Chapter 105: Why Don't You Hang Any Black People?
With May rolling in, Hollywood had officially entered summer blockbuster season.
The Los Angeles sun blazed high and golden — as if announcing the heat and chaos to come.
---
Evening — Angel Theatre, West Hollywood.
Aaron Anderson and Jack Wells stepped out through the glass doors, the neon lights flickering to life behind them.
"Damn freeloaders," Jack muttered, shaking his head. "They think the theater's a damn motel — half of 'em probably sleep through the late screenings."
Aaron stretched lazily, dressed in a plain white T-shirt, his demeanor calm and unbothered.
"Relax, Jack. A full house is still good business."
Jack snorted, still fuming. "Yeah, yeah. What do you wanna eat?"
Aaron glanced across the street. "Let's hit the pizza place next door. Gotta support our neighbors."
"Fine. Let me grab a pack of smokes first — that Korean guy's market counts as our neighbor too, right?"
Jack jogged toward the small convenience store beside the theater while Aaron strolled toward the pizzeria, the evening breeze carrying the faint smell of tomato and baked dough.
---
A few minutes later, they were seated by the window of the cozy Italian place.
They ordered two pies, and Jack tore into his slice as he spoke.
"You know," he said between bites, "that Ice Cube fan event at the theater turned out great. Can't believe Boyz n the Hood is doing this well."
Aaron nodded. "Helps that the whole Rodney King thing lit a fire under the Black community. They're feeling… vocal right now."
Before Jack could reply, a sharp voice broke through the room.
"Yo, man — why ain't there no Black people on the wall?"
Aaron turned his head. Two young Black men had just come in, waiting for their order. They were glaring at the restaurant's walls, covered in framed movie posters and celebrity photos — Pacino from The Godfather, De Niro, Marilyn Monroe… all white faces.
"Yeah," the second one chimed in louder, his voice dripping with aggression. "What's this, huh? You got somethin' against us? You racist, man?"
The restaurant had gone dead silent.
The white Italian owner looked up from behind the counter, expression flat.
"Why?" he said calmly. "Because it's my pizza shop. I hang whoever the hell I want on my walls."
"Bam!" One of the men slammed his fist against a table, making glasses rattle.
"You what? You think you can disrespect Black folks like that? You gonna regret this!"
The owner's face darkened. He grabbed a towel, threw it aside, and shot back coldly,
"When you open your own damn pizza shop, you can hang whoever you want — your mother, your father, your step-parents, your dog, whoever!"
"F— you, man!" one of them barked, and in a flash, he hurled his half-eaten pizza across the room.
The greasy slice landed with a slap — right into Jack Wells's open pizza box.
Jack froze. Then his face twitched.
"…You've gotta be kidding me."
He stood, slowly — eyes narrowing, jaw tight.
Before the two men could react, Jack's fist cracked across the first guy's jaw.
The second tried to swing, but Aaron was already on his feet — calm, precise, deadly.
One sharp kick to the gut sent the man crashing into a chair.
"F—!" the guy wheezed, curling over.
Jack grabbed the first man by the collar, dragging him up.
"You big-mouthed idiot — yeah, you got burned? Maybe close your damn mouth for five minutes next time!"
The man whimpered, dazed.
The second tried to rise, but Aaron's boot caught him in the ribs, sending him sprawling again.
Aaron grabbed a fistful of his hair and snarled, voice low and even:
"You loud, lazy punks think the world owes you something? You barge into people's businesses, start fights, and call it justice?"
He leaned closer, eyes cold. "I just wanted to eat my pizza in peace."
Seeing this, Jack Wells noticed something and shouted, "Damn, he's bald! Why didn't you keep your hair longer?"
Behind the counter, the Italian owner had already picked up a baseball bat, his eyes gleaming.
"Hey," he growled, stepping out. "Need a hand with these clowns?"
Aaron shook his head slightly, breathing steady. "No need. We've got it covered."
The two beaten men lay groaning on the floor as the smell of baked dough and tomato sauce filled the air — thick, almost ironic.
After landing two quick slaps, Jack grabbed the man's shirt and pulled him outside with ease.
The pizza shop owner wiped the sweat from his brow, relieved. There was no need to call the police anymore—those two tough guys had already handled the troublemakers.
In the alley outside, Aaron Anderson and Jack Wells stood over two men crouched on the ground, their faces swollen and bruised.
Aaron sneered, "People like you waste your days drinking, fighting, and causing chaos—then complain that no one gives you work or a place in this city."
Jack kicked one of them hard, making both cry out in pain.
"Get out of here," Aaron warned. "Next time you see the Fairfax duo, go the other way. Otherwise, we'll make sure you regret it."
After catching his breath, Aaron watched the men limp away down the alley.
Jack asked quietly, "Aaron, since when are we 'the Jewish duo of Fairfax'? Do we even look Jewish?"
Aaron shrugged. "It's just a name—it works. People will believe anything anyway."
Back inside the pizza place, the owner placed two fresh pizzas on the counter. "On the house," he said gratefully.
Aaron accepted them with a nod. Jack, however, laid down a twenty-dollar bill before they both left.
As they walked through the Los Angeles streets, Aaron muttered, "Now I get why riots break out sometimes. Things are getting out of control. Even Italian places are being targeted—imagine how bad it must be for Asian businesses. No wonder some people feel the need to defend themselves."
They returned to the Angel Theater, heading straight to the office. As Jack ate a slice, his face darkened. "Lately, things have been getting worse in the city. Feels like chaos is spreading."
Aaron leaned back. "It's the result of decades of inequality. In this city, the poorest neighborhoods are always the same, while the rich ones are mostly filled with people who came here willing to work for it."
Jack nodded. "Yeah, our area's still safe enough. Heavy police presence helps. But those southern districts—they're a mess."
"Let's get our security company up and running soon," he added. "The theater's income won't last, and we need protection once your business expands."
Aaron smiled faintly. "Don't worry," he said.