Epilogue: The Full Monty

I

HE

« Friend, do you hear the black crow’s cry across our plains? » (Yves Montand – Le chant des partisans). It’s the big day! At 3 o’clock, the climatic abuses have transformed this early afternoon of an ordinary spring into a majestic summer theater for a revenge he has been rewriting in his innermost thoughts for weeks. The sun beats down on the asphalt of the capital, leaving behind a lingering olfactory illusion for those unfortunate enough to venture into the streets when the sun is at its zenith. The city’s everyday pollution sends smoke rising from every pore of Paris, giving the bitter impression that the sun is melting the asphalt. Paris is a furnace that fuels dreams and disillusionments. In this repugnant gray that smells of cement manure, Parisians and others come to quench their fantasies in the alleys and thoroughfares, momentarily forgetting that they’ll have rent to pay tomorrow. Hope evaporates like alcohol after a few hours of rest. And alcohol flows abundantly in Paris.

Even Fianso couldn’t find a better backdrop for the Gatsby of Avignon. « Tonight, the enemy will pay the price of blood and tears, » he tells himself. He is bored, as usual, before the flurry of orders and impromptu phone calls that transport him to every corner of Paris, like Rodriguez’s « Sugar Man. » For a few seconds, as he pours black coffee into a cup he forgot to wash since the day before yesterday, he wonders if he could see himself living like this at 15. No, he was too busy sniffing the latest Air Max sneakers at Foot Locker or window shopping at Ekivok around Châtelet to think about the future. « Little brother » has grown up. It’s been a long time since he traded his toy soldiers to become a warrior made of flesh, blood, and bone. Yes, he has been wild since the age of 10. It’s too late to regret and dwell on the past. He climbs his wall of lamentations daily without ever looking back. Soon, they will handcuff him or put a noose around his neck, but did he really have a choice? In the morning frenzy, he takes one last look at the messages from Malaman, his alter ego in the nightlife world. He’s a good guy, he thinks! A real man. Some late clients sending idiotic messages, a guy asking him to front some cash, nothing special. Then he comes across Z’s message, openly telling him to fuck off. He continues to pour coffee into his filthy cup while brooding over his dark vengeance. He paces back and forth, then stops.

ZEZ

I woke up late this morning, just like yesterday. Last night was dark and poetic, like a Damso song laced with THC. He’s the only rapper capable of telling you it’s raining when it’s sunny. His legendary ambivalence and satanic verses set him apart from testosterone-fueled ego trips from Fitness Park. After over 2 years, I crossed paths with his dark gaze again at a bar. His dog recognized me at a café terrace. Apparently, he was much happier to see me than her. Barely seated on my terrace at Pyrénées in northern Paris, the Bull Terrier rushed over to me and spent the evening sniffing my behind. She wasn’t really prepared for that. In reality, she didn’t want any of it. My forced smile when the dog showed up in front of me perfectly contrasted with her general cheerfulness and disdain.

She’s a friend of a friend. We crossed paths several times, and then one evening, while our mutual best friend had gone to « Brest » to settle there, we shared some memories and disappeared into each other’s arms, filled with regrets and remorse. The next day, like after a good hangover, she regretted it, but I didn’t care. And so, step by step, and not like Cinderella or her wicked stepsister, our secret affair became a half-hearted couple’s story without anyone in our circle truly accepting the rules. Yes, a couple is the ultimate prison. Love only lasts for two years, but we convince ourselves it’s eternal until divorce.

The worst part of this whole story is that after a year of a half-hearted relationship, all that remained of familiarity and love between us was encapsulated in the awkward spontaneity of a dog recognizing its runaway master after 2 years apart. We settled as a threesome. Me, the watchdog, and Julie. There’s nothing better to loosen tongues and morals than a few glasses of shared Chardonnay on a terrace. So, to make sure we’d do something stupid, we grabbed a bottle.

In Paris, people stand less than 10 centimeters apart from each other in bars and cafes, yet most often, imagining themselves between the bars of an impermeable glass prison, they feel the freedom to say and dare anything in complete confidentiality.

I messed up!

Like most of the time, I was sorry. I think I’m a fantastic friend, a dream party partner, but when it comes to love, I’m always there to escape. I’m the fugitive of romantic relationships, and maybe even of feelings. I tried to tell her that, but instead of elaborating on my inability to be possessed, my irrepressible and limitless desire for freedom, I just uttered the most cliché sentence one could find: « I messed up. » In three words, without saying anything else, I summed up a psychological ordeal that has lasted for about twenty years and might follow me until the end of my existence. Not very glorious either, but until today, I’m convinced that I made the right decision. Being a « mess » is the best thing I’ve done in my life in the past 10 years.

The breakup went really bad. It was a major disaster on the scale of epic failures. I had invited her to a party at Alterpaname over the weekend. The day before, she dropped me a message asking when I planned to pick her up. With exceptional elegance, I responded with great class:

« Me, I’m going. What about you? Did you get tickets? » « Are you breaking up? » « Yes. »

Two minutes later, all my best buddies received a screenshot of the conversation. My best friend came to lecture me, explaining that I lacked grace, while I sent the other part of the conversation to a Facebook group. But instead of sending it to my group chat, I accidentally sent it to « Rapunchline Editorial. » Aymeric replied, « That’s very embarrassing, Zez. » By the time I deleted the screenshot, my reputation was already tarnished at Rapunchline, as if I didn’t have a good image there to begin with.

Anyway, our reunion took us from Belleville to Oberkampf. At each intersection, we found a new café or bar to forget that we were no longer a couple. Then, in the streets of Parmentier, on our way to the final destination, we sort of found each other again. A bit further, at Grand Soleil, in a suffocating dark night, we abandoned each other once more. She left with her dog, leaving me with open regrets that will never heal.

So I walked from Parmentier to Bastille, wandering the streets. I had to sacrifice a pack of cigarettes and a piece of my lung. Then my problems resurfaced, and my phone started its Ride of the Valkyries, and I became the « mess » that I’ve always been. Life takes its course, and music « establishes its limitless empire over all things. » I’m listening to « Solo » by Dosseh and questioning the power of Spotify’s algorithm. Through constant exposure to cookies, our device choices have become prophetic: « You’ll never see a rainbow without a little rain. » Maybe that’s why the hero of « Home Alone » turned into a white trash drug addict. He never understood the value of what life gave him. Also, when our brothers succeed and they wear LV or Philippe Plein emblazoned on their jerseys, with brand marks stretching from their ankles to the hollow of their faces like a Tour de France cyclist or a biker, it’s a way to defy the fate that « forces our fathers to the trowel » (Shurik’n – « Animalement Votre »). There’s nothing richer than a poor person with money. Anyway, it was the moment for me to receive the rain, or maybe the downpour.

SHE

The 21st century has created love-stragglers. They spend their childhood manipulating bulldogs with marine-like faces, using a gun as a sight. They play war games with plastic and controllers. Then later, they play capitalism in front of their computer screens, with a bank account as their high score. And they always lose, in both war and the game of money. « Money never sleeps? » In reality, few can play this game correctly, where 2% of the world’s population owns slightly less than half of the world’s wealth. The funniest part, she thinks, is that all these losers boast about their « balls » like no one else and are willing to do anything to prove it.

They vote for war or revolution, destroy, steal, and pillage. They may praise their mothers as long as they can, but a guy’s first sexual experience today is a vintage 90s porn film, and the first woman he encounters is either Dorothée or Ariane. If he’s gay, it will inevitably be Les Musclés. For her, it was the opposite. At the age of 4, with her first Barbie dolls, she understood that the world wouldn’t necessarily welcome her with open arms. She was far from being blonde, tall, and slim. She was a brunette, of average height, and rather curvaceous. From childhood to adulthood, she embraced being an anti-stereotype, not destined to play Hannah Montana. After all, Hannah gave birth to her evil twin, Miley Cyrus. And while the early Disney movies glorified the myth of the foolish woman who was only good for being kissed by a Prince Charming to open her eyes, Pocahontas, in love with her colonizer lover, refreshed the image of women. It took 80 years to transition from « marry me and lie down » to Pocahontas.

