A Hip-Hop Story by Heru Ptah

Author:Heru Ptah
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2002-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Nine

It was on a Thursday that Terrence, Hannibal, Mook and Reaper entered the main floor of Peaches nightclub. Peaches was a warehouse turned into a chic ultraexclusive nest bed for celebrities. In former days the club DJs played a plethora of sounds, from pop to house to techno. Now hip-hop ruled the day and likewise hip-hop acts carried the swing. They were the new rock stars.

The men of Cannibal looked about the melee and then went to the VIP section. Many were in attendance. Hannibal eyed Trujillo, a big man in the likes of Stalin, in the corner coupled with the rest of the Latin Mafia, every papi with a mami on his lap. Pinochet was across the floor sipping Cristal with Batista. All of the terrorists were there and the fans flocked about them looking for a pound, a hug, a picture or a deal. Many times they were harangued from the minute their pinky toe touched the dance floor by the starving, all hungry to flow for them. On rare occasions they acquiesced to a young’un’s desires; however, they were usually shunned with an emphatic “Naw!”

Hannibal and the others took their seats amid the raucous. His reputation, as always, had preceded him. Many had known of Bull before he had even made a record. A few had put him in their rhymes. Most rappers talked crime and violence, few actually lived it to the extent that they professed. All knew the genuine article when they saw it. Given that, they paid homage to the Bull and kept their distance.

“Why we here?” Mook asked Hannibal.

“What’s wrong, you don’t like looking at all of this fine ass?” Terrence answered.

“Nigga, was I talking to you?” Mook snapped back. Terrence had taken up the habit of talking out of protocol. Mook noticed that Hannibal rarely checked him. He resented the fact that Terrence had been little by little edging his way into his enclave. He saw him with a bird’s eye and longed to step on this worm.

“It’s all part of the business,” Hannibal answered. “Gotta show your face at these things, keep your name in the press.” Hannibal was no media junkie but he understood the business of hype.

“Plus, besides all of the faggots, there is mad bitches in here,” Reaper added.

“An’ we all ’bout the bitches ain’t we?” Terrence said, playing off Reaper’s emotions.

“Fho sho. There ain’t nothin’ like a firm ass.” After Reaper said this, Mook gave him a wry smile. Terrence then marked a pretty girl mere feet away.

“Yo, Reaps, see dat one over there? Damn, she look good.”

“No doubt, cuz, no doubt.” Although Reaper said cuz with a southern twang, he was as Brooklyn as the rest. His speech was due to the diffusion of down-south slang into the North, due largely to the movements of Lil’ Hitler. The tiny Napoleon and his Gestapo Boyz had all but secured martial law in the South. Having saturated the southern market, he was now seeking lebensraum in the North. The proliferation of slang was the first signal of his coming.

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