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“I can eat rice with chopsticks pretty good, huh?” Harry Fraud smirks, proud of his dexterity in polishing off a plate of broccoli, tofu, and brown rice. It’s 10 p.m. at Michael & Ping’s, and the staff at the Gowanus restaurant remind us that they’re now closed. Fraud grumbles and takes his bottle of seltzer to go. At six-foot-two, he’s wearing black head to toe — his cri de coeur against fashion — and his Nikes are customized with the name of his record label, “SRFSCHL.” He adjusts his black baseball cap, revealing shorter, coiffed hair. “You ready?” We head out on Third Avenue. It’s October, but traces of summer linger. The Brooklyn native walks with an easy confidence, like someone who’s known these streets his whole life. Inside a Dunkin’ Donuts, Fraud orders a large iced coffee with a “Turbo Shot” of espresso. It’s going to be a long night.