J D's career had been on a tear. Couldn't tell you how many copies of the Como masterpiece, Da Killa, he'd sold, but they roared out the store weekly. The Star Telegram profiled him, as did Ken with the Weekly later on. Sales stoked red hot. Especially after a public access cable station aired this hard R rated flick in its entirety. And yes, the scene with the hooker was intact.
His CD's, Bustin' Out, Solja Deep, and Comin' Dead Serious provided funds to pay for filming, editing, and copying of Da Killa, with its uproarious comedy of Juju magic, murder and mayhem, along with tainted weed and raunchy sex. Appearing on Texas Hood Connections only increased the fame.
For all this, this was still the record store, and he was still just J D. And no one was immune from store pranks or jokes.
I was returning from the morning bank run via back route past Mott's, Hedary's, Italian Inn. Noticed J D crouched beside that bike. Looked like the chain was loose or busted. His back was to me. I put on sunglasses, rolled down the car window, and crawled the car up behind him.
'Whatcha be doing boyfriend?" I twisted my voice high and effeminate. I sounded like a space-elf, hunting earthman globes.
J D jumped back, totally alarmed.
"You broke your bicycle, little boy?" I continued. "You wanna go with Papa for a ride?"
"Mister - - you just better move your - - Worth-Dogg!"
I grinned. "What's the matter? Don't you like older white guys with big ass cars?"
"Shit, man. You got me good," he slapped his leg and laughed.
"You need a ride to the store, J?" I asked.
"Naw. Chain just popped loose. I'll be at work soon."
I rolled on.
Compared to Joe, however, I was pure bush league.
Months earlier, J had posed with some stand-up poster on the back lift. Latin crooner Ricky Martin or Enrique Iglesias or Juanes. Can't remember now. He liked the absurd.
Then, the Cowtown Ballet shipped us their own stand up. Start thinking Aaron Copland's Rodeo.
Young man wearing Stetson, chaps, gun-belt. Nothing else. Repeat? Naked dancer - hat, chaps, gun outta the holster - that's all, Pilgrim. Several of you are already shouting, "Well, what more do you need?" or "Here's my phone number!"
So J D wanted another photo of himself with this cultural ambassador. Asked Joe to snap it.
Joe was specific with instructions.
"No, move over. Now you're blocking it. Turn my way. Lean. Move left a bit. Lean more. Wait. Wait. Smile."
Nice image of J D superimposed over in front of a gay cowboy.
Late afternoon. J D chilled in the Latin Room, surrounded by a coterie of honey riders. Big rap star, budding Hollywood player. Slow shift, early dinner hour for most people. The girls were pretty, flirty, pushing on J, and flashing skin. He was probably thinking about that next project, Midnight At Nympho Vampire House.
Gloria wandered into the store, noticed the party. Yet, before she headed that way, Joe grabbed her. I could not hear the conversation. Very brief. Next thing, she jutted her chin out and marched straight into the Latin room.
"J D, what are you doing with these other girls? What about us? You said you loved me!"
J opened his mouth, dumbfounded, but nothing came out. Conversation died. The girls exchanged glances.
"You said we were forever! What about last night?" Gloria continued, "After what I let you do to me last night?"
J D remained speechless as Gloria poured it on. The other hotties backed away from this player-lovin' skeezer like he was crawling with disease. Sex farm disease. Last thing any of them wanted was another bullshit talkin' gamester with a closet full of crazy women. Cooties were a bonus. One by one, the fanbase trickled out the door.
J D hadn't been able to do a damn thing, because it was Gloria, because Gloria was relentless and loud.
"I thought we were gonna start a family. Make us some babies. Move to Louisiana."
Too late he noticed Joe leaning against the counter, bent over and crying. Joe had set him up and whacked him ... again.
Video Bonus - Please pause the Sound Check player. Give the video a minute to load. Good luck.
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