She doesn’t care much, she tells herself. She goes back to Rue de Belleville and heads up to Place des Fêtes, where she lives. Most girls her age are obsessed with the idea of starting a family and having a child. She’s not thinking about it at the moment. It will happen like everything else. During her walks with her dog (as energetic as a guy who found a football), she remembers meeting a 30-year-old friend who had devised a diabolical plan to get married and have a child before the end of the year. The choice of the father figure was of little importance. If he could just be « kind, » « adorable, » and a good father, that would be enough. She recalls the same girl, half-dressed and half-drunk, roaming clubs and men without caring about the ticking clock. Maternal instinct is the first step toward death before menopause. Maternal instinct is like something changing in your body, with your hormones signaling that it’s time. During menopause, your biology tells you it’s time to hang it up.

ZEZ

I met up with Simon at « Le Combat. » It’s a poetry bar located between Pyrénées and Belleville. The locals come there to empty inexpensive yellow beers, the color of piss, on the enormous terrace of the café. Inside, a few enthusiasts pour out words that fill the 10 square meters reserved for poetry apostles in the darkness of knowledge. A sign hangs above the café’s facade, stating « Beware of words, » like a piece that Ben might have forgotten one evening. We talked about politics: « The Yellow Vests, it’s a rebellion you should be interested in, Z. » « They don’t really have a political color; there are quite a few far-right people among them. They don’t really know what they want. They protest, but their numbers dwindle every week. » What’s important is the popular movement, the exasperation, the sign that our society is failing. It’s a complete illustration of the country’s bankruptcy, which struggles even to feed its workers. « You’re making too much of it. Whether they protest or not, it won’t change anything. In a moment of generosity, Marie Antoinette will increase the minimum wage by 2% and freeze fuel prices. And with just 200 bucks a year, their problems won’t be solved. But the Yellow Vests will go back to their mines thinking they’ve succeeded. The movement has achieved something. Even though in reality, they’re still at the same point. » Indeed, the Yellow Vests protest in République has become part of the local folklore on Saturday afternoons in République. The movement, which initially had the support of nearly 70% of the French population, lost steam after a year of regular demonstrations. As the conversation annoyed me a bit, I received a strange message from Rapunchline on my phone. My relationship with the editorial team is terrible. I started with them in 2012. I must have written close to 4,000 articles for the site from its inception until today. But despite being led by an absent banker and a narcissistic pervert who became a fast-food manager for McDonald’s articles, completely illiterate, whose only goal in life is to humiliate his « writers » with troll-like behavior, I never found my place there. In reality, no one could tolerate it; people lasted about a year before breaking down. This time it was the final straw; the entire editorial team was fired. He wanted to sell the site to some sort of investment fund for internet platforms. When I asked for explanations, the gloomy pervert coldly replied, « Do you have a contract? » In the end, Rapunchline represents no more than 10% of my work. So financially, I didn’t care, but the feeling of « all that for this » was a bit infuriating. So, for all those mornings spent at the keyboard, receiving mind-boggling editorial reprimands from a lunatic who can’t even read, I imagined a story that would keep him up at night. What if, among all the passing writers, salaried interns, and unpaid slaves, someone had the idea to tell the story in a book? A rap bible without rappers, just assholes like him. Arrogant as he was, he would probably imagine that the book would only discuss his Facebook conversations. Let’s disillusion the perverts; they are often just « cruel losers. » He, who loves control, would be led astray into the uncontrollable world of fiction. I promised him that I had written a book about Facebook, chuckled, and returned to my conversation. Then, by the way, I remember on a terrible winter afternoon a few days before Christmas, I was forced to write 12 articles before he sent me eight more. And when I dared to complain, he curtly replied, « Put on a yellow vest. » Then the topic of « Julie » comes up… « What happened last night? » « Nothing, we just talked, you know? » « You talked for 6 hours? » « Well, everything was going really well, and I made her a proposition she really didn’t want. » « … » « Yeah, I told her that we can’t stand each other, but we have great moments together. So, in a moment of freedom, I asked her if we could be together from time to time without making any promises, you know, an open relationship? » « But did you think you were in a porno, Z? » « What porno are you talking about? She’s just as unbearable as I am. It’s a way to have the good moments without the inconveniences. » « I knew you didn’t understand women, but you didn’t even understand your own. It’s easy for you, Z, to give advice left and right when you can’t even maintain a romantic relationship for more than ten days. » « Alright, old man. And how’s it going for you? Well, I’m outta here. »

SHE

As she leaves, she sees him crossing Rue de Belleville. He doesn’t even turn around. His dog, always eager to make new friends, has found a companion on the sidewalk. They jump around together while his 50-year-old, presumably divorced owner tries a feeble approach. A bit distracted for several minutes, she turns around, and Z disappears towards Parmentier into the darkness of Rue d’Oberkampf. The chapter was already closed, and she places the book on the shelf.

HE

He goes back and forth between Café Le Bastille and the Opera. He drinks an overpriced espresso for 4 euros and leaves. Café Le Bastille, with its splendid view of the Bastille monument, is open 24 hours a day. And while it’s not poorly frequented, it’s mainly because the prices are too high for the homeless. There are no real troublemakers here, just partygoers and well-funded drug dealers who go through the local money laundering establishment: the parties. He gulps down his coffee eagerly and quickly. He climbs the steps of the Opera, surrounded by tourists scorched by a « white spring » perfumed with the delicate scent of French ethanol. He never drinks in those situations. If asked why, it’s « because that’s how it is in the neighborhood » (Dinos I 93 Mesures). When you’re on a mission, about to commit the irreparable, you have to do it soberly and cleanly. It’s as if in the final judgment, the Lord could show more leniency if you hadn’t tempted the devil before acting like a beast. But all of that is just stories, he tells himself. And then, which arrogant prick will he choose that day?

It’s been three days already that he’s been watching his target. It’s his thing. He senses the prey before seizing it. After routine surveillance, he already knows the person’s habits. The guy in question frequents bars throughout the capital, especially those in the 11th and 19th arrondissements of Paris, but he always passes by the Opera on his way home. It’s his stroll before hitting the road. He sees him approaching from a distance at the entrance of Rue de la Roquette. He stands up. Zez is severely messed up. As usual, he thinks. Zez staggers toward the steps of the Opéra Bastille. Before he even has time to straighten up, Malaman approaches and stabs him three times in the stomach. « A cry runs through the night. » For a split second, some passersby stop without reacting, others hurry to leave, and then four brats film the lifeless body with their phones. Zez’s corpse will make the rounds on the Dark Web for a few weeks. As the blood slowly flows from the victim’s body, forming an honor guard in front of the steps of the monument built by Mitterrand, Malaman gets into his car and speeds toward the périphérique. A red summer descends upon the capital.

II

I: In the pit?

At four in the morning, her mobile phone keeps vibrating incessantly. It’s a continuous buzzing that struggles to mask the dialogues and the dumb music from hunting and fishing shows aired at this hour. Not many people actually watch that kind of stuff, except for a few drug addicts who can’t afford other channels, insomniacs, and those who need a lullaby to fall asleep. The lullaby like « spelling doesn’t matter. » She struggles to open her eyes, dozes off, wakes up, and dozes off again. She sits on that narrow and porous border between dream and reality, where the two universes intertwine in endless noise.

She emerges from a nightmare where she sees herself leaving with the other pervert, Z. In the midst of this bad dream where she sees him entering « the ninth gate » with him, the sound of the phone traveling between these two dimensions brings her back to the baseness of the material world, a world without magic where all good things have a tragic end, like Renaud’s « Mistral gagnant. » Time doesn’t only kill « children’s laughter. »

At the end of the journey, when time has taken its toll on her beautiful face, after her dog has passed away, only a few poorly organized photographs will remain at the bottom of a phone, witnessing incomprehensible stories. The latest Apple update will prevent it from starting up normally. The new models won’t even be able to display the photographs in very low resolution. The Mac roars in turn, followed by the landline phone. In jargon, that’s called a ground, air, and sea attack. It’s total war. The whole room demands her awakening. She feels like the walls and the floor are resonating with the sound of ringtones and vibrations. She hesitates, but doesn’t care. For several seconds, it’s « the alarm. » She’s surrounded!

She first thinks of a water damage at her parents’ house. She imagines for a moment that they can manage without her. Then she answers:

« It’s Bob! » « Who? Which Bob? » « A friend of your boyfriend. Tell me, do you know what Mazdak was doing last night or not? » « No, why? We don’t see each other anymore! » she replies. But she feels her strength leaving her. She’s going to fall asleep again. « He’s in the hospital. If you want to get updates, call. Ciao. »

She dials the number trembling. It’s as if she’s waiting in front of the baccalaureate results board, except this time the outcome is different. A nurse or a receptionist answers the phone. Like all members of the medical staff, indifferent to the tragedies happening under their roof, she becomes exasperated by Julie’s panic. While Julie struggles to catch her breath, the nurse sighs periodically at the beginning of each sentence. She presents herself as a family member. When she asks for updates on Z, the nurse responds, but Julie can’t hear anything.

