DBM Extended Discussion.
In this excerpt, a group of musicians debate the glamorization of violence and drug-dealing in rap music. We should go, said the guitarist after a while. We drifted down and I felt like I was having to shout to make myself understood, even though the guitarist and the composer were standing right next to me, so close I could hear them breathe, hear the swishing and rustling of their clothes.
This is how things are, I thought several times, more or less involuntarily, and without even knowing what that meant. This is how things are. This is my life. It has to be this clear and simple. This tyrannical.
Then I thought, still on the escalator, going down and down and down, that it was idiotic, that my thoughts were idiotic, that I was an idiot. And we got on the train, in silence. The guitarist got out his phone and started tapping at it.
I looked at the composer, she closed her eyes and sort of massaged them, rubbed her fingers against her eyelids, and I took the chance to lean my head back and close my eyes too, my hands resting on my lap as the train glided across the Sound. We reached Kiko fuck yourself church, paid the entrance fee, and sat right at the front on the left-hand side, each with a program in our hands. Then Christoph Maria Moosman entered. I turned around, looked up at the organ, and could just make him out as he sat down at the manual.
We dropped one there straight off, but had to wait an hour at least before she let us in, seemed there was a lot of people passing through, a lot going on. She gave us the gear and we took off in search of Slovak, the Bulgarian.
I take your fucking bullets! And surprise, surprise, we got stopped by the pigs three minutes later. They lined us up by the nursery school, right in front of the kids and staff, all staring, frisked us and searched the Mazda. They impounded the car but none of us were carrying anything, so they had to let us go. His dad had got his sentence and was going down for eighteen months.
He laughed at me and said stop being a dick. I said what? Estilo cubano, he said. Two hours later Hansson rang. Time to get paid, bro. Are you in for the next round?
Official i’m mostly peace love and light and a little go fuck yourself yoga shirt
We said your loss, man, more green for us then, and then everything went fine, no problem at all, and we made Kiko fuck yourself bit, not that much but still, you know, a bit extra, while he had all these different jobs: official, unofficial, legal; but he was still poor and trying to get his grades and all that and in the end he went to some club to chill out, but this psycho-bouncer started hassling him until Marko flipped out and then he got five or six months for aggravated assault. I went in to see him the first week he was there and he said he regretted fighting back, said it was pointless, you always get it wrong, regardless.
She looks me in the eye, then at the faces surrounding me. New faces. Dima giggles with nerves. I give Elsa the money. She casts a glance at the notes, folds them once, and stuffs them in her pocket.
I reach out my hand. The others giggle too. Same to you, she says, taking my hand in hers.
Enjoy responsibly. I put the bags away and the wraps the kids had folded for her. Then she gets out the big packet and a dark blue rucksack, she passes both over. Be careful. You can go out that way in a minute, the others have just gone, she says and points to the door in the back. Thanks, I say. Yep, you already said that. She grins and turns around. She has a big scar on her upper arm. It says DOOM on her top.
We go out, and then into the club again via a door guarded by this absolutely enormous guy with an Ivan Drago hairdo, black polo shirt, and a fat gold chain over his shirt. Want something to drink?
I?m not always an asshole and just kidding go fuck yourself pullover hoodie
Becca says to me. We went to some place, kind of like a falafel t but a bit nicer, with Persian food. We ate this beautiful rice he liked, then he said he was going to take care of me. He promised, you know, all formal. And to be honest I felt grossed out. I looked at him. Then I picked up the fork and stabbed it into my arm. It made four holes and they were pretty deep.
We just sat there a while. It was bleeding and he looked hurt. Almost desperate. It felt lonely. He tried to eat the rest of his food, but I just drank a bit and held a napkin against my arm. Then I said I should go home and disinfect the wound.
Can I come along, he asked. And I felt like sticking the fork in his eye. But instead I just said: of course. We laugh at the guy. I get up. I hate this UV light. Weird that she thought we were cops. How you doing, Cody? On your knuckles. What happened? Did you get any on you? Here, tissue. How are you doing yourself? A bit glazed-over, dunno.
Other des with this poster slogan
How are we going to find the Slovak anyway? Is everyone here?
Did you get the bags? And the nine-bars? Yeah, I got everything. What are they up to in there? We have to test it.