“Is this the place?”

“Yeah. They’re the only ones that’ll know where to look.”

Slim and Cube, holding NanoHart in his front pocket, stepped out of the parked Cadillac and walked into the strip mall building. Mounted on the stuccoed wall swung a rusted right that read “Wu Tang Detective Agency.” Slim shut the door behind him and settled himself on a metal folding chair. Cube went up to the receptionist desk where Ghostface Killah was sorting through his Rolodex. Travi$ Scott’s newest hit played through the banged up boombox. Slim lamented where Rap had gone, and how it left all of us behind as he stared out of the window into the grey Brooklyn suburb.

“Yaw, Ghost. We need some help ASAP. RZA and GZA around?”

Ghost licked his lips and shot Cube a look of contempt.

“Yeah, they around. But guess who wasn’t around for my daughter’s debutante ball, huh?” “Ghost, don’t be like that. I was at the premiere of Are We Done Yet?, my hands were tied. I know I RSVP’d, I checked the box for chicken, I even bought Tracy a Cartier bracelet. But this shit’s gotta stop right here. My man Slim right here had a dream about him. He’s comin’ back soon, I can feel it. The only ones that can help us are the Wu.”

Cube grabbed Ghost’s hand and stroked the wrinkles around his knuckles. Slim felt inspired to write a homophobic tweet about what was unfolding, but ultimately decided against his intuition. NanoHart hollered as loud as he could to get out of Cube’s shirt pocket, but his atom-sized vocal chords could only be heard by a gnat. Ghost picked up the phone.

“Cube and Slim for y’all…yeah…yeah………. Aight. Y’all step this way.”

Ghost lead Cube and Slim into the back office and knocked on the door three times. There was no response, but Ghost opened the door to reveal RZA, GZA, Method Man, and Raekwon playing a game of Chinese Checkers, all four clutching glasses of vodka tonics. They finished laughing over a hilarious matter, for when Slim first made eye contact with the group, Method wiped away a tear with his index finger and began to suck on it contentedly. “Willkommen my brothas,” RZA trilled off of his tongue. “What kind of matter shall we assist you in, Mr. Mathers?” The entire Wu chortled and snorted at the word play.

“Aw, stop with that shit, RZA,” Cube said.

“Easy now, Cube, it is all in jest. All joking aside, what can the Wu Tang Detective Agency do for you gentlemen?”

Slim crossed his arms and stepped to the Wu.

“We need y’all to help us find Ol’ Dirty’s grave. He came to me in a dream, saying that he needed to be resurrected. If I help bring him back, he’ll ghostwrite me a hit. At least Billboard 200, he said. I can put the entire Clan on the album. Even Cappadonna.”

Raekwon scratched his lip and opened his mouth to reveal thirty-two teeth with braces.

“Slim…I don’t mean to be hatin’ or anything… but if we bring back Dirt McGirt, it can’t be for some swan song record. Russell was crazy as shit, that’s for sure, and flamboyant as all hell. But, above all, Dirt’s family and always will be. I don’t know ‘bout y’all, but I for one don’t want the Bastard’s grave to be tampered with over some washed-up white boy’s hope for a comeback.”

“You motha fucka!”

Just before Slim had the chance to wrap his fingers around Raekwon’s neck, GZA screeched out a squawk all too similar to that of a Redhawk. The sound stopped all the rappers in their movements, no matter how subtle. Even NanoHart, sobbing in the corner of Cube’s pocket, focused on the hush. They all waited in anticipation for GZA’s response.

“Now, I know that Slim’s in it for his album, and I sure as hell know that Cube’s in it for another film series where he comes off as a humbly successful representation of African-Americans. What do us Wu need to take on this case? Money?”

“Har har har har har har,” went the Clan.

“Exactly. But listen: our friends here have started somethin’ that they can’t come back from. We must act quickly and find his grave, for the sake of our fallen friend’s tranquility in death. For, my friends, there is a force out there who is lookin’ to steal ODB’s soul. And I think you all know who it is…”

Behind the cuckoo clock was a microphone, one whose wires wrapped all around the stripmall building and to a Sony Digital Voice Recorder, a piece of masking tape around the machine. On the piece of masking tape were the words: “Property of Shkreli Holdings.”