DJ Captain of the Three Monkeys
New York, 2023—A tale of rhythm, rebellion, and a ship that never touched water.
The city never slept. It pulsed, breathed, and—when the lights dimmed—whispered secret beats through its concrete veins. On a night when the rain fell like a soft jazz solo, a lone figure stood on the edge of the Hudson, his silhouette swallowed by a fog that smelled of diesel and fried dumplings.
Marlon “Moe” Ortiz was known in the underground circles of Manhattan as DJ Captain. He didn’t command a steel-hulled vessel or a crew of sailors; his ship was an old, rust‑spattered freight container, painted in a kaleidoscopic mural of neon bananas and graffiti tags that read THE THREE MONKEYS. Inside, the container was a moving club—a roving rave that docked at abandoned piers, rooftops, and the back alleys of the Lower East Side. Its decks were lined with turntables, a wall of vintage synths, and a set of massive speakers that could make a brick wall shake with bass.
The “Three Monkeys” weren’t just a name of a club; they were his crew. Not actual primates—though that would have been a ridiculous story for a New York tabloid—but three talented, eccentric artists who each embodied a different facet of music. Each bore a nickname and a persona that matched their skill, and each wore a custom-made monkey mask when they performed, a nod to an old superstition: “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.” Their masks, however, only covered the eyes, ears, and mouth, reminding the audience that while the world might try to censor the sound, the rhythm would always find a way to speak.
- Bongo – The percussionist, a lanky kid from Queens with a knack for turning garbage cans, subway rails, and busted streetlights into drums. His mask was a bronze-colored, stylized ear that seemed to vibrate with each beat he struck. He could make a rhythm out of anything, even a broken elevator’s sigh.
- Simi – The vocalist and lyricist, a trans woman from Brooklyn whose voice could glide from soft, honeyed whispers to guttural, protest shouts. Her mask was a silver, half‑closed eye, suggesting both observation and secrecy. She wrote verses that spoke of the city’s forgotten corners, of gentrification, of love found on the back of a subway car.
- Koko – The visual artist and synth wizard, a gender‑fluid prodigy from the Bronx who painted light with his fingers. His mask was a bright gold jawline, etched with circuitry, as if his words were encoded in code. He crafted visual loops that synced with the music, turning the freight container’s interior into a living, breathing organism.
Together, they were an unstoppable force. They called themselves The Three Monkeys because when they performed, the audience would see, hear, and speak no evil—a sanctuary of pure, unfiltered sound amidst the city’s noise. And it was Moe who captained that ship of sound.
The Call of the River
It began on a humid Tuesday in early August. A flyer fluttered under the front door of Moe’s favorite noodle shop: “Midnight Session – The Three Monkeys – Dock 12, Hudson. Bring nothing but yourself.” The flyer was printed on a piece of discarded subway ticket, the ink slightly smudged, the words half‑visible. On the back, a cryptic message: “The Gilded Crown has been stolen. Protect the beat.”
Moe’s heart thumped like a bass drum. The Gilded Crown was a legendary vinyl—a one‑off pressing of an unreleased track by the late legendary producer “Silk Spectre,” rumored to contain a sample of an ancient drum that could make even the coldest heart melt. In the underground, possessing it was akin to holding a piece of mythic power. Its theft had sent shockwaves through the city’s hidden music circles. There were rumors that a corporate giant, PulseWave, had hired a mercenary crew to seize it and mass‑produce a “commercialized” version for their streaming platform.
Moe gathered his crew in the container’s cramped backstage, the air thick with the scent of incense and cheap coffee.
“We’ve got a job, guys,” he said, his voice low, as the flickering neon lights painted his face in alternating shades of electric blue and magenta. “Someone’s trying to erase the soul of the city. We can’t let that happen.”
Bongo drummed his hands on the metal table, a rhythm that rose and fell like a storm. “We’ll take it back. Let’s make ‘em feel the real beat.”
Simi lifted her eyes—behind the half‑eye mask glints of determination. “We’ll give them a story they can’t ignore. They’ll hear us, see us, feel us.”
Koko whispered, his voice a soft synth, “And I’ll paint the silence they try to sell as a glitch.”
