V O L U M E

F I V E

4 luv heat and the marcyz boyz

Carrying her cell phone and talking to a boy from school she sometimes dated when her parents were gone, Dreem ran out to the car, swung down the driveway of her parentís home in Bellwood Manor outside Dallas in suburban Irving, and stopped a couple times in the neighborhood to pick up friends an a black in the latest ZZ.com skully and do-rags she didnít even know that came with one friend of hers--and they made it in good time to the stadium. The ultra- tribal venue swallowed Dreem and her friends together with crowds streaming in from the parking lots. They found their seats and sat down. Friends were talking on their cellphones to boyfriends, who were supposed to come over once they got there, but who were busy for some reason, getting what they needed out at the gates. In Dreemís plan it was supposed to be a first year reunion of recent graduations of Bellwood H.S, plus a party, at least that was the idea. But that would wait for after the concert. They were also celebrating Dreemís birthday. She was eighteen, a late-bloomer in her class-- only one sexual experience, no pregnancies, no abortions as yet...but tuned in to the right things, just the same as all her classmates: global peace, Tibet, love, and beginnerís drugs. Dallasís biggest outdoor stadium was packed to capacity with 65,000 tribal fans of the marcyz boyz and their Fortune 500 dot.com businesses, rapping for their benefit classic ďretrospectiveĒ 1990s-era hip-hop concert ďLiberation of Tibet.Ē It was a June day, warm, bright, sunny day, with not a cloud in sight to mar a venue that appeared perfect for the superstar rap band that drove Bentleys. Fans had paid as much as $450-$500 for a scalped ticket to get in at the last minute. No one who was anybody, or who cared for the Chinese-challenged Tibetanese far-off in their yak-milk drinking, sky-high mountain nation, wanted to miss one of the greatest concerts of the rap season. As the fans poured in and took every available seat, all the signs promised luv heat and the marcz boyz would have to be stoned dead to tank out on this much enthusiasm. Shirts peeled off by the thousands, it was beginning to look like yet another Woodstock revival, thanks to the weather. Grass came out, then all the drugs known to man, as well as booze for the traditionists. Coke and crack, too, had already arrived in the veins of too many to count, with more available at every gate for those who found themselves in need of a fix of anything their hearts desired. Looking over the crowd, this wasnít an oppressed ghetto citizenry, most of whom lived far off in ďprojectsĒ such as Marcy in New York, East Coast housing projects for the poor, and couldnít pay the price to get in to concerts like these that capitalized on youth stuffed with their parents' money. Yhese were mostly all suburban white middle class kids and young adults, who only came downtown for all-night raves and drugs like Extasy, the clothes shops, concerts, and, of course, abortion services. A constituency of the global peace movement led by celebrities such as luv heat and his marcyz boys, MJ, and others, true believers in a democracy that set no limits whatsoever on anybody--as long as it all came well laced with drugs, sex, and booze--that was what they had come to cheer and support. If they heard any music and lyrics over the dancing and screaming crowd, well, that was fine too. Then came one small cloud--moving, if anyone noticed, against the wind. Not much of a cloud to make anyone notice it much. It stopped over the open-air stadium.. Invisible streamers, positively charged, shot up from various people in the crowd toward the cloud. Negatively charged leaders snaked down from the cloud, taking only a second to connect with one of the streamers, one that led directly from the head of the cool birthday girl from Bellwood Manor.

