Chapter 15
Chapter 15
[Big Joe: Home address.]
With no other choice, Park Geon sent him the address.
The phrase “crying while eating mustard” was usually figurative, but in his case, he was literally crying while dipping a pretzel into mustard.
But he still hasn’t contacted me...
The next day was the same.
One in the afternoon.
Suddenly feeling uneasy, Park Geon pulled the curtain aside slightly.
In truth, he had already done this several times since yesterday...
“!”
A Ford Mustang was parked in front of the house.
Dustin got out.
He was carrying some enormous box in both arms.
W-what is that?
Dustin took another one out of the trunk.
Then another.
He stacked all three boxes and walked toward Park Geon’s house like a moving-company employee.
The one fortunate thing was that Park Geon was home alone.
His parents were at the restaurant, and Yul had gone back to school now that classes had started.
Should I open the door or not?
If he did not, Dustin might break it down.
Physically, Dustin was more than capable of that.
Come to think of it, I heard he used to play football...
Park Geon did not know why he had stopped playing.
After watching from his second-floor room, he went downstairs and cautiously opened the door.
“Yo, Shotgun.”
Dustin stood there with a bright smile.
He was holding all three boxes effortlessly.
“...What is all this?”
“OG sent it.”
...What?
Whenever a gang sent a box in an American TV drama, nine times out of ten there was some kind of warning inside.
A severed horse head.
A bullet.
Something like that.
“Hurry up and open it!”
Dustin slapped the top of the box he had set down.
Park Geon opened the first box with trembling hands.
“...?”
A Pioneer CDJ-3000.
(Translator’s Note: Pioneer CDJ-3000 — A professional digital DJ media player released by Pioneer DJ in 2020 and widely used in professional club, festival, and touring setups.)
Top-of-the-line equipment used by professional DJs.
It was standard industry gear found in clubs, festivals, and touring setups.
The second box.
A Pioneer DJM-900NXS2 mixer.
(Translator’s Note: Pioneer DJM-900NXS2 — A professional four-channel DJ mixer released by Pioneer DJ in 2016 and widely used in club and festival DJ booths.)
An all-in-one professional mixer equipped with faders, equalizers, and an effects section.
The third box.
A pair of speakers, headphones, a complete cable set, and various other pieces of high-end music equipment.
H-how much does all of this cost together?
“OG said you’re supposed to practice with this until Soundwave.”
Ha.
Park Geon understood.
This was a form of investment.
They had oiled the milking machine.
So that they could extract the maximum possible performance from it.
“Where should I put this?”
“...Ah, upstairs. My room.”
Dustin easily lifted all three boxes.
He carried them upstairs and gently set them down on the floor of Park Geon’s room.
“Nice room.”
Dustin looked around.
“!”
Then he noticed the bookshelves packed with law textbooks.
Park Geon immediately moved to stand with his back against the shelves.
Black gang members tended to hold deep resentment toward the justice system, and if Dustin discovered he was a UCLA law student, Park Geon feared his jaw might be sent flying across the room.
Dustin began opening the boxes.
Styrofoam packing pieces spilled everywhere.
“Damn, this stuff is seriously expensive. I’ve never seen OG back someone this much before.”
“...”
That was not comforting at all.
It only meant expectations were high.
And high expectations meant the consequences of failure would be even worse.
What if I bomb at Soundwave after all this?
Fuck.
The thought made him dizzy.
They placed two CDJs and the mixer side by side on the desk, then positioned monitor speakers on both sides.
Once the cables were connected and the power turned on, the CDJ displays lit up.
...There are more buttons than the ones I saw on YouTube. Is it because these are more expensive?
It looked like the cockpit of a spaceship.
Buzz—
At that moment, his phone screen lit up.
A notification from the UCLA Law School app.
The feed showed pictures of his law-school classmates.
The semester had begun.
They were sitting together on the lawn, smiling.
Brian was there too.
Comments filled the post.
—I look terrible in this. Take it down.
—Anyone taking Professor Marshall’s class? We need to form teams.
—Capstone groups have to be decided by next week.
—LMAO, when are we all going out together?
“...”
Come to think of it, no one had contacted him since he took his leave of absence.
Not even that bastard Brian had sent him a single message.
Then again, Park Geon was not the type to contact them first either.
Forget it.
It had always been like this.
Why should he suddenly care now?
“Yo, where does this cable go?”
Dustin was holding an RCA cable.
This was something Park Geon actually knew.
He had spent years composing alone with an audio interface.
“Ah, connect that to the master out on the back of the mixer.”
“This one?”
“No, next to it. The red and white ports.”
