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It was August, and the waters and the towels were in place behind the trap house: "All waters and all towels are behind the trap house," a stage manager announced over her radio. Someone called for the Trap Choir, and they descended the stairs from the Chicago Theatre greenroom in pastel pink windbreakers with trap choir printed on the back. Then came the background dancers, a.k.a. the trapground dancers, who congregated in the trapground, with the Trap Choir, behind the trap house. In the theater, trap music played.
If this trap house were on your block, your property values would almost certainly be depressed. The pink paint was peeling, and keep out and beware of dog signs were plastered across the front door. Burglar bars covered boarded-up windows on the ground floor. A chain-link fence partitioned off the front yard, and in front of that, lampposts stood like beacons to illegal acts that might be committed beneath them, which in this case would soon include criminally unsafe amounts of twerking from the trapground dancers. On the second floor of the house were four windows blocked out with the letters t-r-a-p, which would soon be illuminated by colored lights flashing in time with the music, as if this set were for a Broadway musical about slinging bricks ("Traparet"? "The Best Little Trap House in Atlanta"? "Cokelahoma"?).
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