Killer Klown Klan
"All rise," the bailiff called as Judge Bartholomew Pratt walked into the courtroom and took his place at the bench.
Rapper Darren Fiske turned to Les Jeffries, his long-time friend and music partner, and the two men exchanged a confident smile. Better known as Murderous Mike and Giggles of the Killer Klown Klan, Fiske and Jeffries were being sued by the grieving parents of a fifteen-year-old boy who had killed himself in a way described by the "KKK" in the lyrics of one of its songs. The parents' attorney claimed that the hip-hop duo's music held a dangerous message that directly influenced the boy's tragic actions.
Fiske and Jeffries' expensive, high-profile lawyer not only cited the performers' First Amendment rights, but he also called several witnesses that painted the deceased teenager as an emotionally disturbed young man who doubtlessly would have killed himself regardless of his obsession with KKK's music. Fiske and Jeffries felt certain the judge would rule in their favor. After all, the heavy metal group Judas Priest faced a similar dilemma back in 1990 when it was sued for the 1985 suicide and attempted suicide of two of its fans. The families of the two young men involved claimed that inimical subliminal messages contained in the group's Stained Class album had prompted the shootings, but the court case was ultimately dismissed.
Judge Pratt looked solemnly toward the dead boy's parents and began, "While I sympathize with your terrible loss ...."
The distraught mother and father knew at that moment that the case had not gone their way. The anguished mother began to quietly sob into a Kleenex, and her husband's face hardened with anger.
"... I cannot hold Darren Fiske and Lester Jeffries legally responsible in any way for the death of your son."
After the judge's verdict was announced, the defense attorney congratulated his clients. Members of the press began snapping photographs of Fiske and Jeffries, who were relieved that their legal ordeal was finally behind them.
"Now that the trial is over, what's in the future for the Killer Klown Klan?" a reporter from the local newspaper asked, as the two rappers made their way out of the crowded courtroom.
"We're gonna go to Disneyland!" Les joked, exhibiting a cocky attitude he hoped would come off as sangfroid. "Or maybe we'll be original and go to Disney World instead."
"Why not Disneyland Paris?" Murderous Mike asked, joining in the merriment.
"Despite the court's ruling," the reporter pressed, "don't you feel responsible in any way for that young man's death?"
"No way," the rapper protested. "If you want to blame somebody, blame his parents, not us. That was one messed up kid. Giggles and I write songs that reflect the world around us. Yeah, it's violent. Books, television, movies and video games are all violent, too. Hell, even many cartoons and fairy tales are violent. And don't get me started about the evening news! Our lyrics just reflect that brutality. But no one has to listen to our music, do they?"
As Murderous Mike and Giggles exited the courthouse, a swarm of screaming fans greeted them on the steps and cheered them on.
"We love you all," a jubilant Murderous Mike yelled, hugging a few of his more attractive female fans.
After giving a brief interview to an MTV news correspondent, the two rappers ducked into their waiting limousine, which took them to an exclusive, upper-income community, far away from the city slums in which they claimed to have been born and raised.
Later that night, Murderous Mike held a party to celebrate the legal victory. It was a typical KKK bash: there were plenty of pretty, scantily clad girls, the music was loud, the alcohol flowed freely and there was a large selection of drugs to choose from.
Around midnight the rapper stumbled down the stairs to get another bottle of Jack Daniels, a large supply of which was stored in his basement. As he headed back toward the staircase, he passed the open door to his home theater. Inside the dimly lit room, a young girl sat on the couch, eating popcorn and watching the large-screen plasma TV. Murderous Mike was instantly attracted to the pretty thirteen-year-old, despite her tender age.
"What are you doing here all by yourself?" he asked. "The party is upstairs."
"I was bored, so I came down to watch TV," she replied.
The rapper sat next to her on the large, over-stuffed leather sofa.
"What are you watching?" he asked, as he inched nearer to her.
"A Christmas Carol."
"Oh, yeah, I nearly forgot; it's just a few days until Christmas' isn't it? How would you like an early Christmas present, honey?"
Murderous Mike made a move on the teenager, but she was no adoring fan who would do anything to please her idol. This girl, who was only at the party because her older sister dragged her along, was sweet, innocent and frightened. She put up a fight, and when she broke free from the rapper's clutches she left the room in tears.
"Damned little tease," Murderous Mike said, soothing his bruised ego by drinking directly from the bottle of Jack Daniels.
Then, so intoxicated he could barely get up from the couch much less walk, he laid his head back on the cushions and stared at his eighty-five-inch Sony Ultra HD television.
In the classic 1951 adaptation of Charles Dickens's immortal Christmas ghost story, the specter of Jacob Marley, played by Michael Hordern, was speaking to Ebenezer Scrooge, his former business partner, masterfully portrayed by Alastair Sim.
"I come tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate, a chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer."
To which Scrooge replied, "Thank you, Jacob. You were always a good friend of mine."
"You will be visited by three spirits."
"What? Was that the chance and hope that you mentioned, Jacob?"