She asks her to repeat three times, but still can’t understand. Tired of repeating her sentence, the nurse ends up hanging up abruptly. Julie no longer has the strength to call back. However, she assumes it’s over. No, it doesn’t only happen to others! It’s in these dramatic moments that we understand the value of things and people. Kery James said that « the best ones leave first » in his controversial song « Hardcore. » In reality, they become the « best among us » precisely because they leave first. Death wipes clean your criminal record. It atones for all your sins. Too busy mourning your departure, we even forget to hate you. There will always be young innocents gone too soon and old bastards who leave too late.

She puts down the phone and blocks all numbers associated with Z. She goes back to bed and listens to Céline Dion’s ballads to accompany her tears. There are French songs made for that, for nostalgia. Music is an extension of a mood, or a revolution of a moment when you consider changing your attitude.

Music is also a mark of the passing of time. All these idiotic songs, played in a loop on the radio and forced onto streaming service playlists, impose themselves even if you try to escape them. They don’t enter history, but rather the story of your existence. They become the soundtrack of an episode in your life. And Céline Dion is a master of unchanging singles that mark your life without you even realizing it.

Then, an hour later, she becomes completely numb to everything. She falls asleep. She wakes up in fury. When she opens her eyes, her view is obstructed by her dog’s enormous mouth, tongue hanging out. She has that thing now! You usually see it in low-quality series that multiply endlessly on Netflix.

She sees Z everywhere. So, for a second, her dog’s shaking and drooling head reminds her of Z when he tries to escape the complications of everyday life. The guy has horns. You could almost touch them. He’d be capable of organizing orgies in heaven or starting a sex club in a church. The « violet » iris, he had adopted the religion of the greenback, his « values were stock market-based, » but when you caught him red-handed, he put on the innocent Bambi look, with his big black eyes dangling in emptiness, looking totally disillusioned, to support his claim that you were mistaken. Most guys play tough but are very small. He played the fool most of the time. If you don’t know him, you’d really think Z is slow.

For her, apparently, the urban dandy that Dantzig defined as « sons of enriched concierges or fallen dukes » still existed somewhere. Contrary to appearances, it is very difficult for the human brain to envision death. In life, even after the worst misfortunes, there is always an after, always a tomorrow, always a future. And death, by definition, is undefinable because it represents the end of time, space, and feelings.

It’s the black or white hole. Death marks the end of consciousness. But that consciousness persists everywhere the being has been. Some have a second life after their death, like Van Gogh’s paintings that survived his suicide, while others never die, like that Homer from the Iliad (not the Simpson), the poor blind storyteller in ancient Greece, whose songs are still studied in highly abridged versions from middle school to classical literature departments, more than 2000 years later. It’s old for a senile old man.

She now scrolls through her WhatsApp messages. Z had the grand project of writing a book about the hidden aspects of rap. He was promoting in the rap scene. He went from the mediocrity of the media to where he was before ending up splattered with blood. It’s a good social promotion after all, the social elevator worked, but it crashed to the ground, leaving the member somewhat dismantled. He sent her the chapters one by one, but she never read them. He would talk for hours about everything and nothing, so she wouldn’t spend her free time listening to him jabber in prose on a piece of paper. The first chapter apparently tells his beginnings. Before watching the story on WhatsApp, she wonders if he’s still alive. She wants to call the hospital, but ultimately prefers not to know. So she watches the chapter.

III

Unfinished Book – ZEZ – Chapter I

Enter through The Grand Gate!

« They won’t play us on their radios, we’ll make our way regardless, the hardest part was getting out of the basement and people know it » NTM – « On n’est encore là » (We’re still here)

Like everyone else at 14, I dreamed of being a gangster. Well, at worst, why not be a rapper? In those distant and bygone days, I hung around wearing a white tracksuit, the epitome of hype, with a swagger worthy of the biggest « cailleras » from Châtelet-les-Halles. In the early 90s, all you had to do was stand in front of the Sainte Eustache church in the 1st arrondissement of Paris, a few meters from the Forum, to see the swaggers parade by. They were carefully crafted. Some took it to such extremes with their back-and-forth movements between their body and arms that their supposed threatening swagger became downright cheap and ridiculous. When you think about it, the swagger reminds me a bit of the mating rituals of mammals. For most of them (lions, wolves, or dolphins), the males dance and fight each other for the females. That’s a bit like the swagger, the ultimate affirmation of masculinity. In other words, it’s when you hold your balls while walking.

The swagger is like Boom Bap. Apart from two or three guys who haven’t realized that times have changed, you won’t find anyone swinging their body and looking vacant around Châtelet anymore, but rather around the crack hill. The « old-timers » sometimes ended up badly. And if you’re wondering why Châtelet-les-Halles has always been the stronghold of the Hip-Hop movement in France, it’s simply because if you come from the suburbs, all roads lead to Les Halles. It’s the local Rome because it’s the obligatory passage point for all RER trains. And the hoodlum doesn’t like to walk much. So, for him, Paris is mainly limited to the area between Les Halles, Bastille, and sometimes the Champs-Élysées for the most daring.

Unfortunately for me, my DNA decided to steer me in a different direction. More comical than scary, standing at five foot seven, I had to give up on the school of the streets for the regular school. Quite a program for a swarthy guy trying to pursue an academic career, especially in the 90s. I had the choice between a career as a football player, a boxer, or a vocational training certificate in carpentry because the good certificates were reserved for others.

After a few years of wandering in short films and a few years lost in law, I ended up where I was meant to be… yes, in front of the Pôle Emploi (French job center) advisor. The first advisor I met, with a lot of hope and some shame, made this somewhat unsettling remark while reading my cover letter: « Ah, you know how to write! » Yes, I completed elementary school, it’s written on my CV, but apparently, you don’t know how to read. After a few minutes with a morale-killer from the employment agency, I realized that my salvation in life would depend solely on me. So, for the second appointment, I asked a relatively decent advisor to allow me to do an unpaid internship as a job seeker, just to learn the ropes of the trade.

She was a little surprised. Apparently, most guys just come to sign their discharge as social prisoners to receive a meager sum that they’ll have finished spending by the 7th of the month. It’s not a lack of willingness, it’s resignation. She put me through a work evaluation in the meantime. Meanwhile, I spotted a job listing for a journalist position on the entre2piges website. The site is basic, but in times of financial scarcity, you settle for little. The job listing was poorly written, with spelling mistakes in every word. It was almost like a prank, and I even imagined that it was a hidden reference to Jacques Prévert’s troublemaker. Reading those lines, you can even imagine him going off to draw somewhere. This poem annoyed me when I was a troublemaker in middle school, but now it’s fine. So, I knew that this company was made for me.

So I made a phone call, putting on the voice of the perfect son-in-law, and they agreed to meet me. The perfect son-in-law, by definition, is a guy who says yes to everything, who is very naive, and quite stupid to top it off. It’s the opposite of a sister-in-law… in popular conception, of course. Journalism today is worse than an illusion. Most students are deceived by the image of the profession.

Because the only « visible » journalists are the TV and radio stars, who, by the way, are not paid that well. That’s the garden of journalism, its showcase, its garden party, or rather its oasis. In reality, a large majority of the scribblers are freelancers or even self-employed. They work almost for free for a website or a boss who exploits them. And all the students from literary fields, from geography to sociology, through law, and even archaeology and political science, who ultimately become the long-term unemployed of tomorrow (to pursue politics today, you need to attend a communication school), all want to become journalists.

Ah, my friend, if you only knew… Today’s journalists are far from conducting investigative inquiries. They do advertorials on mundane news like « Britney Spears fights against her conservatorship » or « Paul Walker has passed away » just to generate clicks. But well, in these difficult times, I’m modestly preparing for my job in an underground journalist workshop. I’m waiting for the whip lashes on my body and chickpeas in my plate. Some people live on love and fresh water, while I’ll live off canned food, but without love.

