The Hip Hop Murderer. Dwayne Bowen
Captain of 177...and don't you mean the sharpest tool in the shed?"
Bruce exclaims, "Yes, Captain of 177, but not invincible to the world, you know. And I meant what I said the first time—you aren't going to blend in like the rest of us black folk. These kids now-a-days are so rambunctious. And, by the way, Joe Joe, you have no business going into a place like that given your rank and status here in the army, man. You need to be more careful," Bruce says, expressing his concern.
Joe chuckles, patting Bruce on the shoulder. "Don't worry, B, I'll be all right in there, young gun."
* * *
It's now Saturday night and Joe is standing in line for the rap concert. He couldn't believe the language he was hearing from these young adults. There was a group of boys talking about the number of people that had been killed on the very block they were standing on. Stunned by the amount, Joe gets closer to the group to eavesdrop. One of the guys notices Joe leaning in and tells him to back up.
Joe responds, "Oh sorry, my bad. I was just admiring that fat chain you got there."
"Is that so?! You know how many people would kill for this bling right here, Grandpa?!" the guy says.
Based on the numbers you were talking about, I would think you wouldn't want to be one of those statistics. I didn't mean to listen, but that sounds unbelievably high," Joe says.
The young guy responds, shrugging his shoulders. "Yeah well, if I die, I die with honor...fighting for my chain. My boys know what I'm about and they know that I ain't gonna let no fool out here on these streets get my bling, ya hear?!"
Joe responds, shaking his head with a grimace. "Do you hear yourself, son? You're willing to die over a chain that you can get from any jeweler—and with real diamonds encrusted? However, you're willing to die for this one; where's the honor in that?"
"Ease up off me, Grandpa. I'm just telling you how it is, man," the guy says, brushing his shoulders off.
One of the guys in the group yells out, "Yo, we up in there next, let's be out!"
"Later, ol' man, see you on the inside or not," the young guy says as he walks through the entrance of the auditorium.
As Joe enters through the doors, all he can hear are a bunch of people yelling, extremely loud music playing, and one curse word after another. A little reluctant to go in, he stands around watching the young adults rush past him to get into the main auditorium to watch the concert. He sees guys with their pants hanging halfway off their butts. The girls that are with them are wearing close to nothing—miniskirts and low-cut shirts and high heels that make them look like strippers.
It was plain to Joe that the majority of the kids there were missing one of two things: either a second parent in the house—probably the father—or lacking discipline from either parent.
Before walking into the auditorium, he looks up to the ceiling and whispers, "Thank God I don't have any girls."
After being there for about an hour and a half, Joe goes to the bar, where there are a couple of people still drinking, closing the bar down. Joe gets up on one of the barstools and orders a glass of Paul Masson brandy. He starts to make casual conversation with the bartender.
"Say, man, who's the owner of this here establishment?" Joe asks, trying to sound less authoritative than he usually does.
The bartender answers disdainfully as he wipes down the countertops. "That would be me...what can I do for you?"
"You know, it's been a while since I've been to a concert and I'm just curious to know what it would take for me to open up a place like this. I'm looking to open a club in New Jersey and wanted to know how profitable it would be."
The owner explains, "Hell yeah, it's profitable. But most of these kids try to buy out the bar as if money grows on trees; only to find out when they leave the club that they're broke. Little do they know I have an unlimited supply of liquor in my cellar so I continue to make my money while they spend all of theirs. Depending on the size of the crowd, on a night like this I can easily make $75,000 to $100,000—so long as another local club doesn't have a hotter act booked at the same time."
Joe replies, "It's got to be expensive to maintain a crowd of this size."
"That can be the only downside to it—I have to pay the cops to have tight security and keep things in order. When booking a big rap name, the money is pretty much guaranteed so, when you look at it, it's really small potatoes."
"I see...so what do you think about the music they're performing?" Joe asks.
"I could care less...I don't listen to rap music," the owner replies.
Joe says with a determined look, "So it doesn't matter that..."
"Look, man, I don't get into the politics, I'm a business man. If I listened to this stuff and dissected their music, I'd be a poor man for sure. But as long as there's loud music and booze...then we're in business."
"So you really don't care..."
The owner interrupts him. "Hey, what's your name again?"
"Joe."
"Look, Joe, as long as I make my money, I could care less about the small casualties. I give the people what they want and, in return, I make a hundred grand by the end of the night. I give them entertainment and liquor so they can enjoy themselves. And, based on the twenty questions, I guess it's fair to say that you didn't enjoy yourself tonight?"
Joe gets up from the stool with a grimace. "Hmm, another person who could care less."
"What was that hotshot?"
"Nothing. Actually, I beg to differ, I did enjoy myself tonight...and I learned a lot, too. I appreciate your time, you have a good night."
"What a rip-off!" Joe mumbles as he walks off.
* * *
The next morning, Joe and Bruce are in the gym about to start their workout. Joe puts 405 pounds on the bar and explains to Bruce, "Okay, I'm gonna do a set of ten so I may need you to help me out around seven or eight."
"Seriously?" Bruce says in amazement. "Damn, okay!"
Joe lies down on the bench and knocks out the first seven with no problem. As he nears the count of 8, he asks Bruce to spot him.
"Damn, you're still a beast, man! You've got the strength of an army...so to speak," Bruce says.
Joe shrugs his shoulders. "Hey, man, you know I live for this. By the way, do you know anything about that local club, Herachi's, that's not too far from here?" Joe asks.
Bruce stands over Joe as he attempts another set of ten. Joe starts to grunt, calling out each number and again making the first seven bench presses look as easy as pie.
"I've seen it but never gone inside because I noticed the crowd looked a little young. Why, what's up? Don't tell me you ended up going to that place, man?"
As Joe nears the count of ten, Bruce holds his hands under the bar to help him guide it back onto the rack.
"Well, yeah...I went there last night and you're right about the crowd. I just wanted to put myself in our kids' place and, man oh man, are things different from when you and I were growing up. The girls have such low self-esteem and have no respect for themselves and the guys could care less about them, too," Joe begins.
Joe gets up from the bench and starts to remove the free weights. Sweating profusely, Joe reaches for the towel in his back pocket and blots the perspiration from his forehead and neck. Still exhaling from his last set, Joe positions himself over Bruce to spot him while he puts in his sets.
"I was just checking the place out to get a glimpse of what I have to go home to. If I'm going to adjust Bryan's attitude and disposition toward his mother and make him respect me at the same time, I need to know the company he keeps. That means these types of crowds and this type of music. It's obvious that the lyrics have a lot to do with their disgruntled behaviors."
After