Park Geon directed him while stubbornly guarding the bookshelf.
Eventually, everything was connected.
As a test, they inserted a USB drive containing several tracks into one of the CDJs.
Dustin pressed play.
Boom. Boom-boom.
Sound filled the room through the monitor speakers.
The room vibrated.
The CDJ jog wheel spun in time with the track.
“Ayyyy! This sounds insane!”
Dustin began moving to the beat.
“N-now that everything’s installed, let’s go downstairs.”
Park Geon could not keep standing there guarding the bookshelf forever, so his first priority was getting out of his room.
He went downstairs with Dustin.
Once they reached the living room, Park Geon spoke.
“By the way, Dustin. For helping with all this, I should pay you—”
“Nah.”
Dustin gave him a hood-style greeting.
Their fists met, their hands turned and clasped, then their shoulders bumped in a three-part gesture.
At some point, Park Geon had started responding automatically.
“Money? Shotgun, you’re my homie. Why would I take money from my homie?”
“No, but still... you even worked up a sweat.”
“Huh!”
Dustin shouted as though struck by sudden inspiration.
“Then let’s go eat.”
“O-okay. Where? My treat.”
“Gohyangmi!”
“...!”
Why there of all places?!
“By the way, Dustin.”
“Shotgun.”
“W-while we’re inside the restaurant, don’t call me Shotgun...”
Dustin tilted his head.
“...Call me Park Geon.”
“Why?”
“Uh, I’ll explain later...”
“Aight!”
The door to Gohyangmi opened.
Park Geon’s father looked out from behind the counter.
“Well, look who it is! Dustin!”
“Sir! Long time no see!”
His mother came out while wiping her hands with a wet towel.
“Dustin, have you eaten?”
“No, ma’am! I’ll enjoy the food today too!”
A little later, Park Geon’s father personally carried out a tray.
Side dishes filled the entire table.
“These are on the house.”
His father added rolled omelet and braised short ribs.
“You’re Geon’s best friend. Of course I should give you this much.”
“On my mama, this place really is... the warmest place in the world.”
At that moment, Park Geon sensed someone quietly approaching.
“H-hello.”
It was Park Yul.
She was wearing a backpack and appeared to have come directly from school.
“Oh, Shot—... no. Park Geon’s little sister?”
“Yes. I’m Park Yul.”
“Yul!”
“I’m sorry I hid without saying hello last time. We even made eye contact...”
Apparently, Dustin had noticed Park Yul crouching beneath the counter the last time he came in to pay.
“It’s fine! I’m kind of big. Everyone gets surprised the first time they see me!”
Dustin flexed his arm muscles proudly, then burst into laughter.
Park Yul handed him a drink.
“This is from me.”
“What is it?”
“Sikhye. It’s a traditional Korean drink. Try it.”
(Translator’s Note: Sikhye — A traditional Korean sweet rice drink made with malted barley and cooked rice, commonly served chilled.)
Dustin took a sip.
“OHHH, shit... no, OHHHH, sweet.”
“Haha. I heard that already, Dustin.”
“This is good!”
The cup was empty after two more gulps.
“Would you like another one?”
“Oh, thanks, Yul!”
Park Yul headed toward the kitchen with a pleased expression.
In the distance, Park Geon’s parents were smiling warmly.
“...”
This was bad.
His family was beginning to adore a gang member.
The mistake he had made at The Vault remained painfully vivid.
Lil D had filled the gap with a freestyle, so it had worked out in the end, but that had been pure luck.
Luck did not come twice.
A second mistake meant death.
So Park Geon sat in front of the equipment Big Joe had sent him.
The setup arranged across his desk had turned his bedroom into a miniature club.
The study method driven by fear of death remained as effective as ever, and his survival instinct continued forcing his brain to operate at full capacity.
He had already graduated from YouTube tutorials.
Now it was time for practice.
He spun the jog wheel with his fingertips to set cue points, moved the crossfader to transition between tracks, and practiced cutting the low end with the EQ so the basslines of two songs would not clash when layered.
He repeated the process hundreds of times.
At The Vault, the assistant DJ had been there to back him up.
At Soundwave, there would be no such safety net.
No one would be standing beside him to help.
Every single button on the CDJ had become a crossroads between life and death.
At this point, even Park Geon was becoming frightened.
Was the human brain really designed to endure this kind of workload?
Timelines appeared even in his dreams.
If he set a cue point before going to sleep, he could still remember its position when he woke up.
And today was no different...
Ah, wait.
Soundwave.
The Soundwave where he would be standing onstage as a DJ.
One of Los Angeles’s biggest music festivals.
