"Ey," he said, nudging me. I got a little bit scared and jumped back, I recall that now. "Check this out, man." 
This guy that got my attention is someone who I had never seen before, and did not seem like someone who would frequent the record shop that I had been going to for around three or four years. The man had a rugged look- like he just beat someone unconscious in a dive bar and ran to the record shop to hide from cops. However, despite the way that I unfairly judged him, he seemed like a kind person. After all, he just wanted to show me something. 
He was grasping this old record in the back, one of those I would just glance over normally, something worth about a buck or two. His rough and stubbled face grinned widely, smiling and shaking as this man who I had never spoken to in my entire life hyperventilated and gripped this album with all of his strength. 
"This shit is fuckin' craaaazy, man. Just look at iiit, man."
 	"Aight, dude." I obliged.
"What is it?" I asked later, taking some time to really stare at the photo. 
"Huh?"
"On the cover. What're they doing?"
"Oh shit, man. Just loooook at it."
What we were talking about then, which concerned the subject of the album cover, was too weird for my too-tired being to grasp fully. 
There was a picture of a group of people- four of them, most likely the band playing the music on the record- all dressed in black robes standing in a circle in a grey and concrete ridden warehouse. Inside the circle was a black and shiny box the size of a record crate wrapped in tight rusty chains and an unneeded surplus of many padlocks. 
"This record looks weird, dude. Have you heard it?"
	"I will, man. Very soon. Lemme tell you, as soon as I get back home, man, this is goin' right on my fuckin' turntable, man."
	"What band is it? Doesn't have the name on the cover."
	"Man, I got no idea. Lemme look real quick."
	He flipped the record over. On the back was a picture of a rustic and obese woman in a rocking chair. She stared into your eyes in a hypnotising way, like she needed you to pick the album up and buy it immediately. Above her picture was a single word: CONCRETE.
	"Oh, they're called Concrete. Sick."
	"Hell yeah, brother. Hell yeah."
            There was an awkward silence in the air, so the man finished with:
           "It was nice talkin' to you, man. See ya 'round."
	I responded with, "See you later."
	The record store we were both in was somewhat small. If you parked two cars in the place, it would be completely full. Out of my peripheral, I could see the guy handing over some cash to the guy working, and then walking out of the store, holding the bag containing the record over his head like he had obtained a trophy. 
	I walked over towards the cashier and watched the man through the window. I asked, "You know what that guy bought?", which was answered by an unattentive shrug. The man stopped before crossing the road, looking both ways mindfully in spite of the surprising lack of traffic. He began to walk across the road, beginning to look forward and walk to the opposite side, which was where only one vehicle was parked. It was a black pickup, beginning to rust, and with windows too tinted to be legal. I assumed it was his. As he walked at a decent pace towards the truck, grabbing his keys out of his ripped jeans, I could see him turn quickly and begin to scream as he was propelled to the right by a white car. When he flew back, he hugged the record, keeping it close to him as he rolled on the road. I froze and grabbed my phone, putting 911 in, ready to call, seeing that the cashier was doing the exact same thing that I was doing. The person in the white car opened the driver's door. The person had a balaclava on and was completely covered in black clothing. I began to walk towards the door to check and see if the man was alright as a blast followed by a bullet broke the glass to the storefront window, shattering glass as the cashier and I got down quickly on the ground. From the floor, I could still somewhat see the driver from the torso upwards as they quickly strided up towards the man on the ground, reloading the gun which was now pointed at the man on the ground. 
	The cashier was making noise, rocking back and forth in the way that he was, grabbing his head with his hands and pleading "oh fuck, please don't kill me" to no one. Before I told him anything,
I could hear the man gargling on the ground as the gunshot broke through the sound of the record playing in the shop at the time. Outside, there was silence. I could see the shooter grab the bag away from the man's dead hands, looking at the record's two sides and taking it under their armpit as they quickly walked back towards their car, driving away quickly.
	You know, they never caught the person who shot him. Even after I gave all of the descriptions of the car and the person and even the gun- cops never found him. That still makes me feel such intense anger and fear sometimes, even after so much time. Even after police reports and therapy and other bullshit I think about that guy and his love for Concrete. I still wonder who was in Concrete and what was in the box sometimes. I still haven't heard them, and I don't really plan on it.