Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Whenever people asked him what his dream was when he was little, he always gave the same answer.
“A lawyer.”
He wrote “lawyer” on those future-career worksheets too.
His mother had pinned one of them to the refrigerator, and it was probably still there even now.
“Haha, Geon! Congratulations!”
The day he got into UCLA Law School as the top incoming student, his father had gone around boasting like an overproud fool.
At Korean merchants’ association gatherings, at church, even to the ingredient suppliers for the restaurant.
That was right.
His dream had been to become a lawyer.
But now—
“Yo, Shotgun! Check out the lyrics for my diss track!”
“What do you think of this verse? It’s kind of weak, right?”
“Doesn’t the rhythm feel a little too fast here?”
“I just finished recording. Give me some feedback! Please!”
Instead of taking legal cases, he was taking diss-track cases.
Ah... how did my life end up like this?
“I came from Long Beach. OG told me to work with you.”
Long Beach.
It took a little over three hours to get here by car.
“Wassup, Shotgun. I just flew in from Oakland.”
Oakland.
One hour by plane.
They flew here too?!
But he did not have time to dwell on it.
If he did not make the tracks, he would die.
“I came all the way here, and do you know how much—”
“...Let’s get started right away.”
“Shit, just like the rumors. You really are all business.”
“...”
“I’ll get straight into it.”
The diss war only kept escalating.
Under Leonard’s orders, Blood-affiliated rappers poured out diss tracks under their own names, all aimed at the Crips.
In terms of sheer firepower, the Bloods were overwhelming.
They were all major rappers who had placed songs on Billboard charts.
They had hundreds of thousands to tens of millions of monthly listeners on Spotify, deep producer pools, and overflowing studio infrastructure.
Objectively speaking, there was no area where the Crips should have been able to beat the Bloods.
...Except for one.
[Prod. SHOTGUN]
While seven Blood rappers worked with their own producers, their own studios, and their own engineers to put out songs, one man was pouring out most of the key tracks for the Crips.
Beats.
Lyrics.
Production.
And the internet was witnessing that absurdity in real time.
—Seven major-level Blood rappers joined in, and they still can’t win?
└ The Bloods have better rappers. But the gap in producer skill is on another level.
└ Multiple Blood producers vs. one Crips producer, and the one guy is winning.
└ That’s the real core of this diss war.
—And when you listen to Shotgun’s beats, they don’t even sound rushed.
└ The beats are all different depending on the rapper’s style.
└ Lil D’s beat is aggressive, Clapton’s is old-school boom bap, and Kayno’s is trap but melodic.
└ One person made all of that?
└ Seriously, is that even possible?
—Doesn’t he sleep?
└ Maybe he’s on drugs or something.
└ At this point I’m genuinely curious what kind of guy Shotgun even is.
└ One Man Army. He’s solo-carrying the whole war.
At that same time.
Blood hideout.
“...What the hell is that guy?”
Leonard ground his molars.
“Is that a speed a human being can even work at?”
Marcus kept his mouth shut.
He could not answer.
As the man overseeing the Bloods’ music business, Marcus knew better than anyone how fast producers could realistically work.
But Shotgun was turning out multiple tracks a day, which was absurd.
As if someone were standing right beside him with a gun to his head, threatening him.
No, even if that were true, it still doesn’t make sense.
Why?
Because the quality was good too.
“What are our producers even doing?”
“They’re working hard, but honestly, they’re falling behind on speed. On our side, each rapper has a different producer, so it takes time to match tones. On their side, one guy is doing most of it, so the tone is unified from the beginning.”
“So you’re saying it’s seven against one, and the one is still winning.”
Marcus let out a long sigh.
“And one more thing... the Crips rappers weren’t originally this good. But once they started working with Shotgun...”
“You’re saying that bastard is raising the rappers’ skill levels too?”
Marcus nodded.
Leonard closed his eyes.
This was supposed to be a fight we were winning.
He had never intended for this diss war to grow this large.
The plan had been to hit the Crips hard with Slipknot’s first and second diss tracks, then end it there.
But Shotgun had exposed Slipknot’s sex-crime record and flipped the whole board over, and from that point on, there had been no choice but to enter all-out war.
And the result?
They were losing even in the all-out war.
Losing in speed.
Losing in quality.
And losing even more badly in lyrical cruelty.
That crazy bastard.
In one diss track, he had gone so far as to quote the legal code outright.
That rapper, too, had now been cut down beyond any hope of recovery, just like Slipknot.
...If this keeps going.
Leonard picked up his phone with a trembling hand.
Ring... ring...
“Hm? You should be busy as hell right now, so you’re actually calling me?”
Big Joe answered in that smug tone of his.
“Listen, Big Joe.”
