Chapter 56: Bandit Rap (Please Keep Reading)

Aoxi finally finished copying and, only after Susan checked and confirmed there were no mistakes, could he go home. Upon entering, he found Zhuo Ning had already returned and was sitting on the sofa, sulking.

“What’s the matter? Someone boiled you? You look as red as a steamed crab.”

Aoxi walked over and pinched her puffed-up cheeks—they felt smooth and pleasant to the touch.

“What’s your relationship with the girl in 302 next door?”

“No relationship? If there’s no relationship, why did she bring you handmade dumplings she made herself? And with chive and egg filling.”

“Oh? That’s just what I like. Why don’t we have dumplings tonight?”

“They’re already cooked, in a bowl in the kitchen,” Zhuo Ning pointed.

Aoxi went to the kitchen, brought the dumplings out, sat down with his back to Zhuo Ning, and tried one. “Not bad, actually quite tasty. Did you eat already?”

“I did. They are pretty good.”

“Should we ask her for some more another time?”

Zhuo Ning nodded, “I think that’s a good idea.”

Aoxi quietly breathed a sigh of relief, glad to have dodged the issue.

But then Zhuo Ning suddenly said, “Don’t think you’re off the hook. Speak up, what’s your relationship? Turn around and face me.”

He turned to look at her. “There’s nothing between us. Think about it: if there was, would she just send dumplings? She’d bring herself over, wouldn’t she?”

“That actually makes some sense…”

“Makes perfect sense! I’m telling you, I’m living a pure and ascetic life now. My back hurts, I have neither the heart nor the energy, you know?”

Zhuo Ning’s elegant brows drew together. She reached out and slid her hand gently across Aoxi’s face, a strange light glinting in her eyes. “Your back hurts? Truly lacking in heart and energy?”

Aoxi blinked, his facial muscles tensing. “I might have… or maybe not… I think… I do…”

Zhuo Ning burst out laughing and gave him a playful shove. “Look how scared you are. I’m not a demon or anything. Hurry up and eat your dumplings; when you’re done, let’s go out.”

“Alright.” Aoxi ate as he asked, “Where are we going?”

“To listen to music. There’s a warehouse in Boyle Heights hosting a performance by a rapper from Atlanta. Let’s check it out.”

“Rapper, hip hop—I don’t really get what that is.”

“We’re just going for the vibe. Doesn’t matter if you understand. If you don’t like it, we can always come back.”

“Alright then.”

Aoxi quickly finished his food, strapped his backup gun and three spare magazines to his waist, and followed Zhuo Ning out.

Boyle Heights was more than ten kilometers from where Aoxi lived, but only two or three from his birthplace, Monterey Park, though he’d never actually been there before. The music warehouse Zhuo Ning mentioned was near South Lorena Street and Grand Vista Avenue. It was supposed to be hard to find, but in fact, it was quite easy. A short drive and it was in sight; at eight or nine in the evening, most shops were closed, but this place was blaring with music and noise. Even from afar, the ruckus was unmistakable—how no one had reported them for disturbing the peace was a mystery.

Outside the warehouse, cars were parked haphazardly everywhere. Five or six young Black men crouched by the door; if not for the streetlights, you wouldn’t have seen them at all. They were covered in tattoos, all thin, wearing an assortment of ragged clothes—deliberately unruly, cigarettes dangling from their lips. As soon as someone approached, they fixed you with hostile, aggressive stares, as if they were unhinged.

Aoxi was a little annoyed just seeing them, but since they were here, he figured they might as well pay and go in.

After buying tickets, the group ignored them and went back to their cigarettes.

One of the doormen swung open the warehouse door; dazzling lights blinded their eyes, and all they could make out was a mass of shadowy figures leaping and writhing, with a few standing higher up, twitching.

Once his eyes adjusted, Aoxi realized those people weren’t twitching but playing guitars, their voices blasting from massive speakers.

And I’m sorry if I up the stick and have to click on you
I ain’t going back to jail, nigga, fuck the feds
If I gotta kill a nigga, gotta cut the dreads

Aside from the spasmodic performers, the audience was no better—down below, people thrashed their heads, lost to the rhythm, wild and manic in their support. If you dragged them out for a drug test, the results would be positive for sure.

At the fringes of the warehouse, the crowd was calmer, but everyone was up to something: drinking, snorting lines, kissing, and groping—some couples were nearly undressed, bodies entangled in the dim light. If readers didn’t mind such vulgarity, he’d have described it in detail.

Aoxi glanced at Zhuo Ning with a strange look—she liked this kind of place? Appearances are deceiving.

Zhuo Ning nudged him. “Our teacher wants us to make a presentation comparing East and West Coast rap. That’s the only reason I came. I never used to go to places like this—it’s chaos.”

It certainly was. Aoxi wrapped his arms around Zhuo Ning and found a relatively clean spot to listen to the performers.

Just as the twitching guitar group left the stage, three Black guys came up, all in black clothes and pants, jewelry on their hands and necks, long hair under baseball caps emblazoned with “fukk” and “trap.” Wearing sunglasses at night—it was a miracle they hadn’t lost them.

The emcee announced their song: “Like A Pimp.”

After a burst of jarring music, the three launched into their rap:

Stomp a nigga out like I’m in a frat
You natnats bother me like a gnat, migos facts
But for the sake of money, I greet you with a smiling face
Fuck how this shit feel
This ain’t studio pimping

Aoxi nearly burst out laughing—what on earth was this? He still didn’t know much about West Coast rap, but he’d now seen what the East Coast had to offer. Truly impressive.

Zhuo Ning was also speechless. She hadn’t expected rap to be about this sort of thing; she’d thought it was like those mellow, broad noodles back home.

Look at these noodles—so thick and so long… Bah! Those anchors really have no shame.

The two were about to leave when the emcee roared into the microphone: “Let’s welcome Mango Foo!”

Aoxi turned to look. A young Black man with dreadlocks—half-dyed red—appeared, sporting a chunky gold chain, a huge gold watch, and covered in tattoos.

He clicked his tongue—he still wanted to listen for a bit. It was actually pretty funny, much more entertaining than those comedy streams.

I gave you Threatz, ultimate next, shoutout the Klan because that’s on the set
Mess with me, I will put you to rest
Lie and you’ll remember to speak with your chest
Gooking forever, I’m still at your neck

As Mango Foo performed, Aoxi’s sharp instincts sensed that something was off—the crowd was starting to grow restless.