenox Square Mall, the decided-upon pants-purchasing location. The continued non-exposure of his forehead, clearly, is something to which he gives diligent consideration. He folds it carefully and swaps it out for the camouflage one he’s currently wearing. His ear to the phone, Metro picks out a bandana from among the sprawl of chargers and clothes on the tightly-pulled hotel sheets. ![]() Gummy bears in mouth, they nod approvingly. He shows the pals the phone, and sings: “ Can we get much higher?!” It’s Kanye. Metro gets a phone call, and his eyes widen. ![]() They consider popping open the minibar Bombay Gin, but opt for the fancy gummy bears instead. A few of his buddies, all gregarious young guys with music-industry affiliations that he’s known for years, are hanging out. But right now, in a corner suite at the downtown Atlanta W hotel, he’s just trying to decide where to buy pants.
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