I said, get an abortion at the clinic the teacher told us about! said the hunk to Dreemís girl-friend on her right. Maybe I will, but I got to think about it first. Itís my body! the girl shot back. In front of them a row or two: Hey, f---k you! (somebodyís mocha espresso had splashed someone elseís neck) Feels good, this sun. When are they going to start this gig? Mom, Dreem here, got to town fine. Donít worry. I wonít let anybody else drive. I promise! You donít think Iíd let anybody else drive my new car you just got me. No way! Okay. Okay. See you--yes, I will be back by two. No later. Love you, Mom. And thanks. This is a great birthday. Donít bother about a cake. Iím going vegetarian like my friends. And say high to dad when he gets home if you see him by then. Okay. Bye. Get an abortion, we donít want it! You want a relationship with me, donít you? Thereís plenty other girls I can have. So make up your mind. Shut up. I make my own decisions. Okay, babe, but just do the right thing for us. Iím not paying any child support, and Iím not anybodyís daddy. Got that? Yes, I got that. Now shut up. I wanna hear the band. Hey, f---kers! We love ya! Hey you, get off my f---king seat. I paid for it. Screw you too! Well, move over, or youíre dead. Peace and love. Thatís why weíre all here. Pink Clouds. Cotton Candy Clouds. Cotton candy clouds forever. Weíll never die, nobody will ever die again, not in this warm bright cloud. Itís coloring the whole world pink and gold, and violet and...donít know why itís turning to--I see those devils again. They speaking to me again! Shut up! Shut up! I got to throw up. I got to find a place to throw up! Help me! Hey, whatís she doing? Disgusting! Get her outta here! Hey, call a security guard. Get her out, sheís puking over everybody! Yeah, sheís really sick. Something she ate, I guess. Good, theyíre taking her out. Great day! man, the rappin is really good. Everybody is here I know. I mean, everybody! Waving. Waving. Waving back. Hi, guys! Peace sign, a dozen or so. A couple f-yous and the upturned thumb of victory just to be funny. My friends are so funny. Great group down from our school today. We gotta do this more often. Hey, get your hand off me. Not here. I wanna hear the music. That lead rapper, luv heat--what a hustler! I got all his CDís. The whole luv heater series, ďkillin cops rap,Ē ďrapin n killin mommas rap,Ē ďkillin honkey teachers n cops rap.Ē Thatís why I came, not for you to mess with me in front of everybody. So get lost, wonít you? Okay, you can do that, but no more. I mean it. Beep. Hello. You again, Mom? What? I canít hear so good. This crowd is really having a good time. No, I donít know what theyíre playing. It doesnít matter anyway. I can hear the music. Thatís enough. Weíre having a great time. You neednít worry about me. Iím your grown-up daughter now, graduated! Remember that, Mom. Iím not your little girl anymore. I have my rights to do what I like. Even go to raves and dance the Freak whenever I feel like it. Accept the fact. So just donít--what? what? You think something could go wrong here with me? You have this feeling? Now youíre strange, Mom! Real strange! It couldnít be nicer. You should see this sunshine. Hey, I canít talk with you the whole time Iím here. Why come? Iíll call you later, okay? Maybe after the concert, when weíre heading back from wherever we go after this! Yes, I wonít sleep with any boys I donít know! Yes, I know. Its my reproductive right and we need to practice safe sex. Planned Parenthood told us all about that, so you neednít lecture me. I promise. Well, if you must know, that was an accident, pure and simple. He didnít have any condoms with him because he skipped the class when they were giving them out, and his parents not getting home in time to give him his allowance so he could go buy some. You know that. This is ancient history! Why drag it up? How did I know he was going to show up at our slumber party? He was so cute and sweet with his grunge orange and green hair too, and... Nobody told me they were going to pull a joke like that, inviting a boy! Besides, I didnít get pregnant or even herpes, did I? I donít even remember it, so Iím as good as a virgin! So bye. Iíll be just fine. Weíll go for some pizza afterwards and talk about school days, then drive home. No, I wonít be drinking any hard stuff! I hate the stuff, you know that! Mom, youíre going to make me start screaming! Besides, Iím missing the whole concert. Let me go! One more call, and Iíll complain to Ms. Farley who represents the ACLU at school and tell her youíve been harassing me again! Thatís breaking the law, you know! For the last time, get serious. I am going. Bye!

On a luvheat.com digitized screens flanking the skull-decorated stage and special filters screening out most of their wrinkles, the head Rapper with the other boyz hip hopping on either side in luvheat dot com designer do-rags and skully caps ignited cheers from the crowd as they recognized the first song from the ďkillin mommas rapĒ CD:

Öhey, .momma, I wanna kill you underwater in my pool of luv! you good momma, oh its real cool, cool, cool! I said let me slit your throat, momma, easy and cool, cuz a manís gotta right to do some killiní with his luv heater... (luv heat grabs his baggy pants in front and the crowd goes wild)

Chorus of the boyz: Oh, momma, sweet little momma, yeah, momma, My Luv heater kills you dead, little momma, after its done with ya... (screams in the packed stadium, even more dancing frenzy, and the marcyz boyz ramp up the beat a notch or two)

.... dead, dead, dead! I said dead is cool, and I mean the word, cuz a manís gotta luv somebody, donít he? So kill your momma, go kill your momma cuz she wants it, she wants a bullet, she wants a knife, she wants to o.d. real bad on your luv heater!

