12I-2 Creative Writing
14th Wave Hee Gu Kang
2011. 02. 15.
The Killed
A club. Drinks. Women. Laughter. Several bright spotlights on the stage. The year 2027.
The dimly lit hall was packed with “lightly” dressed people. Small wooden tables densely lined the aesthetically curving walls, and there was a raised spacious dance floor in the center of the cavernous chamber. On the broad stage on one side of the room, the foursome band “Brother V” was busy storming through the last chorus of its biggest hit song “V, Y, Z.”
Ever since the law banning the establishment of “inappropriate” clubs passed in Congress, clubs had come to resemble ballrooms, yet were still slightly more informal than regular ones. Small clubs had as good as vanished from mainstream cities, replaced by enormous ones that had come to dominate downtown culture. Illegal small clubs cluttered the backstreets, and an unpleasant tension existed between the owners of legitimate clubs and the operators of illicit ones. People largely avoided the latter, for they were often centers of the gravest crimes in the country.
“—moonlight V murder V, Y, Z!” A short guitar solo. “V!” CLANG. “Y!” CLANG. “Z!”
The last note G developed into a smooth, short melody, which repeated a few times before the song finally ended with an impressive drum solo. The vocal Matthew Saltsky thrust up his guitar, and waved it around in the air. The fans went mad with jubilance. Some inflexible old women scowled sideways at the festive youngsters.
As the band slowly cleared the stage, still being applauded by zealous supporters, a plump man came to the center of the stage, and stood in front of the microphone still wet with sweat. He hastily replaced the black sponge cover of the round microphone, and composed himself. He was the host of this club, another revolutionary change in club culture.
“There’ll be a short five minute break, and today’s last guest will come onto the stage!” the host announced dramatically, “You can all look forward to this!”
There were enthusiastic applauses and whoops. Pairs of men and women rose from tables or came down from the dance floor, sweating. It was the last day of the year, and in this club, true to the tradition, the host invited the greatest public star of the year, who was always the same person, without exceptions.
“It’s almost time. He’s gonna show up any moment now.” said a lanky, mustached man, pouring wine rather viciously into a tall glass.
“You sound excited.” said his female partner absentmindedly. She was readjusting her hair.
“You should be, too.” said another man wearing a rustic bowtie, joining the couple, “He’s a superstar.”
The mustached man piped up: “Well, he first became famous in Superstar K, didn’t he? No doubt he’s a superstar. You know what? Ironically, the actual winner of that show, the actual superstar, was arrested years ago for running a mass black market of Zap. Litmus is the true ultimate victor!”
“He was pathetic at first.” said the woman, still sounding a bit disdainful.
“Who cares? He’s bloody awesome!” said the man with the purple bowtie, “An epitome of a true endeavourer! He made millions purely out of fame. That’s something. He’s involved in pretty much every industry in Korea, from what I’ve heard.”
The mustached man nodded almost fanatically. The woman turned away, looking sour.
“Talking about Litmus?”
All three of them turned, and saw a shabby-looking (on this club’s standards) man who did not fit with the picture at all. His lopsided hat and his messily unshaven beard only added to his overall ludicrousness.
“Suppose so.” said the woman, giving the strange man a long, searching look.
“A fan, are you?” said the man with the bowtie excitedly.
“Sort of.” said the stranger, “I know him in person. We were friends in middle school. Very good friends.” The other three heard a trace of longing there.
“I envy you, sir.” said the mustached man, bowing inappropriately low, “Oh, and here comes the host.”
The four people turned to the stage. The host walked into a single spotlight, grabbed the microphone rather nervously, cleared his throat, and announced in a voice quivering with anticipation: “Ladies and gentlemen, MC Litmus!”
“It’s him! It’s the Hip-Hop President!”
“Bravo! We all paid triple to see him, didn’t we?”
“Litmus! Litmus! Litmus!” The hall was ringing with reverberant applause.
A short, skinny, middle aged man sidled onto the stage. The host scurried out of sight. The man stalked lightly to the microphone, pulled it out of its stand, blew a few times into it, and started rapping faster than even the legendary “Outsider” of the early 21st century. There was a hush in the crowd as everybody held their breaths, enraptured by the heavenly rhyme and flow of the best rapper existent.
