Paid in stamps.

I make music because a boring desk taught me the fee schedule and a karaoke booth taught me I could make a room laugh while the kick drum punched. My family raised accountants. I was a good one. Then Rikk Four-Stamp fell out of my mouth without a plan and the undercity sang it back. I kept the beats hard and the lyrics soft and funny on purpose — comic menace with a warm aftertaste, not a cruelty costume.

The songs are paperwork power, pit warmups, factor-row roasts that still buy the clerk a drink, height pride without begging tall stages for charity, and family pings telling me to come back down to the planet. I answer with another set. The clouds are where the work got honest.

This album is for short kings in the warmup, clerks who tip when the joke lands gentle, wild fans who bring ear diagrams and still get a hug, and anyone who needs permission to move before the scream bands eat the mic. Heavy dial. Friendly face. Five digits up.