I arrive at The Grand Gate in the 14th arrondissement. Let’s just say the managers had a sense of humor, considering what comes next in the story. The boss’s associate, a part-time pastor, a fervent Protestant, and an occasional swindler, had named his company « Eden.Com. » It’s a bit like when you pass by a disgusting kebab shop and the guy had the audacity to call it « The Paradise of Istanbul. » Atatürk would turn three or four times in his grave before spitting white sauce on your face (not to mention worse).

French rap is becoming more and more bling-bling, I think to myself. Even the labels that can’t afford offices get a P.O. box near the Champs-Élysées. At first, you’re reassured, but when you go to see them on Hollywood Boulevard, well, there’s nothing there. We can forgive them for having the headquarters of the Subway brand; it’s a small house in Liechtenstein. Rap has something of the Congolese sape society, which is more than a philosophy but an act of resistance. A sapeur never has enough money for an espresso, but he wears shoes that are worth your entire wardrobe and your grandmother’s.

I pass through a small garden, and a door opens in front of me on the ground floor. I’m greeted by a somewhat hippie sound engineer who greedily drinks what looks like oil but claims to be coffee. He has a haircut similar to Algerians in the 80s. Our parents had an afro haircut. Rap sound engineers sometimes resemble computer science professors at Jussieu. Completely neglected guys with unruly hair like racehorses. Not to be confused with the neglected guys of Arab descent who have been selling the Quran in front of the university since 2000. Apparently, no need to look further, The Grand Gate is an oil well. But it’s not where black gold was discovered.

I’ve never seen such black coffee. He signals for me to sit at the entrance. I’m sitting a few meters from the open space, facing the desk of a guy all alone who receives calls every two minutes. That’s the famous pastor. He doesn’t seem very Catholic, but well, he’s Protestant. Well, I’m getting a little impatient, so I try to find some amusing details. Apart from observing the passers-by outside, I can’t find anything. So, I look outside, a bit like when you’re in class and you have only 5 minutes left before leaving. Your brain goes into « automatic ejection » mode. All you can do is occupy yourself.

After half an hour of waiting, the sound engineer returns with a nonchalant gait and offers me… a coffee. I wonder if they don’t traffic Colombian drugs from Colombia here… I’m talking about the coffee. I accept his offer. He brings me the black gold, apologizes, and leaves. An hour and a half and a few cups of coffee later, Bob arrives. « 6 feet 11, 243 pounds, he showed up, we went back » to our coffees (« She gives her body before her name » IAM).

The sound engineer returns to report and gives him a brief summary of what’s happening in the office. I’m new here, but apparently, not much is going on. The giant looks at him so menacingly through his sunglasses that even with tinted windows, the engineer goes back to his studio with a slightly less serene look than usual. The boss receives me in his office at the back of the open space. He remains rather discreet about himself and his experience. At that moment, I don’t even know who he is. But he needs someone, and I can work for free, so we come to an agreement. Then he asks me a few basic questions. When the painful moment of discussing salary arrives, I let him know that he doesn’t need to pay me. So, he ensures that I’m not completely illiterate, assesses my basic cognitive abilities, and accepts the deal. I start the next day. I’ve just signed my painful birth certificate in French rap.

In reality, The Grand Gate is run by a certain Bob Djani. This man is a figure in the civil rights movement in France. In the 1980s, he was one of the leaders of the Black Dragon movement in France. Like the American Black Panthers, the Black Dragons, gathered around Yves le Vent, forged an anti-racist ideology in response to the skinhead movement in France. The nickname Yves le Vent always bothered me. For someone of his stature, he should have chosen an Anglo-Saxon-sounding name, not a damn synonym for Robin Hood.

Dr Clean, aka Michel Patrick Lonoh, recounts the emergence of this movement in his book « J’étais Black Dragon » (I Was a Black Dragon). If the skinheads had never existed, the Black Dragons would never have emerged either. Dr Clean, who is already quite a physical presence, joined the movement after being attacked by a group of skinheads. He came out alive, but above all, outraged. For years, the Dragons and the skinheads fought a territorial war in Paris. The Black Dragons drew inspiration from martial arts, both philosophically and in combat.

Other gangs, such as the Requins Vicieux or the Abdulaï sect in Sarcelles, participated in this territorial war. At the end of their story, the Dragons returned to being an ordinary gang. The lure of money and stories of women led them back to a conventional structure. After their release, you could find the Dragons everywhere, especially in the rap and sports industry. Bob Djani began his career at Générations FM before launching his own label. Although he remains discreet about his past, Bob’s two-meter height doesn’t go unnoticed, and he has as many enemies as friends in the industry. But it seems he’s reaching the end of his journey.

For my first day, the open space feels like a sort of playground. There’s a communications manager, a graphic designer, a developer, and a few interns. Bob is busy seeking funding for his venture. The boss spends most of his time outside. Collins tries to scam poor people in the entrance office, and the rest of us manage in the open space. In the fog of The Grand Gate, which resembles a headless horseman, conversations are accompanied by a certain Fauve who is starting to make a name for himself in the music industry. Melancholy is definitely in vogue. Like Orelsan, or the Klub des Loosers before him, Fauve doesn’t pretend to be anyone. And in this absurd jungle of painful egotrips by dominant males flaunting their creatine-swollen penises, that’s already something. Their flagship song « Les Nuits Fauves » (which references a magnificent film with Romane Bohringer about the AIDS epidemic) is an example of reality: « We make love like we wipe. »

Unlike most employees at The Grand Gate, I had doubts about the seriousness of the business from the start. There were a few signs that couldn’t be ignored. It took us three days to sign my work evaluation, even though it was supposed to be an unpaid internship. Employees were already queuing up in front of the Pastor’s office (Collins’ office) to receive their salaries.

And just a few days after my arrival, Alain, the company’s salesperson, slammed the office door, threatening to report the fraud to the authorities. I’m not really sure where that threat came from. Generally, someone who’s been scammed would talk about going to the police. The use of that term implies that this guy had at least researched his threat on the internet, doing a Google search to find « fraud authorities. » I didn’t even know that service existed. However, facing his telephonic paradise, the boss of Eden.com remains stone-faced and sharply retorts, « Don’t forget to call the FBI and the CIA too. » Personal vendetta or exception of non-performance, everyone is free to judge. Alain took the office computer with him. And the worst part is that Collins, who owed him two months of overdue salary, tried to retrieve it. But the most serious doubt concerned Mathieu.

Mathieu, the sound engineer, is probably the most experienced employee here. After a few days, we became friends. He lets me know that he has a hidden clause in his contract. The studio isn’t operational. The sound engineer doesn’t have much work. So, Bob, being resourceful, included a « jack-of-all-trades » clause in his contract. He can be « assigned to any task within the company. » This « any task » is quite broad. He can support « any activity, » whether it’s fixing toilets or even painting the hallway. Yes, if Bob is the boss of The Grand Gate, Mathieu is the real boss. With the years spent alongside the Dragon, the sound engineer has become a psychologist. From his first month at The Grand Gate, the graphic designer Sarah comes to Collins’ office every day to demand her salary. Collins utters a sentence that will be « engraved in stone »: « The transfer will be made tomorrow. » It’s at that precise moment that IAM’s conclusion in « L’école du Micro d’Argent » becomes prophetic, yes, « Tomorrow is far away. » It’s strange, but I’m not really surprised. Because as soon as you come into contact with the music industry, unless you work for Universal or Rec 118, you realize that you’re dealing with something very unique. And from experience, I know that the majority of interns at Universal are in their twenties. The real work in rap is done by these small labels. They spot independent artists, often self-produced, sign them, and then hand them over to a major label. But for now, everyone is working without direction, without really thinking about tomorrow. Ultimately, the dream industry starts here.

The Dragon has already realized that the rap industry is becoming more « populist. » Even though many artists are reluctant, in the early 2010s, the stories of clashes were even more followed than album releases. It’s a transitional phase in rap. The rap of the 90s carried within it a cultural exception that France exploited for years in all domains. Then, under the influence of the globalization of cultures, it fell in line, becoming an extension of American rap.

Bob’s website, Hip Hop People, probably illustrates the direction he wants to take. But his grand project is « Menace sur la Planète Rap » (Threat to the Rap Planet). Bob has set out to explore the dark stories of the streets and rap. While the Dragon has big ideas, organization isn’t really his strong suit. A few days before the release, Faustine tries to print posters for the campaign, but the deadlines are too long. After nearly two hours of negotiation, the young communications manager seems to have found a solution. Mathieu, assigned to the task, naturally assists her in her quest to get it done. Just a few hours before the DVD release, before leaving the office, she asks Bob to pay the agency responsible for managing the advertising. Bob evades the question a little. Apparently, financial problems are serious at The Grand Gate these days. She leaves the office at 6 p.m. In reality, she has already left The Grand Gate. Bob doesn’t pay.