"It was."
"Well, in that case, never mind. I think I'd rather not."
"Without their visit, you cannot hope to shun the path I tread," Marley warned. "Expect the first when the bell tolls one."
Murderous Mike took another large gulp of JD and passed out on the couch.
* * *
The sound of a gong disturbed Murderous Mike's slumber. He opened his eyes and saw a man sitting in the shadows.
"Who the hell are you?" the drunk and disoriented rapper demanded to know.
"Don't you remember me, Darren?"
"Nobody calls me ...."
Murderous Mike lapsed into silence as recognition set in.
"You can't possibly be ...."
The visitor stepped out of the shadows, and the rapper saw his face more clearly.
"But I am," the man said, smiling. "It's me, Tyrone Walker, a.k.a., Dr. Destruction."
Murderous Mike found this hard to believe, since Dr. Destruction, the notorious East Coast hip-hop artist, had been killed in a drive-by shooting more than two years earlier.
"It's me, all right, Darren."
"Oh, I get it," Murderous Mike laughed. "This is all a dream inspired by that old movie the kid was watching. You're supposed to be Bob Marley, and I'm Ebenezer Scrooge, right?"
"Something like that," the ghost of Tyrone Walker replied mysteriously. "By the way, it's Jacob Marley, not Bob Marley."
Murderous Mike laughed so hard that tears fell from his eyes.
"Whatever! And what exactly are you doing here? Have you come to show me visions of Christmases past, present and future?"
"This isn't Dickens. My visit with you has nothing to do with Christmas. I've come to show you the true meaning of music."
"I know all about music. The KKK has got six platinum CDs."
Now it was Tyrone's turn to laugh.
"Oh, you and Les definitely have mastered the art of promotion, not to mention merchandising, but neither of you knows the first thing about music. Putting a bunch of vulgar rhymes to a beat hardly qualifies as music."
"Who are you to talk?" Murderous Mike protested. "You were one of the first rappers to get a parental advisory sticker."
"'Tis sad but true," Tyrone readily conceded. "I was as ignorant then as you are now. I just kept churning out those songs without any regard to the impact they were having on impressionable young minds."
"Oh, I get it now. This about that kid who killed himself, isn't it?"
"He got the idea from your lyrics: 'The next time the F'ing world gets you down, jump off a bridge like a good little Klown.'"
Murderous Mike laughed again.
"My mother was the inspiration for that song. She used to ask me, 'If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too?' Maybe the kid's family should sue her."
The rapper's laughter stopped when he saw how pained Tyrone looked.
"Hell, you don't really blame the KKK, do you? That kid was a retard. He would have killed himself anyway. Besides, Giggles and I were only exercising our right to free speech. Don't they have the Constitution in heaven—or wherever it is you came from?"
"In a civilized society rights also entail a certain amount of personal responsibility. It's funny. I once successfully sued a record company executive because he called me a nigger, even though my friends and I used that word all the time. The judge agreed with me that the word was offensive and ruled in my favor. Yet, I could write lyrics that promoted incest, rape, murder, drug abuse, misogyny, homophobia, racism and even necrophilia and be protected by the First Amendment. Apparently, none of these subjects is too offensive for our teenagers' young ears."
Murderous Mike shrugged.
"Yeah, well, that's America."
The former Dr. Destruction glanced at his diamond-studded Rolex and announced, "I'm afraid we've got to hurry. We have a lot of ground to cover tonight, Darren."
Murderous Mike's hi-tech home theater promptly vanished, and the Killer Klown found himself in eighteenth-century Vienna. There he watched a dying Mozart, living on the charity of his friends as he feverishly worked on his Requiem. Next, he was whisked off to Leipzig, Germany where Johann Sebastian Bach, whose eyesight was failing, was working in a dim room, perfecting his chorale fantasias. Then he returned to Vienna where a deaf Ludwig van Beethoven was writing his immortal Ninth Symphony.
Journeying through time and space, the ghost of Tyrone Walker took Murderous Mike to observe Brahms, Chopin, Handel, Haydn, Mendelssohn, Schubert, Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, Liszt, Paganini, Rachmaninov, Strauss, Stravinsky, Wagner and dozens of others. The shadows of the past that Tyrone showed Darren were not limited to classic composers or to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They also visited musicians who dedicated their lives to jazz, the blues, country and western, Broadway show tunes, opera, swing and even rock 'n' roll.
As the night came to an end, Tyrone took his old friend to Memphis, Tennessee, where a poor truck driver named Elvis Presley signed with Sun Records; to Lubbock, Texas, where young Charles Hardin "Buddy" Holly formed a group called the Crickets; and even to Liverpool, England where four British musicians known as the Beatles played the Cavern Club. Finally, Murderous Mike found himself back in his own home.
"So, when do I meet the next ghost?" he asked Tyrone derisively.
"There are no other ghosts," Dr. Destruction replied. "I'm afraid I'm it."
