The worst day of Happy Colors’ life happened when he was 16 years old. It was the beginning of summer, and his mom had left their Fort Lauderdale house for a some kind of dinner—or maybe it was a surprise party. The teenager, who was an aspiring reggaeton MC at the time, invited a few friends over, and the oldest brought an untold number of Four Loko tallboys. Within a few hours, a girl was face-down in the living room, covering the carpet with the blood-red pigment of regurgitated Fruit Punch-flavored alcopop. It was at this point when Happy Colors’ mom walked through the door, trailed—he forgets why—by a group of little kids.