What if someone recognizes me?
At The Vault, sunglasses had been enough.
The club was dark, there had been smog, and most of the audience consisted of Black people from the hood who had no connection to him.
But Soundwave?
In broad daylight.
Outdoors.
There was no way a pair of sunglasses alone could hide his identity.
Th-this is insane. If I’m exposed, I’m finished.
What if people discovered that Shotgun was Park Geon?
What if word spread that a law student was working as a producer for people connected to the Crips?
The U.S. bar admission process included a character and fitness review.
An applicant’s past conduct, criminal history, and moral judgment could all be investigated.
Gang involvement.
The severity of the lyrics he had written for the diss track.
What if those were presented before the review committee?
—Do you believe a man who wrote, “I’ll destroy your career and come all over everything you built,” is fit to represent a defendant?
Then even if he graduated from law school, he might never be admitted to practice law.
And what if his parents found out?
What if Professor Marshall found out?
...What do I do?
Park Geon sat in front of the CDJs, clutching his hair.
Eventually, he left his room and headed to the kitchen.
He needed water.
He poured himself a glass and drank it.
As the cold water passed down his throat, his overheated head cooled slightly.
He was about to put down the glass when—
Something in one corner of the kitchen caught his eye.
Dome-shaped.
A smooth metal surface.
...An electric rice cooker.
The day before the LA Soundwave Festival.
A Blood hideout in Inglewood.
“I heard Lil D is performing at Soundwave tomorrow.”
“Hip-hop stage. Apparently, he’s in the slot right before the headliner.”
“Right before the headliner? Ha. Big Joe must’ve pulled strings behind the scenes.”
“How long has it been since the Crips had a rapper like Lil D?”
Marcus, the lieutenant in charge of the Bloods’ music business, spoke.
“But Lil D isn’t the one I’m more concerned about.”
“Then who?”
“Shotgun.”
The moment that name came up, the atmosphere grew heavy.
The man responsible for ending B.I.G’s career.
“That bastard is a monster.”
Marcus leaned against the sofa and cracked his fingers.
“You all remember the B.I.G diss battle, right?”
Of course they remembered.
A major-scene rapper affiliated with the Bloods had been publicly destroyed by an underground rapper.
“B.I.G dropping a diss track in three hours was already incredibly fast. But the response came out in two hours. Fine. Let’s say that much was possible.”
Marcus pointed into the air with his index finger.
“But the second round? B.I.G fired back in an hour and forty minutes, and the response dropped in forty minutes. Forty. Fucking. Minutes.”
The hideout went quiet.
Low murmurs of admiration slipped through the silence.
“I also heard J-Rackz knelt in front of Shotgun and begged while crying.”
Someone quietly cursed.
“Shit...”
“That prideful J-Rackz?”
“Is Shotgun actually a Crip?”
It might have sounded like a joke, but no one laughed.
It was a reasonable suspicion.
The vicious lyrics used against B.I.G.
What J-Rackz had supposedly done.
Everything made sense if Shotgun was a Crips gangster.
On top of that, Crips enforcers were even acting as Shotgun’s guards.
“He isn’t.”
Marcus shook his head.
“Big Joe definitely brought him in, but he isn’t officially affiliated. Beyond that, we know nothing. We can dig all we want, but there’s nothing to find.”
“He produces, writes lyrics, and tomorrow he’s even DJing for Lil D at Soundwave.”
“...He really is a monster. A fucking monster.”
Another lieutenant asked a question.
The mention of Soundwave had made him think of it.
“Lil D isn’t seriously going to perform the B.I.G diss track tomorrow, right?”
“Hell nah. That’s impossible. On a stage that big?”
“People from our territory go to Soundwave too. There’ll be Bloods in the audience.”
“Yeah. We already let the B.I.G diss battle slide.”
“If they perform the diss track openly on that stage, it’ll be no different from a declaration of war.”
At that moment, the man who had been silent on the sofa farther inside spoke.
“Hmm.”
Leonard.
An OG of the Bloods.
Leonard took a Zippo lighter from his pocket, sparked it once, then snapped it shut.
(Translator’s Note: Zippo lighter — A reusable metal lighter manufactured by Zippo Manufacturing Company, founded in Pennsylvania in 1932. It is well known for its hinged lid and distinctive opening and closing sound.)
Flick. Click—
“If that happens, we can’t just sit still either.”
And the next day.
The day of the LA Soundwave Festival.
Just before Lil D went onstage, he spoke to Shotgun.
“Shotgun, you decide this.”
“...”
“Whether we perform the diss track or not.”
“...”
Are you fucking insane?!