The plan was simple, but dangerous. They would infiltrate PulseWave’s annual gala—an ostentatious rooftop party in the West Village for tech moguls, influencers, and the city’s elite. The Gilded Crown would be displayed on a glass pedestal, bathed in a soft, white light. The Three Monkeys would slip in, hijack the sound system, and play a track so powerful it would render the corporate executives speechless—literally, as the frequencies would overload the “speak‑no‑evil” filters of their smart devices, causing a city‑wide blackout of the corporate narrative.
But the risk was high. PulseWave employed a security team known as the Aegis Unit, cyber‑enhanced operatives who could detect any unauthorized signal within a few seconds. To succeed, the crew needed an element they had in abundance: anonymity.
They would enter disguised as a catering crew.
The Gala
The night of the gala was a kaleidoscope of glimmering dresses, black‑tied tuxedos, and holographic art installations that floated above the rooftop garden. The Hudson River below reflected a thousand points of light, and the city’s skyline stretched into an endless horizon.
Moe, Bongo, Simi, and Koko arrived in a food truck painted with the same neon banana mural as their container—a subtle but unmistakable signature. Behind the truck, a stack of platters carried sushi, artisanal canapés, and mini‑desserts, each labeled with a cryptic fruit name: “Lemon‑Twist”, “Coconut Beat”, “Pineapple Pulse.” The nameplate read: The Three Monkeys Catering – “Taste the Rhythm.”
The security team, a row of stoic guards with chrome lenses, scanned the guests. A digital badge reader beeped as Moe’s hand hovered over the scanner. The system, designed to recognize authorized personnel, displayed “Access Denied.” Moe smirked, slipped a thin sheet of metallic foil—labeled “Coconut Pulse”—between his fingers, and placed it on the scanner. The foil reflected the scanner's infrared, creating a brief interference that allowed the badge to read as “Authorized.” The guards, distracted by a sudden flash of neon from Koko’s pocket-sized laser projector, let them pass.
Inside, the party roared. Influencers livestreamed, sipping on champagne that glowed with phosphorescent bubbles. PulseWave’s CEO, a silver‑haired man named Victor Halley, stood on a raised platform, his voice amplified through a crystal‑clear speaker system that seemed to float above the crowd. He announced, “Tonight we unveil the future of sound—the Gilded Crown, remixed for the masses!” The audience clapped, their smart glasses flashing with the promotional video: a hypnotic montage of neon streets, dancing silhouettes, and the Crown itself—a gleaming vinyl disc that seemed to pulse with an inner light.
Moe and his crew slipped through the crowd, their monkey masks concealed beneath stylish catering hats. They positioned themselves near the sound console, a sleek black slab of hardware humming with encrypted files.
Koko, ever the visual wizard, pulled out a pocket-sized projector and aimed it at the ceiling. A massive, flickering image of a stylized monkey, painted in bold strokes of electric orange, appeared. The crowd turned, momentarily distracted, as the image morphed into an animated sequence where the monkey’s eyes opened and emitted sound waves that rippled through the room.
Bongo’s hands hovered over a set of portable percussion pads. He tapped a rhythmic pattern, a syncopated beat that rose beneath the ambient chatter, building a pulse that resonated with the crowd’s heartbeats. The rhythm was subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough to draw the attention of the Aegis Unit’s lead operative—a sleek woman known only as “Cipher.” She moved through the crowd, her gaze scanning for anomalies.
Simi stepped forward, her half‑eye mask catching the low light. She lifted a microphone, but instead of speaking, she sang a wordless chant, a melodic line that rose like a siren’s call. Her voice was processed through a portable vocoder that added a glitchy, metallic overlay, making it sound as if the city itself were humming.
Moe took the final step. He lifted his own set of headphones, plugged into the central sound system, and pressed play on a hidden USB drive. The track he had crafted in the weeks leading up to this night was a fusion of analog warmth and digital precision: the ancient drum sample from the Gilded Crown, layered with Bongo’s percussion, Simi’s haunting chant, and Koko’s synth arpeggios. At the core of the track lay a frequency—a low‑rumble that resonated at 17.8 Hz, near the threshold of human perception, designed to affect the subconscious.
The moment the track surged, the speakers crackled. The sound swallowed the room, drowning out the chatter, the clinking glasses, even the neon lights’ hum. Attendees froze, eyes glazed as the rhythm seeped into their bones. Those wearing PulseWave’s smart glasses experienced a visual glitch: the augmented reality overlay flickered, the digital advertisements dissolved, and the heads-up displays went blank. The Aegis Unit’s operators staggered, their cybernetic implants overloading from the pure, unfiltered frequency.