The boss has abandoned the company. The next day, the DVD release is completely compromised. Nothing is planned for advertising. The physical version itself doesn’t exist. It’s a cold shower in the office. Sarah still hasn’t received her salary for three months, and despite Mathieu’s efforts to make her understand that « Tomorrow » isn’t so far away, the young employee begins to sink into depression. We have a meeting with Bob. He arrives at the office at 5 p.m. It’s already empty. It’s the first and last time I see the Dragon in this state. His voice is broken, his tone is serious, and he is visibly affected. He hints that he’s fighting for his business but facing serious difficulties. In reality, Mr. Djani is being caught up in the curse of the neighborhoods. A few years later, PNL’s philosophy invades French rap. Unlike their fellow rappers, the « Deux Frères » (Two Brothers) speak frankly about dealing and drugs. While others hide behind their egos and glorify life in crime, Ademo and Nos talk about this dreamless life of dealers without falling into moralism: « I sold it because I was asked to. »

For many former bosses or resistants like Bob, legality is a challenge. The system often sucks them in. Entangled in tax and financial debts, nobody lends a hand to the Dragon, who is burning in Vesuvius’ furious eruptions of his past crimes. His noose is already prepared, hanging from the magnolia branches. « It’s not the neighborhood leaving me, it’s me leaving the neighborhood » (Booba). Not many escape the neighborhoods like B2O because « when the street has you in its grip, it never lets go » (ISK). It’s a fate from childhood, a mark on the skin that doesn’t disappear despite soap and money.

For the rest, his employees aren’t wrong. Sarah, who has been waiting for her salary for three months, has little to do with the boss’s problems, just like Faustine, whose dream of a permanent contract shatters in the face of rap realities. The boss asks for time. He lets us know that we need to keep the employees for as long as possible while he finds a solution. As for me, my work evaluation is complete.

During the night, I develop a website, « Banlieue TV » (Suburb TV). It’s the boss’s dream. Like the Bondy Blog and other similar media outlets, the Dragon is convinced that current events should also be covered by journalists from French suburbs. Indeed, information, the fourth power alongside the legislative, executive, and judicial branches, is plagued by the elite. Most major French journalists come from Sciences Po or prestigious business schools. They love big things. It’s not for nothing that we talk about prestigious schools and small universities.

To complicate things, they are often puppets of a wealthy financier, whether left or right-wing, who never tolerates contradiction. A journalist friend of mine at the time at CNews hinted that Bolloré even checked the cover of his free magazine when the circumstances of the news demanded it.

So creating a Banlieue TV led by the cream of political gangsters and produced by the elite of French suburbs wasn’t such a crazy idea. But Bob encountered two problems. The first concerns everyone: money. Trying to convince a banker or investor that suburban media have a chance to survive in a time when Le Monde is collapsing is a challenge. The second problem is simply that the awakening of consciousness never happened. Our youth in general, including those in the suburbs, are more interested in Paul Pogba’s latest hairstyle than the issues related to urban policies. Of course, police violence, from Malibu Seki to Adama Traoré, Zyed and Bouna, has always ignited the city. Yet, the city remains silent, from generation to generation, in the face of social injustices and discrimination that lead to these horrors reminiscent of American suburbs.

Well, my level of expertise in WordPress was average at the time, but I played on Bob’s emotions. He agrees to keep me. He makes me sign a contract for « appearances. » The second step, probably the most difficult, is now to get paid. Like most employees at The Grand Gate, Bob himself, and maybe even the owner of the premises, it will be our bérézina (fiasco) for all of us. We can’t win every battle.

Other projects are underway, such as Générations Rap français (French Rap Generations). Here again, the old veteran sees the wind shifting. In the era of clashes, he wants to redefine the Hip-Hop compilation in the manner of Première Classe or Hostile. The idea is to bring together rappers from both the old and new generations of French rap. The organizational chart is already prepared, but nobody here knows the contractual intricacies of this kind of compilation. On which label will the compilation be released? How will the rights be shared? Moreover, each artist’s agreement is conditional on others agreeing as well. Before Sofiane’s « Affranchis Music, » Jul’s « 13 Organisé, » or DJ Quick’s compilation, this kind of exercise was rare and genuinely perilous. Now, everyone in the office is assigned to this task without really having the expertise. MC Psychopathe comes to lay down his 16 bars in the half-sold studio. In the era of Kendrick Lamar and his « Money Trees, » MC Psychopathe’s verses seem quite poor, even though they herald the advent of Trap Music, a more uninhibited and minimalist style. Mathieu moves between the studio and the open space. After the festive rap that breathes the beach and sun of California, à la Dr. Dre, Kendrick brought Compton rap back to the Terter. Many in France are satisfied with Kendrick’s musicality without understanding his lyrics. In « Money Trees, » the rapper explains that when there’s a murder, the shooter is always respected, but the one who faces the gun disappears forever. A sharp resurgence in what is rightly called the « reversal of values. »

I’m asked to call IAM’s manager, a delicate task for me. My knowledge of private law serves only as an alibi because I’m not specialized in that particular branch of law. Law is like an oak tree, and for each branch, you need a specialist. If you try to put it on another branch, it collapses onto the trunk. And I fell from the tree. IAM’s manager, more competent than me in this field, asks me for legal clarifications of a different nature regarding the Générations Rap Français compilation. Like a shy student who never dares to raise their hand, I’m torn by questions of aesthetic precision. I content myself with providing general answers, giving absurd generalities and displaying my meager legal knowledge. A law professor had written on my international public law paper, « Very good political science essay without any legal basis, close to the vague discourse of a journalist. » Fortunately, he didn’t grade that performance. Shamelessly, I developed a five-minute allergy to the phone before watching others take the lead. In the end, the call went unnoticed.

A man of about two meters tall arrives in the open space. He signals Bob to follow him. Bob makes him wait for two hours. That’s typical of Bob. The two men seem to know each other well, but the guy leaves a little annoyed… This guy also knows a certain Levy, a friend of Bob’s. This individual is Ismaël, or rather « Manaja » in the jargon. A decent guy, very honest, and that’s quite rare in the rap industry to attribute that adjective to someone. It’s also at The Grand Gate that I met Levy, or rather the Big Levysiky.

Karine Petit can start packing her bags. Levy is the other mayor of the 14th arrondissement of Paris. If you live near Place d’Alésia, you’ve probably already crossed paths with him, dressed in Gucci from head to toe. A playboy at heart, he picks up four or five numbers during each jogging session at Parc Montsouris. The guy isn’t picky. His field of action ranges from 18 to 55 years old, exclusively women, and preferably well-endowed.

While we make calls to reluctant artists and labels, clearly displaying our lack of professionalism in the music industry, Levy greets Bob, Collins, and sits next to Sarah, who is spending her final days here. In three months of work, the young graphic designer hasn’t received a single euro of the promised salaries. And while the Pastor preaches for a quick harvest return to his Church, his vain prayers are no longer heard, neither by his stingy lord nor by his scattered faithful in the open space.

Levy tries to seduce with concepts of positive and negative energy, circles, and triangles, but it remains difficult to understand. He invites me to come to his place that same evening, as we approach the final days at The Grand Gate. Everyone is getting ready to leave through the Small Gate. At this point, I think it can’t really do me any harm. Before arriving at Levy’s, I come across a half-naked woman. That’s how the Big Levyski is born. I settle in, and he brings out his stash of weed.

The guests arrive one after the other at Levy’s place. We have a pharmacist, a real estate agent, a stripper who’s hitting on a gay guy in the room, myself, and a few guys from the neighborhood. Levy gathers everyone with his somewhat ambivalent speech. Even though what he says doesn’t mean much, he’s likable and open. In times like these, that’s quite rare.

Levy is a modern-day hippie. The conversation drifts to various subjects, without worrying about positive or negative energy. We end up talking about Paris Saint-Germain’s troubles. QSI is good, but it’s absolutely not enough to win the Champions League. Levy lives in a building where he’ll host me twice on different floors. As the Mayor of the 14th arrondissement, the Big Levyski has a rental park that exceeds all expectations thanks to his connections.