"Then lead on, my man. Let's get the present over with because I can't wait to see the future. I'll bet our last stop will be a cemetery where you'll show me my name on a gravestone."
"There's no point in that," Tyrone said. "You know you're going to die—eventually. We all do. But if you want to see the future, I'll gladly take you there."
It was not a long leap in time, just a mere twenty years.
"Where are we, an arcade?" Murderous Mike asked, staring at the oddly decorated room filled with young people and what appeared to be miniature computer terminals.
"Not exactly, but it's similar to one. This is a kind of hi-tech futuristic playground for teenagers. They come here in their free time to socialize, watch movies, play games and listen to music. Why don't you take a look around, and see what they're listening to."
Tyrone walked over to a monitor and touched the music icon on the screen; a menu immediately popped up.
"Literally hundreds of thousands of songs are stored in this computer's memory," the spirit explained, "everything from Verdi to U2, Billie Holiday to the Rolling Stones and Glenn Miller to Little Richard."
Yet when Murderous Mike scrolled through the alphabetical list of musical artists, he noted that the Killer Klown Klan was not in the database.
"Are they serious? They've got the Kinks, the Kingsmen, the Kingston Trio and the King Sisters here but not us. Who gives a shit, anyway?" Murderous Mike asked sourly as he turned away from the computer in disgust. "We're not mainstream; we're an underground band."
"I could take you a thousand years into the future, and people will know the name Beethoven. They'll be familiar with Lennon and McCartney's songs. They'll sing along with the tunes of Rogers and Hammerstein, dance to Benny Goodman and tap their feet to John Philip Sousa. You see, Darren, true music will live forever. Even many bands and vocalists our generation laughingly referred to as 'one-hit wonders' will leave their mark."
"Who cares about music a thousand years from now? I'll be long dead."
"Death is not the end. My presence here is proof of that."
"That's comforting to know," the rapper said sarcastically.
"Is it?" Tyrone asked. "I don't think you'll find the hereafter very comfortable."
"Why?" Murderous Mike asked smugly. "Am I going to burn in hell for all eternity?"
"No," Dr. Destruction replied sadly. "You will be destined to share my sentence. People will remember neither your name nor your countenance. Your music will fall out of favor as your fans grow older. Your CDs, tee shirts and DVDs won't even sell at yard sales or on eBay. Think about it, man. When was the last time you heard any of my songs on the radio?"
What Tyrone said was true, Murderous Mike realized. Although oldies stations across the country still played artists such as Connie Francis and the Drifters, and songs by Creedence Clearwater Revival and Steppenwolf graced the soundtracks of many Hollywood films, Dr. Destruction had been all but forgotten. Hell, a lot of old rock classics such as "Brown Sugar," "Walk This Way," "After Midnight" and "Foxy Lady" were now featured on television commercials.
"That's you," Murderous Mike said defensively. "Giggles and I have a very loyal following."
"Many of whose lives you're destroying with your irresponsible lyrics."
"Hey, wait ...."
"I know, I know. No one's forcing these kids to buy your CDs, watch your videos or go to your concerts. Just the same, while John Lennon and George Harrison can rest peacefully knowing they tried to change the world for the better with their music, you and I will have an eternity ahead of us in which we can contemplate our guilt and innocence. You asked if I was going to take you to a cemetery and show you your name written on a gravestone. You would like that, wouldn't you? To have a permanent memorial in your honor to which music lovers could make a pilgrimage, as they do to the graves of Elvis Presley and Jim Morrison. But your final resting place as well as your name will be forgotten shortly after your death. To you and I who have lived with wealth, fame and the adoration of our fans, it is a fate worse than the fires of hell, for we are to spend eternity in obscurity."
* * *
The morning following the celebration party, Les "Giggles" Jeffries woke up on the living room floor, hungover and suffering from a headache that no amount of Excedrin could dull.
Maybe Mike has something stronger I can take to get rid of this pain in my head, he thought.
After finding the master bedroom empty and the bed still made from the previous day, Les searched Murderous Mike's mansion for a sign of his friend. Eventually, he made his way downstairs and passed the open door to the home theater where he spotted a reclining form on the couch.
"There you are! Why the hell didn't you answer me when I called you?"
He crossed the room and shook his friend's leg.
"Wake up, dummy, we've got a recording session this morning."
Despite Les's efforts to rouse him, Darren Fiske, a.k.a., Murderous Mike, one half of the musical duo, the Killer Klown Klan, did not move. He had already taken his first steps toward eternity.
With his partner gone, Les Jeffries retired from music and enjoyed a moderately successful career playing supporting roles in action films. Soon, the Killer Klown Klan's CDs stopped selling. Once-loyal fans donated their KKK tee shirts to Goodwill or the Salvation Army and tossed the videos, posters and other merchandise in the trash.
As Dr. Destruction had predicted one cold December night, Murderous Mike's name was quickly forgotten.
Please note that this is just a story. I am not suggesting that rap music is harmful to young listeners. In fact, many rappers have something of value to say about our society.
A clown? Definitely! A rapper? No way!
