It was a rainy night, the first rainy weekend of this year, 2008. Alan, Shoppys' newly appointed representative was partially asleep, dreaming of taking Shoppy on tour somewhere far, like say, Australia. A car starts on the drowning street in front of his modest abode. He looks at his feet, warm and covered in a new pair of socks. How lucky was he, he thought, to be inside when some poor sap had to head to work. The car slowly pulls away from the street, with a rise that sounds familiar. Too familiar. He asks himself, "is that my car?", but plays the odds and succumbs to the warmth of slumber.
A hooded man lights a cigarette with a shaking hand, not from the cold, but from the adrenaline. His partner shakes off the water from his brown hair and smiles. Westward, they shatter the raindrops on Interstate 60, hoping they can reach Los Angeles before the sun does. This car is nothing remarkable in appearance. The Civic is neither fast nor sleek, not elegant and not worth enough on the streets. It smells of drywall and acetone, with a faint aroma of new plastic. 30 miles from their destination, the hooded driver finally relaxes his grip from the steering wheel, leaving marks on his palms from his fingernails. The passenger, a young latin male with a stout face and a surprisingly absent neck eagerly awaits the call from their liason. Why, he wonders, did the boss insist on this car? Why did he insist that we find the Civic with a license plate reading 4DGL532, when the neighboring suburbs were a cornucopia of fine automobiles? Known only by FRANK, their boss was always secretive of the details to any operation, and always gave the info as needed and when needed only. The cab is quiet, the only noise is the sound of the many freight trucks passing by, making the tired car appear at a standstill. Both men flinch with the sound of the phone, the younger one hands it to the driver, who snatches it away with the clear impression that hes the senior of the two. Unceremoniusly, he answers phone, " The package is en route, ETA 20 minutes". "Good," Frank whispers in a rasp that only 2 packs of Pall Malls a day could create. " How did the kid do?" The Driver looks at the passenger as he replies," It took him longer then I' d like, but we succeeded without breaking glass." " Fine, Fine,...Now look in the back, and confirm that you see a large Tupperware container, do it now!!" The Driver relays this message to no-neck, and he begins to rummage through buckets and tools obviously belonging to some sort of mason or carpenter. Then he sees the box and begins to open it. Suddenly he is struck across the neck with the butt of a .22 caliber pistol, and drops unconsious. "Worthless un-disciplined shit tried to open the box!!" barks the Driver. Frank, in an un-moved tone says" Dump the kid".
No one notices in the blanket of rain that the door opens as the Civic takes the offramp to Olivera street, and a body rolls out and down the hill to the side, settling at the base of a chain-link fence, alongside empty soda cups and bags of trash that are barely holding their contents, wet and pungent. The Driver likes working alone anyway.
Pulling in to the parking lot of a large indoor swapmeet he drives behind the building, where he sees Franks car, a 2008 Cadillac Escalade, with steam coming from the hood. Frank always keeps his car running. The two cars stare at each other, while both drivers are on the phone with each other. Frank calmly says." Heres the deal,.. leave me that box and you can have the car, the money has already been wired to your account,..understood?" The Driver fights the morbid urge to look deeply into the cab of the Cadillac, to finally put a face to this allusive man. Luckily, the tint on the windows would have made this effort worthless. He looks at his gun, and begins to wonder what is in this box, and is it worth more than the car and the pay? Could he off this freak and take the box for himself? Are there more people in the Cadillac? He coldly calculates, and answers," understood".
The Driver steps out of the Civic with the box in hand. Smoke from the endless cigarettes pours out of the door, and the cars engine seems to cough and sputter. The box doesnt weigh a lot, but it doesnt weigh a little either. He walks steadily towards the exact middle between the two cars, being sure not to look into the Black Cadillac. He then sets the box down, and with an uninterested look he turns around, halfway expecting to hear the gentle thud of a silenced pistol, and seeing his brains sprawled across the Civics cracked windsheild. Nothing of this sort happens. He gets into the car and puts it into reverse, as the Escalade sits there like a patient bull. The Driver turns and heads towards the front parking lot, as he lights another cigarette. He does not turn on to the street towards the freeway. He drives across the parking lot the length of the building and parks at the edge. He takes one last long drag, then picks up the .22 from the passenger seat and exits the vehicle. His training in the service taught him how to move quietly, but the rain made that un-necessary as he rushed towards the back of the building on foot. He peaked around the corner, judging the distance to the back of the Caddillac to be about fifty yards. The driver door opened, and a long snakeskin boot stepped out first, then the entire person. He was alone. A man like Frank could only work alone, for he trusted no-one. The man was tall, and strong looking, with a beard so full that he could see it from behind. Frank knelt in front of the box and ceremoniously opened the lid. By the time he felt the Drivers presence it was too late. The driver squeezed the trigger without even blinking, sending Frank slumping over this beloved box, his blood mixed with the rain water making the ground pink and sorrowful.
The Driver had no remorse left, only driven by greed. Now he had a car, the money, and this mysterious box. It was time to finally see the face of this prick Frank. He grabbed his hair and pulled his limp head upwards, the rain clearing the blood around the bullet hole. The Driver knew instantly who this was, what he had done. This would make international headlines. This would change the music world as we know it. Why would a man of his wealth and notorioty covet this box. He pushed the dead man aside, finally losing his cool.
Inside this box there were discs. Discs by some unknown band named Shoppy. There was other merchandise, shirts, stickers...and a large list of fans and addresses. He had just ended the life of Rick Rubin, famed producer and msucial genius, for a box of discs and crap from a band that nobody knows east of Riverside. He grabbed a shirt, and left the scene in the little Civic that now felt like home. This would be the end of the Driver, and he knew it. With a strange surrender, a peacefullness that he'd never had, he headed north to Apple Valley, the place where he had left his family 10 years back.
THE END
based on true events, the Driver remains at large and may be wearing a Shoppy shirt.