South Newark. The abandoned textile district.
The area had been converted into cheap motels and underground clubs. The cold November rain mixed with the stench of sewage backflow, making the air smell like moldy bread.
"This stuff ain't selling, Victor."
Beside an idling Cadillac, Fat Tony's man—a small guy named Paulie—was kicking a box of "Walter's Cough Syrup" in frustration.
"Those junkies want a 'kick'. They want that instant rush hitting the top of their skull." Paulie sniffed, pulling a small bag of white powder from his jacket and shaking it disdainfully. "Not this sweet, cloying sugar water that takes half an hour to hit. Man, I've been standing on the corner for three days and only sold two bottles. And that was to an old lady with a cold."
Victor Corleone wore a dark grey cashmere coat and held a black umbrella. Standing in the rain, he looked completely out of place in this filthy neighborhood.
He didn't get angry at Paulie's complaints. He simply adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses calmly, his gaze piercing through the rain curtain to the graffiti-covered iron door across the street.
That was "The Basement"—Newark's most chaotic and lively underground hip-hop club. The muffled thumping of subwoofers could vibrate a human heart even from two blocks away.
"There is nothing wrong with the product, Paulie. You just found the wrong customers and used the wrong scenario," Victor said faintly.
"Scenario?" Paulie scoffed. "You need a scenario to sell drugs? Cash on delivery, even in a public toilet, it's all the same."
"That's for selling drugs, Paulie. We are selling 'Culture'."
Victor closed his umbrella and handed it to Paulie. "Grab a box. Follow me in."
"In there? Dressed like that?" Paulie looked Victor up and down, eyeing his bespoke suit. "You'll be torn apart like a sheep wandering into a wolf pack."
Victor ignored him and walked straight toward the vibrating iron door.
...
The Basement.
The air was thick with sweat, cheap perfume, and marijuana smoke.
Dim lights were sliced into countless fragments by a rotating disco ball, dancing frantically in the haze. On stage, a black rapper wearing an exaggerated gold chain was spitting lyrics into the microphone at breakneck speed.
The crowd was restless, like beasts in a cage, twisting madly to the rapid drumbeats.
Victor frowned. This music, with a BPM (Beats Per Minute) over 120, was a product of the cocaine era. People sought excitement, speed, and explosiveness.
But this did not belong to "Purple Drank".
He moved through the crowded dance floor. No matter how many provocative glares or physical collisions he encountered, he maintained a strange, detached elegance, as if walking in another dimension.
He went straight to the DJ booth.
Behind the console was a burly black man with dreadlocks, immersed in the noise storm he was creating. He was the king here, controlling the heart rates of hundreds of people.
A hundred-dollar bill was gently placed on the mixing deck.
The DJ stopped scratching, raised an eyebrow, and looked at the out-of-place white man. "Lost your way, Wall Street boy? We don't sell stocks here."
"I'm buying time." Victor's voice wasn't loud, but in the brief silence, it reached the DJ's ears clearly.
He put down two more hundred-dollar bills.
"Slow the rhythm down," Victor said. "Slow it down to 60 BPM. Heavy up the bass. Drag out the vocals."
"Are you crazy?" The DJ looked at him like he was an idiot. "That rhythm will put people to sleep. If the floor goes cold, the boss will kill me."
"Try this."
Victor didn't argue. He took a bottle of Purple Drank from Paulie, unscrewed the cap, and grabbed the large cup of Sprite filled with ice next to the DJ deck. He slowly poured the viscous purple liquid in.
Even in the dim light, it was a breathtaking visual spectacle.
The bright purple syrup sank and diffused in the clear carbonated drink like some kind of liquid gem. Bubbles wrapped around the purple ribbons, rising and bursting with the sweet scent of grapes.
Victor took a few red fruit hard candies from his pocket, dropped them into the bottom of the cup, and shook it gently.
"This is called 'Texas Tea'." Victor pushed the fizzing cup in front of the DJ. "Drink it, and you'll understand what real rhythm is."
The DJ looked suspiciously at the enchanting liquid, then at the three hundred dollars on the table. Finally, greed and curiosity won over caution. He picked up the cup and took a huge gulp.
Three minutes.
The onset of the drug usually took twenty minutes, but in this hot, oxygen-deprived environment filled with weed smoke, the sedative effect of the promethazine was accelerated.
The DJ felt the lights before his eyes start to trail. The originally frantic crowd seemed to slow down in his vision. Every movement was like slow-motion footage; every sound carried an echo.
An unprecedented sense of relaxation washed over his brain like a warm tide. All anxiety, anger, and aggression vanished, leaving only a laziness floating in the clouds.
"Damn..." the DJ muttered, his voice low and raspy. He felt his fingers no longer obeying the frantic commands of his brain but moving instinctively to the slow rhythm of his heartbeat, pushing the fader.
The music changed.
The rapid drumbeats were forcibly dragged out, turning into a heavy, sluggish boom, like a heartbeat in the deep sea. The vocals were pitched down, becoming deep and viscous, every word seemingly carrying a bizarre magic.
This was the future "Chopped and Screwed" style.
The crowd on the dance floor was initially confused; some even booed. But soon, this low-frequency sound wave began to resonate with the alcohol and marijuana still in their systems.
Victor stood in the shadows, watching it all.
He saw several black men who had been aggressively shoving each other stop. Their bodies began to sway involuntarily to this extremely slow rhythm. Not violent shaking, but large, sweeping movements, like seaweed in water.
"Open the box," Victor said to Paulie, who was staring in awe.
Paulie opened the box, revealing the neat rows of 99 bottles of Purple Drank.
Victor took one out, unscrewed it, and held it up to the light.
The DJ seemed to sense something. He grabbed the microphone and roared in that drug-altered, deep, dragging voice: "Do... you... want... to... fly? That... is... purple... heaven..."
The first person rushed over. He snatched the bottle from Victor's hand and threw down a handful of crumpled bills.
Then the second, the third.
In this underground world filled with despair and restlessness, everyone was looking for an exit. Heroin was too strong; it made life worse than death. Weed was too light; it couldn't crush the burden of life.
Only this purple liquid. It was gentle, sweet, yet it could pull people into a purple bubble where there was no pain and time stood still.
"This isn't scientific..." Paulie muttered as he frantically collected money. He watched those usually fierce thugs squeezing in front of Victor like babies begging for milk, their eyes full of longing.
Twenty minutes.
The box was empty.
Paulie's pockets were bulging with small bills; even his jacket's inner pockets were stuffed.
The DJ was still on stage, intoxicatedly scratching that scalp-numbing slow rhythm. The entire club had turned into a purple ocean. Everyone was swaying; everyone was sinking.
Victor adjusted his rumpled collar and checked the watch on his wrist.
"Let's go, Paulie."
He turned and walked toward the door, not glancing back at the reveling crowd.
"Wait, Victor!" Paulie chased after him excitedly, his face flushed. "How much do we bring tomorrow? Five boxes? Ten boxes? Those guys are crazy; someone asked if they could buy a whole barrel!"
Victor pushed open the iron door. The cold night rain hit his face again, washing away the cloying sweetness.
"We don't come tomorrow." Victor opened his black umbrella, blocking the wind and rain.
"What? Why?" Paulie froze. "This is free money!"
"It's called 'Hunger Marketing'."
"Let them thirst. Let them search the streets, let them ask, let them riot. When this purple fire burns through the entire Newark underground world, when they feel that not drinking this stuff means being abandoned by the times..."
"By then, even if the factory runs twenty-four hours a day, we won't be able to print enough of these banknotes."