He’s a colorful character, but there’s some « craziness » about him. In his daily life, Levy is accompanied by a certain Xy, his less skilled Darth Vader. Xy is simply in awe of how easily Levy acts. This young boy is rather shy, extremely introverted around women, and his attempts at romance have never gone beyond verbal stage. This year, I invited Xy and Levy to my New Year’s Eve party at AC’s place. AC is a girl I see on average once a year. She works in the cultural field, so having the suburbs at her place doesn’t bother her as long as there’s no riot. During the party, fueled by Levy, the apprentice approaches a voluptuous woman. After a stuttering greeting, he embarks on a nonsensical speech, reminiscent of Vald’s mixtapes. Then, he coughs and spits his champagne on her chest. He apologizes and goes back to the kitchen to bring her a tissue. In a ridiculous turn of events, he uses the tissue to gently caress the woman’s breast, under the astonished and shocked gaze of his interlocutor, who finally tells him it’s fine and he can « get lost. » Xy’s « Are you sure? » was the icing on the cake. In less than ten minutes, Xy had interrupted a woman, bothered her, ejaculated champagne on her, and touched her while apologizing. A few years before the #MeToo revolution, it could have been much worse.

The imminent closure of The Grand Gate also concerns Victoire. This young woman was an apprentice developer, seeking to validate her successfully completed studies in the capital’s schools. At the sight of this new « employee, » the room, now emptied of Sara and Faustine, wondered how the Dragon and the Pastor would resolve this new unpaid situation.

Victoire was inspired, lively, and above all, hardworking. Just a few hours at The Grand Gate showed her that she had fallen into a serious quagmire as an apprentice without an apprenticeship contract. The Pastor and the Dragon passed the buck, assigning her increasingly absurd tasks within The Grand Gate. Bobby is not a swindler, but he is definitely mired in monstrous debts. Like a Don Quixote in cloth armor, mowing down the administration of the 14th arrondissement instead of fighting windmills, he sets off on a crusade every morning, certain to come out as the loser, and in the evening, he weeps over the demons of the past. But he will never regret it, neither his past nor his present. If he had accepted the place society had reserved for him at birth, he, who grew up in a foster home after leaving Cameroon, with his boxer-like physique, would probably have ended up unloading boxes too heavy for him in front of an enticing bank across the street that he would have dreamt of robbing.

The « Odeurs de souffre » (Sulfurous Scents) of The Grand Gate have reached the local employment agency. When the employees saw two Afro-French people arrive, they almost called the police. It’s left-wing racism! This leviathan, which constitutes the high and petty French civil service, rooted in a socialist culture, often accepts immigrants on welfare and poor refugees. But when it comes to emancipated foreigners creating businesses, it’s a different story. It’s endemic racism, almost unconscious.

Eden.com and Bob didn’t really understand. Yes, the world of rap is made up of cash payments, liquid transactions, deals with men and the law, but behind that world lies the institution, society, the world. The imperatives of student life, conventions, and apprenticeships were completely incompatible with a small label. Bob and Collins imagined they could get by with a simple phone call. That’s how The Grand Gate officially comes to an end. The employees leave one after the other. Money doesn’t come in, but at the same time, it doesn’t go out either.

The office now resembles Verdun, defections compete with failed projects. Mathieu comes to the office in pajamas, and I leave like Tom Sawyer. Everyone abandons the office, except a certain Collins who remains loyal to his idea of Eden.Com. The open space is empty, and Bob has deserted the premises. After love, champagne! Now, he simply faces the State as a whole, from the tax authorities to finance. He’ll have to lay low for a while.

IV: Sugar Man

As Malaman returns home, he changes his SIM card, an ordinary dealer’s illusory and futile sign of paranoia. The kilos of cocaine he dissects every night will likely have more evidentiary value than an SMS sent by a client or by Z. He remains surprisingly calm amidst the disorder. « It’s not the barking dog you should be wary of, but the still water, » he tells himself. And even though he’s been advised against it, he indulges in his personal consumption of Paris Brest.

At first, his nasal passages itch a bit. In the morning, they’re still fresh, but by evening, he feels the hemoglobin rising to the ceiling. Then comes his usual duel with the sandman. And it’s impossible to pacify Mr. Sandman with a shiv. But the cocaine no longer affects him. On the other hand, when he doesn’t sniff, he freaks out.

After all, he just took someone out, and that doesn’t happen often. He needs to forget a little in the white vapors. Besides, after Z’s untimely death, he needs to find another publicist. He raises his coffee cup to his departed friend. He hadn’t thought about that detail before impaling Z with an Ikea knife. Yes, before leaving, he realized he didn’t really have a weapon within reach. So he tore off the Ikea kitchen knife hanging in his kitchen. Usually, he used it to cut pieces. He listens to a Jean-Jacques Goldman track after playing Fianso’s « Lettre à un jeune rappeur » (Letter to a young rapper). Goldman is his personal favorite. Before playing any Goldman, he switches to « private listening » mode on Spotify. If one of his boys sees him listening to Goldman, he’ll be mocked in the neighborhood.

He calls his boys one by one to get an update. He remembers how Z burst into laughter the first time he told him about one of his boys. When he let him know that one of his boys would bring him the 300 euros for promotion, Z asked him, « What’s a ‘big’ dude? I admit, it’s a concept that’s totally foreign to me. » Z even confessed that he imagined a 5-year-old kid on a scooter showing up at Café des Anges to give him the cash. He despised that kind of stuff…

Before becoming big, he was also small. In the slang, « the boys » are young, often « starving » minors assigned to the lowest tasks. They’re the ones who go buy cans in the grocery stores when the older gangs hang out on the benches. They’re also the ones who act as lookouts to warn the turf when the police make a little intrusion. The hierarchy between a big and his boy lasts for years. It’s not surprising to hear a 50-year-old « big » talk about his 30- or 40-year-old « boy. » And the bigs, proud of their superiority that doesn’t fade with time, even « when the student surpasses 6 feet 3 inches » (Dinos), sometimes have difficulty understanding that a 32-year-old thug is no longer the age to go fetch cans or do stuff like that.

He asks one of his boys, Karim, to write a marketing message for him to send on WhatsApp. Apart from the regulars who have been sniffing since 6 in the morning and never close their eyes except in blackout, his evening starts a few minutes after the promotion campaign. For them, the store is never closed.

Karim is the best at it; he adds emoticons with colors, hearts, and that kind of stuff that surpasses our man. Malaman is too old for that. Karim could have gone to business school or something like that. But the €10,000 a year required for the royal path in France, which you absolutely can’t pay with cash, is an insurmountable barrier for boys like him. With his physique, Karim could work in security, and his excellent grades in school will serve as an alibi to scold a daughter or son who will inevitably follow in his father’s footsteps. Because his prints, from the sands of Algeria, a sign of a 70-year-old legacy, lead directly from neighborhood to neighborhood, as if purgatory always leads to hell.

Tonight, « at the pimp’s, » it’s €60 for 1g, €110 for 2g, and finally €300 for 5g. He offers gifts too, he tells himself. He’s a real man. The new addition to his dealer’s stash is GHB. Men are ordering more and more of it. And Karim adds a white drop to the GHB, who knows why. Malaman grew up in the 2000s. He takes a line in tribute to Z and truly believes his clients are addicts.

Who knows what they do with it. In the 90s and 2000s, dealing was divided into sectors, cocaine was reserved for the wealthy (it was expensive), cannabis flowed freely in the neighborhoods, especially in the form of hashish, heroin and crack were reserved for junkies. All drugs have become democratized.

When he thinks back to the advertising campaigns launched by the governments in the 90s to prevent drug use, especially cannabis, he realizes that society has a stereotypical view of the problem. They showed a poor guy pointing at another guy with a joint and saying the famous line, « Do you want some? » And of course, the response had to be « No. » Not only losers use drugs. There are traders, artists, and even members of the administration. Today, when it comes to cannabis, 70% of those under 30 have already smoked it. Total failure!

You can see kids sniffing in high school. And the supply has diversified greatly. To get certain products back then, you had to know a shady pharmacist, but now you can just order from Malaman Hut, the most efficient dealer in the capital. After all, it’s not really his problem. No one has ever blamed machete sellers for participating in the Congolese genocide, and the ovens didn’t kill the Jews on their own, they were operated by the Nazis. In his increasingly random reflections, Malaman plays a Freeze Corleone track. He needs to go, he’s going to crash.