Victor Halley’s face turned ashen. He tried to speak, but his voice was muffled, caught in the roar of the beat. The Gilded Crown's light dimmed as the power surged through the speakers, the vinyl spinning faster than its intended speed, its gold label shimmering like a sun.
In that moment, the city’s hidden pulse surged through the rooftop—a reminder that rhythm belongs to the streets, not the boardrooms.
Moe didn’t waste a second. He signaled Bongo, who, with a swift flick of his wrists, slammed a steel tray onto the pedestal, shattering the glass that protected the Crown. The golden disc slipped, falling onto the hardwood floor with a resonant clang that seemed to echo through the entire skyline.
Koko, with a quick motion, snatched the Vinyl, tucking it into a waterproof case. Simi, still chanting, projected a holographic image of a monkey biting into a banana—a symbol of rebellion—onto the side of the building. The crowd, now fully under the spell of the track, began to move in unison, their bodies swaying, their hands raised, as the music coursed through the night.
Cipher, recovering from the overload, lunged toward Moe, her chrome hand outstretched. But Moe was faster. He twisted, elbowing her with a precise motion that sent her stumbling into a decorative fountain, the water spraying in neon arcs. Bongo’s percussion pads pulsed, creating a rhythmic barrier that seemed to push the security forces back.
The Aegis Unit, caught off guard, tried to reassert control, but the sheer weight of the beat—amplified by the three monkeys' combined talents—overpowered their cybernetic defenses. The rooftop erupted into a spontaneous rave; guests abandoned their designer attire for dancing in their shoes, their smartphones abandoned, their corporate personas shedding like old skins.
Moe raised his hands, the crowd’s roar echoing against the river. “This is for the streets,” he shouted, his voice raw and real. “This is for the beats that never die!”
The rhythm reached its climax, a cascade of sound that rippled outward like a wave. The vinyl spun faster, its grooves glowing with a faint golden aura. The Gilded Crown, in the hands of The Three Monkeys, pulsed with pure, unadulterated energy.
Aftermath
The next morning, the headlines screamed: “Corporate Gala Crushed by Underground Rave—Gilded Crown Stolen!” PulseWave issued a statement denying any involvement, claiming a “technical malfunction” caused the blackout. Social media flooded with videos of the rooftop party-turned-rebellion, the footage grainy but unmistakable: a group of masked performers, a golden vinyl, and a crowd moving as one.
In the lower East Side, word spread through the subway tunnels, the coffee shops, the graffiti‑sprayed underpasses. The Three Monkeys became legends, their story told in whispered verses and painted murals. A massive mural appeared on the side of an abandoned warehouse, depicting a towering monkey in a captain’s hat, its eyes glowing, holding a vinyl disc that illuminated the city.
Moe, now more than a DJ—now a captain of a cultural revolution—took the Gilded Crown back to the freight container that served as his mobile club. There, surrounded by the clatter of Bongo’s makeshift drums, the soft harmonies of Simi’s voice, and Koko’s kaleidoscopic light shows, they played the track that had toppled the corporate giants. The beat reverberated through the concrete, seeping into the subways, the alleyways, the apartments of the city.
The Gilded Crown was not a trophy to be displayed in glass; it was a beacon. Its golden surface reflected the faces of those who listened—people from all walks of life, from Wall Street analysts to street vendors, from teenage skateboarders to elderly violinists. It reminded them that the city’s heartbeat was not measured in market caps but in the rhythm of its streets.
The night after the gala, a police report labeled the incident as “public disturbance,” but the city’s pulse had shifted. A new wave of underground parties sprouted, each inspired by the legend of the DJ Captain and his Three Monkeys. Musicians began to experiment with ancient samples, blending them with modern synths, and art collectives turned the city's walls into living canvases that responded to sound.
And somewhere, perched on the edge of the Hudson where the mist never quite lifted, the freight container’s neon bananas flickered in the night—an invitation, a warning, a promise. The city knew that as long as there were beats to be heard, a captain would stand at the helm, and the Three Monkeys would swing from the rafters, ensuring that every note would be seen, heard, and spoken—no evil left unchallenged.
The end.
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