oh brothers and sisters... donít we look so cool? donít we feel so cool? So be free in this luv heater america, be free in luv heater Tibet, be free all over this Luv heater world! be free! be free, luv and kill and be free..until youíre dead and cool and shoved under six feet of pepsi cans, brothers and sisters! Then youíll be ... dead, dead, dead! And so cool, cool, cool! (Fading to a Crescendo of obscenity-sprinkled Crowd Noise).

luv heat, marcyz boyz

Love that rapper whoís got the cool Bentley. Funny. There wasnít any cloud. Not one. Now thereís one cloud over us. Not very big. What? Flash of light straight into the stadium, right down here close! Oh, my god! Thunder. Crash. People jumping up over the seats to away. Dozens of people trampled in the stampede. Whatís happened? I canít hear! Iím deaf! I can see all these screaming faces around me. People are hurt bad. That girl there. She must be dead. Blood all over, and fried. The marcyz boyz and luv heat canít do a thing. The next rap dies on stage. Everybody is looking where the crowd is going crazy over that big flash of light that hit somebody. Yeah. Somebody for sure got hit. Lightning strike, straight from the cloud. What cloud? That one. Watch out, it may have another lightning bolt. Iím leavin. This place is a death trap. I gotta get out of this place. Get out of my way. Hey, you people, youíre crushing me. Help. F--k you! Me first!

Rememberó-book says we gotta get her heart going first. But it will stop again, probably, so be prepared. Hey, gang, thatís the one, thatís our client. Cardiac arrest, burnsóget to work! Got her name yet? No. Her tee shirt and bra are in shreds, her shorts gone too, bring something to cover. Yeah, a blanket. Thanks. Check her heart. Okay. Fine. Affirmative. Started again. Got the stretcher down here yet? Whatís taking them so long? Get these lookie-yous back away some more. Is that her cell phone? Itís burning. Too bad, we couldíha used it to trace her family. Get it away from here. Throw that fire extinguisher at it, stupid. Sheís burnt pretty bad--2nd degree at least. Now onto the stretcher. Gentle does it. Gentle. Still not conscious. Good thing. Her name. Look though that stuff in her bag again. Yes, I know itís burnt! Found her driverís license? Can you still read it? Good. Sheís that young? Too bad. She might have been good lookiní. Any address? Great. Now letís get our client outta here. Hustle, guys. That little weird cloud may strike again!

Dreemís still working cell phone sizzled in a mass of foam, beeping with a frantic call nobody could hear. Most everyone had seen the cloud and the lightning snake down into the arena and hit. Nobody wanted to be the next lightning strike victim. Half the crowd gone already in the space of five minutes, and the rest leaving as fast as they could, the concert with only rap song completed was over, the aging rappers, with diamond-encrusted, Swiss-made Audemars Piguet watches on their wrists, fleeing in high style in luv heatís $360,000 Bentley (shipped by Mayflower wherever needed on concert tours since luv heat had a horror of using hired vehicles old enemies from his drug-dealing days might slip a bomb into), straight to luv heatís Lear Jet for a swift flight back to Manhattan-view penthouses or a week of status relaxation in the Hamptons for a mere $30,000. Gangsta rap mogul and former drug dealer luv heat and his Marcy Project hip-hopping boyz were too hung over from coke, crack and Belvedere vodka, though, to get all that upset about one concert scratched due to a freak thunderstorm and a lightning bolt. Tibet? Poor, down-trodden old Tibet was just too far away to know anything at all was going on in Dallas. Tibet was really just an agentís idea anyway, a sure connection with global peace and love consciousness and a mountain of real money and new contracts. Really, it was all about money and power and status, with the mob buying up all the unsold CDs for resale in bargain bins, all in all a five billion dollar game where the ante in the pot was growing by the minute. Sure, the New York Supreme Court was bringing ďluv heat,Ē Perry Salaway, to trial to face assault charges for a stabbing a rival at a nightclub--and, if convicted, he could get 15 years in the slammer. But he had sold ten million CDs and his companies were doing a million take a year in clothing, sports, films and music, and his ďluv heat shoviní butt in the judgeís face,Ē his latest single in which he takes aim at the criminal justice system for hitting him with bogus charges, expected to go platinum. On return to New York, interviewed by Rolling Stone in the lobby of the Trump International Hotel on Central Park West, luv heat said, snapping his fingers with the platinum deathshead rings, ďClassical Hip-hop owes something to pop, so Iím headed out, after the trial, to join dear, old Mikey over in--wherever it is heís doing his latest cool peace gig. Luv heat will wanna be a part of that. A big part! You canít keep an old Marcy hood boy down, when somethiní that big is going on!Ē

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