He has multiple WhatsApp lists based on loyalty. It’s the central hub, they send all the promo messages to the different lists on WhatsApp. Behind that, the cash registers are ready to go. He has five cars circulating throughout Paris, a bit haphazardly since Malaman isn’t good at math, except when it comes to counting his share. And he’ll be behind the wheel in five minutes. Before hitting the road, he takes a hit. It’s 8 p.m., the evening begins.

Every time a client orders through WhatsApp, he sends a car to deliver within 20 minutes. It’s like Uber Eats, but with drugs. Of course, Malaman Hunter’s mushy brain doesn’t work as well as an American algorithm. So sometimes, it’s a bit messy. During his journey, his best client, Stan, a bourgeois from the 16th arrondissement, lets him know that he met a girl who wants some MDMA, and they’re at « Pardon » in Oberkampf. He goes back to the scene of the crime. After his session at home, the crime has aged, he’s closed the case, it’s now in the category of memories only shared with the true ones. The true ones recognize the true ones, he tells himself as he drives, nodding his head as if he just discovered America.

Malaman goes to deliver to Stan in person, it’s better not to entrust such clients to his boys. Boys grow up fast. Stan alone represents a good portion of his business. He orders two or three grams of coke from him on average every day. On weekends, Stan becomes something like an ATM or an unlimited tunes package. The artist has never spent so much, not even in Dubai or Belgium. One of his boys is actually in Dubai. They formed a team, and he robs banks. And they spend their money in Dubai. He never really understood the point of robbing shops just to squander it all in that kind of country. He prefers to invest in his homeland, sending money every month.

He thinks back to Stan. Malaman wonders why the guy hasn’t turned into a wreck or a slug yet. Even a racehorse would succumb after three days of Stan’s treatment. He has an incredible resistance. Already hyperactive by nature, the cocaine makes him even speedier than Obelix who drank three or four pits of magic potion. Surely, Stan fell into the cocaine cauldron at the age of three or four. But he never stopped taking it. He drives towards République to join him. But after careful consideration, he decides to deliver to another guy first. He’s an entrepreneur, he tells himself. He’s 20 minutes late when he arrives outside Plein Soleil in Oberkampf.

Stan gets in the car directly, accompanied by a petite blonde who resembles Brigitte Bardot in her prime, just a few centimeters shorter. « Clear fracture of the right eye. » Malaman feels like he has a 9mm gun pointed at his forehead, sinking into his dealer’s brain. His gaze sinks into the angelic face of the blonde and also on her ass when she delicately takes a seat in the back of his car. Meanwhile, Stan has already uttered 18 druggie phrases, punctuated by alliterations that make no sense. He could do rap for junkies. Malaman still doesn’t listen to him. He’s invisible to Malaman’s eyes, which have reflections of asses instead of violet bills. They’ve replaced the glimmers of cash. He asks the blonde where they want to go while avoiding answering or talking to Stan. Today, asses have replaced money.

Where are you going? We’re going to the Queen! Isn’t that a gay place? Disappointed by Malaman’s response, she looks at him with a raised eyebrow, then replies quite sharply, « In the 90s, a bit, and even then. Today, they play mainstream hip-hop, it’s not the best, but it’s open non-stop from Monday to Sunday. And it has a good vibe. Do you have something else to suggest? » No, I’m just hustling. Stan raises his voice. The exchange happens in the back of the car. And the « tortured man » captivated by the beauty of this strange passenger suggests to Stan and his company that he’ll take them to the Queen on the Champs-Élysées.

« He’s got it down, » he tells himself. To set the mood, he plays Alicia Keys’ « Fallin' » but after a few seconds, Stan objects, « Don’t you have any electro? »

Like David Guetta? No, some drum and bass, dubstep, or American rap, I don’t know. He then plays « For Heavens Sake » by Wu-Tang Clan! He tries to follow Stan and Anaïs’ conversations to slip in punchlines or phrases. He tries to awkwardly laugh at their jokes, but it doesn’t work. He comes off as a weird guy. He doesn’t really get the vibe between the beauty and the junkie. They make private jokes every three minutes with « fool » expressions, talk about unknown music. They talk about a truck-bazaar, about Alterpaname. So, the artist feels the wind shifting, he references the track « Le Grand Paris » by Médine. But the two locals look at him as if he’s come from another planet. Perhaps sometimes, the border between the neighborhoods and the rich ghettos is so impermeable that the inhabitants of this France no longer speak the same language. Of course, there are exceptions and people who adapt everywhere, Malaman thinks, but he definitely doesn’t belong, and neither do they.

He looks at the blonde through the rearview mirror and decides to show off his Uber driver skills in his Mercedes-Benz Classe E. With his accelerations, he first receives cheers. Stan feels like he’s on Space Mountain, laughing like a 4-year-old child celebrating his birthday at Disneyland with Minnie Mouse and Darth Vader. He takes the turns like in Need for Speed on PS4. And like in Need for Speed, he snaps out of his frenzy when the sirens blare behind him three minutes from the Queen. Two uniformed policemen get out of the car and ask for his papers.

It’s not my car, it belongs to a friend. Can I see your license? Here you go. He hands them a torn-in-half license. You can see a photo that doesn’t resemble him at all. While the two policemen look at each other, ready to pounce on Malaman, who is loaded like never before in his Mercedes, and who no longer looks like an honest guy at all, Anaïs deploys her charm with the officers. No indecent proposal, they entertain themselves with her while Stan has completely lost his tongue (he must be having a bad trip). Stanislas’ eyes anxiously move back and forth between the two policemen. Malaman walks past him, but he doesn’t even notice. He’s on the verge of cracking, about to spill everything. Anaïs giggles like a hen with the two cops, who regain their twenties.

Meanwhile, Malaman is already imagining being in police custody with a few grams of drugs, a phone full of suspicious messages, and a bloodstained knife. He’s just about to search the Yellow Pages for the nearest lawyer he can pay in cash. Then one of the officers, in a moment of sympathy, says, « Alright, let it go this time because you have pleasant customers. » Stan was on the verge of shouting like after a goal from Paris Saint-Germain in the 90s. Today, he’s used to it, he almost looks away, afraid of appearing like a masochist.

Malaman starts the car again, turns to Anaïs, and says, « Damn, you’re a real badass. »

They drive off, Malaman looks at his phone, someone warns him. It’s serious. He’s aware of Zez.

Malaman, he had a website, there are lots of stories about the game on there, go check it out: www.urbantracks.fr. It’s called « Hell Sinky. » He also has a podcast, it’s amazing.

V

WEBSITE www.urbantracks.fr : HELL SINKY EPISODE 1

Six hours have already passed, and I still don’t have a penny in my pocket » (IAM – Un cri court dans la nuit). The clock beats the rhythm. The seconds strike me like a drumbeat piercing through my heart. In this symphony of anxiety, I walk to the beat of the machinery, unfolding my game a little more. I patiently wait for the clock to indicate the time of departure, that fateful moment that actually lasts only a fraction of a second.

The Paypal payment is taking forever. This money will allow me to buy a one-way ticket to Amsterdam, far from Paris, even further from rap, and even further from my life. The pilgrimage to Dam, the Mecca of young Parisians, is both an initiatory journey and a damnation. Like a bunch of zombies straight out of The Walking Dead, they go around the coffee shops, never forgetting to tell stories about local peculiarities: weed and the Red Light District. There are prostitutes everywhere in Paris, but young people find it more exotic to see them in shop windows. And Vice City knows how to play its cards. In Amsterdam, the slightly curious or knowledgeable tourist will find objects with cannabis motifs or sex shops to remind them that they are not there by chance. It’s strange, but Amsterdam, just like Paris or Barcelona, has its « tourista. » This raging disease bombards you with stereotypes about yourself at every corner of the shopping street. In Paris, they sell Eiffel Towers and PSG jerseys (with the Eiffel Tower), in Amsterdam, they sell the strange sense of freedom that comes from the legalization of prostitution and cannabis. An apparent freedom, but very real for visitors. As for me, I will end my life in front of a shop window in Amsterdam, like the young man I have always been.