The scowl had vanished from the picky woman’s face. She was positively gawking at MC Litmus, whom she had despised until just a moment ago. That was the magic of MC Litmus. He enthralled every single person who watched him perform. Even animals reacted to this enchantment of his. The mustached man and his friend with the bowtie were grinning foolishly now, their mouths refusing to close again. All Koreans had watched MC Litmus rise from a mediocre hip-hop fan to a prized rapper of the nation, and they simply loved that fact. He was their symbol of hope and success. He was a living slogan for all Koreans.
Only the shabby man was maintaining composure. In fact, he was the only one still sitting in his chair. He had his arms crossed, and was looking—or glaring—at his friend rapping torrentially on the stage. It was a cold, empty sort of stare. Hate? Pity? Rage?
* * * * *
The lengthy performance finally ended. The audience, literally mesmerized by the skills of MC Litmus, hadn’t even noticed their limbs aching from standing and whooping for such a long time. As the people broke out of the trance one by one, Litmus quietly exited the stage through a side door. The two men and the woman were crying with mirth now. Ignoring them, the shabby man rose ghostly from his chair, plowed through the many guests, and slipped out through the side door.
He met inky blackness outside. The streets were deserted but for the several teleportation devices of the guests currently enjoying the reception inside the club. Eerie yellow and green hologram lights shimmered here and there in the dark city, but didn’t contribute much to the illuminations.
“Litmus.” said the shabby man firmly into the total darkness.
No reply.
“Litmus, I know you’re here. Answer me.”
There were footsteps, and the great rapper MC Litmus emerged from a corner of a building.
“Who’s there?”
A twisted smile curled the shabby man’s lips. He said, “It’s Jang.”
The footsteps stopped abruptly, but resumed again in a more quickened fashion. Jang drew an electric rifle from inside his jacket, and discharged it into the dark. A pained yell followed the gunshot, and there was a sickening thump.
“Don’t underestimate my mastery in firearms, Park.” Jang said savagely.
“How can you be acting normally? The Zap pills—”
“I didn’t take Zap because I know you and your mate Kim, pal. You made them with him, didn’t you?”
“I— I apologize, old friend.”
“Friend?”
Jang chuckled sadly. It was a hollow laugh.
“Friends don’t betray each other, Park.” he said, “And you didn’t only betray me. You betrayed the entire world, too. You tricked them all into believing you were me. I’m the one who became famous in Superstar K 2010. I’m the Hip-Hop President, not you. I’m MC Litmus, not you. But you were rich, weren’t you? I was merely a poor country boy. Money’s everything in this world, isn’t it? You forced all those industries you own into producing those Zap pills . . . Dirty bastard . . .”
“Yeah, maybe I am a bastard,” said Park, “but my life is a celebrated one, and yours has been utterly ruined. I’m a scientist. You’re only a rapper. I’m the liar, but your life became a lie instead. Pitiful.”
“This ends here.” said Jang, raising his modern rifle, “I’ve had enough of humiliations.”
“Yes. It does end here. The question is which way.”
BANG. WHAM.
“Ouch!”
Jang heard Park falling, electrified by the electric bullet. The electric rifle slid out of Jang’s slackened grip, clattering onto the flat metal road. The clash of wood on metal rent the absolute silence. Jang fell on his knees, and collapsed sideways.
A dagger was protruding out of his chest.
“This is the cycle of hell, fake MC Litmus. The down side of fame.” said Jang, his breath becoming more and more shallow, “Fame comes at a cost.”
* * * * *
Minutes later, the foursome band “Brother V” materialized beside the two corpses.
“Our only able competitor is dead.” said Matthew Saltsky, stroking Park’s hair, “Fame will come to us now.”
“Yeah.” said the drummer with a smirk.
“Let’s use Zap a bit more. Everybody will think we’re excellent.” said Saltsky.
* * * * *
A month later, all four members of “Brother V” were found dead exactly where the famous rapper MC Litmus had been found dead a month ago.