The hand gripping Leonard’s Zippo tightened.
“...How about we call it a draw?”
Crips hideout.
“Ayyyy! Long live the Crips!”
“Those Blood bastards got their noses smashed flat!”
“Nah, nah! He said a draw!”
“It’s basically a win! He begged OG to make it a draw!”
Park Geon let out a sigh of relief.
At last... it’s over.
The diss war was over, which meant he was free now too.
No more having to make beats while chased by the terror of death.
No more getting brain cramps from writing lyrics.
I need to catch up on sleep. I should get home and pass out as fast as I can.
He was starting to look for a chance to slip away when—
“Yo, Shotgun!”
Dustin approached carrying a bottle of Hennessy.
“A toast to today’s star!”
“No...”
“Drink it up, bro!”
The gang members around them started clapping and cheering.
What would happen if he refused here?
The mood might flip instantly and I might get beaten to death by the whole group. The diss war is over now, so maybe they’ll think I’m useless.
Thinking that, Park Geon took the glass.
Forty-proof liquor.
Gulp—
He downed it in one shot.
Lava ran down his throat.
The world went white for a second, then came back.
“OHHH! He drained that strong shit in one go?!”
“Ayyy! Shotgun don’t play!”
“He lives up to the name! Even the way he drinks is shotgun-style!”
Then Jamal sat down right beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“You good?”
He was asking if he was okay.
And for a second, Park Geon almost felt something in his chest soften. So they really were worried about him too...
Hiiiik!
Then he turned his head and saw the teardrop tattoo.
It was the first time he had ever seen it this close.
I absolutely cannot get drunk today.
If he slipped up, he might reveal that he was a law student, and if he passed out, there was no telling where he would wake up.
Hold on, Park Geon. Hold on.
In the middle of that, Lil D walked over.
Holding a bottle of water.
“Yo.”
“...Yo.”
“Drink this.”
Lil D casually handed him the water bottle and continued.
“This diss war. We couldn’t have won it without you.”
“...”
“Thank you, bro.”
He said thank you? To me?
A strange feeling swept over him.
No.
Do not get emotional.
This was still a danger zone.
“And now that the diss war is over, let’s really get started on the album.”
Of course.
He had thought the end of the diss war meant freedom.
But the milking machine had not stopped.
Lil D tapped him on the shoulder and poured more liquor.
“Drink it up, homie. Today, it’s okay to drink.”
“...”
What did he mean, it was okay to drink?
It was absolutely not okay.
But he could not refuse again when Lil D himself was pouring the Hennessy.
Ughhh.
Hold on.
He was still conscious.
If he was the only one to collapse among these gangsters drinking liquor like water, his pride would be... no, not his pride. His life would be in danger.
Just then, one of the gang members raised his phone and shouted.
“Everybody, look at this!”
The hideout went silent.
“[DRIVE], Billboard Hot 100... No. 4!”
Silence.
Then—
“FOR REAL?!”
“No. 4?! Seriously?!”
“SHEEEEESH!”
Dustin slammed shoulders with another gang member, and the guy he hit was grinning stupidly even while sprawling across the floor.
Next to them, two more gang members hugged each other and started spinning in circles.
“Hoo...”
Big Joe took the cigar from his mouth and exhaled a long stream of smoke.
The corner of his mouth was curled up in a grin.
And as for Park Geon—
A song I made is No. 4 on Billboard?
Maybe it was the alcohol, but emotion surged up through him.
Back in elementary school, he had watched beatmaking videos on YouTube and taught himself.
He had never once thought about uploading anything to SoundCloud.
Because he had never believed his music was good enough for other people to hear.
...And yet now it was No. 4 on Billboard.
Of course, it’s not because of my skill. [DRIVE] only climbed to No. 4 because this diss war became such a huge issue and dragged the song up with it...
Still, somehow.
It was as if one corner of his chest felt itchy.
Just... something.
“Yo! To celebrate No. 4, I’m dropping a freestyle!”
Lil D shouted.
The gang members beside him immediately started laying down beatbox sounds.
One did the kick, another filled in the hi-hat.
For noises made with nothing but mouths, the groove was actually pretty solid.
“Started from the bottom, now we climbing, yeah.”
We started from the bottom, and now we’re climbing.
“Billboard number Four, man the timing’s great.”
Billboard No. 4, man, the timing couldn’t be better.
“Shotgun, yeah, he never miss.”
Shotgun, yeah, he never misses.
The gang members threw their hands up, shouting “Ayyy!”
Then, after finishing the freestyle, Lil D looked at Park Geon.
“...”
Park Geon did exactly what he had learned last time.
Still expressionless, he gave a single nod.
At that moment—
“OHHHHH!”
The hideout exploded.
“Did you see that? Did you see it?!”