I start my playlist on Tidal, settle in, and wait. It begins with the track « Helsinki » by Dinos, a somewhat forgotten rapper from the Parisian rap scene. Dinos is the journalist’s regret. The rapper possesses exceptional diction. He dissects words with the precision of an aesthete. However, his disdain for political correctness, his rejection of the too-easy heritage of the suburban hoodlum, his persistence in expressing a half-century-old malaise, earned him a complete boycott. Youssoupha, mocking the title of his album « Négritude » in the song of the same name, will scoff at us: « It would have been better if the album was called ‘F*** your mother’ or ‘Drug Dealer’. »

Dinos went to Skyrock, the temple of mainstream rap, to shout in a memorable freestyle, « Laurent Bouneau (the radio boss) finds my tracks too intelligent to play on the radio. » In « Helsinki, » he speaks of a love that crossed the threshold of his door and never returned: « If you knew how much I hate you, you would know how much I love you. » He goes to Helsinki, to the country where « the sun never rises. » Why? It’s strange, but when a person is lost, they seek the reasons for their unhappiness elsewhere. Most of the time, it’s because of someone.

Parenthesis. Muslims since the Arab conquests, the Persians retain some vestiges of the Zoroastrians. They celebrated the departure and return of the sun. On the last Wednesday before the first day of spring, they gather to « leap over the fire, » thus asking the great sun to return. A ritual that may seem a bit burlesque these days. Seeing a group of Iranians, intoxicated with the awful wine from the Iranian Cultural Center, jumping over large flames near the Canal Saint-Martin may seem somewhat disconcerting. Especially since that day is also the big celebration for their children, who run in all directions as if the canal’s fire had unleashed the demons of conjugal hell.

This tradition, despite the resurgence of Islam with the Islamic Revolution of 1979, persists and is still respected up to Tehran. Even the wine from the Pouya Center meant nothing to me… I drank it in one gulp while trying not to be jostled in the noise of customary greetings. I realized that I hardly knew anyone. Apart from my poor sister, forged in American heavy metal with her positive attitude, who would even rejoice at the strength of her left leg if her right one were cut off, and my aunt, relatively more reserved about whether she was really having fun, I only saw unfamiliar faces. At one point, a photographer came to greet me… I had met him at a bar in Ménilmontant. That year, I didn’t feel like I belonged. I am too Iranian to be French and too French to be Iranian. I am the child of a mixed heritage that should not have been forced upon me by events too significant for me. So, I didn’t jump over the fire. I contented myself with having a glass of wine and getting into the first Uber to celebrate the sun, far away from that community that I have never fully accepted.

I didn’t keep my promise to the sun; I didn’t follow that ritual. That’s probably why it offered me a miserable May in Paris, where the showers rivaled my wanderings and mistakes. Never before had it rained so much in Paris in May. To add to my post-hangover mood, I searched for light everywhere. « The absence of light puts me in the dark » (Dieu ne ment jamais – Damso), I leave by erasing my past, as if formatting a hard drive. And I head to « the country where the sun never rises. » « Helsinki » will be the epilogue of my story in Paris, even though everything ends in Amsterdam. I open the app again and realize there is still nothing. « Sexe, Pouvoir et Bifton » by Arsenik is the second track on the playlist. A classic among classics, it talks about rap. « Sexe, Pouvoir et Bifton, » isn’t that what we all seek?

If most men are like clockwork, moving to the rhythm of that thin hand that goes from noon to midnight, if most women move with their eyes closed without ever asking questions, if we are all « fuel for the machine » (Brav’ – Brav against the machine), in this milieu, time doesn’t exist. The artistic universe, music, and especially rap, hover above the clouds (« Above the clouds » – Gang Starr), like a forbidden city inaccessible and impermeable to some. I am an underpaid journalist in rap, I have a communications agency in rap… I was, I had.

Let’s not deceive ourselves. Just like Colombian football in the 90s, French rap remains the best way to launder drug money. It’s like an Uber, but probably more profitable. After all, the « dealos » are the main source of inspiration for French rap. The verses of PNL, Gradur, and Booba tell the story of Colombian-style cartels in Paris. The Parisian dealer has « his Balmain full of cash » (« Maman ne le sait pas » – Ninho), but an empty head. « No Future » (Tiers Monde – « Babel »), he has the « Démon » (PNL – Luz de Luna). He uses his money to finance « a little one » who raps. If it doesn’t work out, he will have spent his money elsewhere than on magnums that he no longer drinks even in nightclubs. And if the young artist manages to break through, he will enjoy peaceful days with the money he laundered in « advance » and in SACEM revenues.

The hour is ticking, and the money isn’t coming; I will soon run out. The tracks continue on the computer. I hear a song from today, a track by Ninho and SCH. Pure and unapologetic egotrip, « Prêt à partir. » There is nothing else in this song but the rage, impertinence, and audacity of two rappers who sell more in France today than all their pop singers.

One day, I was walking in Ikea with my best client, Rackim. This man is the founder of a major urban media outlet, a site with millions of followers and a huge financial fortune in French rap. We had come to buy desks for the space he had opened at the Portes de Paris. He pointed out that I had forgotten a client in my promotion campaign. He told me to be careful. I replied that I wasn’t « a mafia or a dealer. » He responded with boisterous laughter, acknowledging that I was indeed playing with drug money. Rackim is a good man, one of the few you can find in this hip-hop world.

So, even though it’s far from being a gathering of « blood-drinking » gangsters (Kaaris – for his entire body of work), rap has embraced the street codes and promotes them in the works of its artists. Rap is the testimony of the street, the showcase of disadvantaged neighborhoods, and for many, the dream of escaping illegality. Unfortunately, the legend of rap journalism, Sear Get Busy, abandoned me during one of the few entrevues I conducted at the beginning of my career for ActuBuzz: « If rap allowed us to leave the neighborhoods, today it imprisons more than one. »

I think of him again as I listen to « On est encore là, » one of my favorite tracks by NTM. The 90s witnessed the birth of urban poetry, lyrically rich rap, and conscious rap. The 2010s mark the final stages that propelled rap as the most listened to music in the world, surpassing rock, pop, and dance. Rap has entered everywhere, in clubs, upscale neighborhoods, and even some media outlets, even though the media establishment never prays for rap. The music had to open up to a new audience, which sometimes stripped it of its consciousness and complexity…

The payment still hasn’t arrived… Fear begins to creep in; I stare into emptiness like a depressed person who has just been scolded by a psychiatrist. So, this is the fall of this story. The end of this adventure. Happy endings are reserved for bad movies. Behind the joys lie the sorrows. Life often takes back what it has given you. After giving you life, it sets you free with death.

The playlist continues with « Réseaux » by Niska. He made his debut in the Generations Buzz that I supported with « sweetsign. » Among the ten artists who were on the lineup for that concert, Niska was the only one undressing the girls in the front row while singing. Proof of his innate charo talent.

While sighing very awkwardly, I stare fixedly at the concert poster I hung on my wall. I organized that concert with La GP for Générations FM radio. It was the starting point of my true story.

My journey in rap begins with LA GP. A communications and production agency that never knew how to keep anyone, I think. The company was masterfully run by the boss JR. A figure of political banditry, a Black Dragon from the start, the master of the place manages his business like a mafia. He’s not a bad guy. What ultimately sets JR apart from those shady bosses who have their jeans made in Pakistan for ten cents, economically and humanly destroying a country? What should we think of those white-collar workers who see the African homeland as an opportunity to seize and establish « their unlimited empire » (Edgar Allan Poe – The Masque of the Red Death)? JR revolutionized the rules of the business. He refused to pay the establishment to establish himself. In this country, with its blue, white, and red colors, but above all not black, it is a crime of lèse-majesté.

That’s where I learned that rap and art, in general, are a masquerade in the service of money, just like anything that is sold. Money is a sea monster that attracts everything to itself, perverts it, and transforms it into a manufactured product wrapped in cellophane. The product will then be reproduced in countless copies to be sold, and then discarded. To escape his condition as an orphan locked in the homes of the Republic, JR refused to respect the rules of the game. If he had accepted his fate, he would probably be loading a truck in front of a jewelry store (which he would have dreamed of robbing).

In this rap, there are many « brothers, » but very little brotherhood. Like the world, it is violent and ultra-competitive. Like humanity, it is rich in exceptional encounters. The Paypal payment has just arrived. The bitcoins are ready. Now, I must make a choice: steal and leave or stay and die. Betray the trust of the real ones to avoid being beaten by the others. I look closely at the first rap CD I held in my hands, « L’école du micro d’argent. » And I look out the window. It may be too late. Perhaps this was my « Destinée » (Booba).

L’article HELL SINKY – THE BOOK PART 1 (English Version) @ Rapmattaz.