“Shotgun nodded!”
“Nah, Lil D’s freestyle really was insane just now!”
“That’s the highest form of approval Shotgun can give!”
...And Lil D looked absurdly pleased with himself.
HOOVER SOUND studio.
The atmosphere was different from usual.
Sound engineers.
A&R staff.
(Translator’s Note: A&R (Artists and Repertoire) — A music-industry role focused on scouting talent, developing artists, and helping shape the artistic and commercial direction of releases. The term has been used in the recording industry since the twentieth century.)
Art directors.
All the professional personnel needed to make an album were present.
Among them were a few people Big Joe had brought in from outside as well.
One of them stood out immediately.
Michael Wayne, a well-known A&R executive in the industry who was not gang-affiliated.
Until now, this place had merely been a base for Crips music activity.
But judging from the people gathered here, Big Joe’s intentions were obvious.
He was preparing to expand HOOVER SOUND into a proper label.
Lil D’s full-length album would be the starting point.
“Then shall we discuss the album’s direction first?”
Michael Wayne opened his tablet.
“Based on the chart response to [DRIVE], Lil D’s strength lies in the combination of street sensibility and melodic hooks. The safest route would be to carry that across the album’s overall tone.”
The sound engineer nodded.
“I think it would be good to unify the beat direction along those lines too.”
“Shotgun.”
But Lil D had been curious about Shotgun’s opinion all along.
“What do you think?”
He asked before the expert’s briefing had even fully finished.
Naturally, all eyes turned toward Park Geon.
Behind his sunglasses, Park Geon blinked.
You lunatic. Why are you asking me that?!
A professional A&R executive was in the middle of giving a technical analysis, so what was he supposed to add to that?
But Lil D’s eyes were serious.
If he did not answer, it felt like this meeting would never end.
“...Your story.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
“The feeling of that freestyle you did on The Vault stage.”
The verse Lil D had improvised on the spot.
The Hoover Street streetlights.
The sound of gunfire.
The sound of his mother opening the front door.
“...I think it’d be good if the album held your honest story.”
“...”
Lil D stared at him blankly for a second, then grinned and held out a fist.
Still confused, Park Geon bumped it.
Michael Wayne wrote something down on his tablet and said,
“Okay. Making personal narrative the axis of the whole album is a good direction. The key issue, though, is where to strike the balance with commercial appeal.”
Lil D half-closed his eyes and began to mutter to himself.
It was a freestyle.
As Park Geon listened in inward admiration, a certain artist suddenly flashed through his mind from that exact freestyle.
“...Nova.”
Lil D stopped freestyling and looked at him.
So did the experts.
“I think... it’d be good to bring Nova in as a feature.”
A rapper from Chicago.
An independent artist with no ties to any gang.
His strength was emotional, story-driven rap.
Michael Wayne set down his pen and asked,
“...Um, would you mind if I asked why?”
His curiosity was genuine.
Nova was not a bad choice, but it was not immediately obvious how Lil D’s street energy and Nova’s style would lock together.
“...”
Park Geon was badly flustered.
If Nova’s soft, emotional tone were layered over Lil D’s rough, low register, then something would happen there.
Something.
Some unexplainable something.
But how was he supposed to explain that logically?
Courtroom arguments were made with evidence and precedent.
Music did not work like that.
There was only a vague feeling.
So in the end—
“...FEEL.”
The studio fell silent.
Lil D’s eyes widened.
Question marks seemed to appear over the professionals’ heads.
“...?”
Chicago.
“Shit. Hit already!”
Nova was in the middle of playing an FPS game on his computer.
(Translator’s Note: FPS (first-person shooter) game — A video game genre built around gunplay from the visual perspective of the player character.)
He had been fully focused when—
Creak—
His manager opened the door and walked in.
“A feature request came in.”
“From who?”
“Lil D. You know, he’s all anyone’s talking about these days.”
Nova answered without taking his eyes off the monitor.
“Talking about what? Forget it. Sure, [DRIVE] hit No. 4 on the chart, but it already dropped back into the teens. That was because of the diss-war buzz, not because it earned No. 4 on pure skill.”
“But this request supposedly came directly from the producer.”
“The producer? Who?”
“Shotgun. The executive producer of Lil D’s album.”
Nova’s hand froze on the mouse.
“...What?”
His manager repeated himself.
“Shotgun personally named you.”
“!”
Nova’s face went pale.
What Shotgun had shown during this Bloods-versus-Crips diss war—
His notoriety was enough to make any rapper shudder, whether they had gang ties or not.
But what happens if I refuse here?
He had not even finished the thought before his body moved on its own.
Nova slammed the power button with his toe and sprang to his feet in a panic.
“What are you doing? Aren’t you packing?”