(this interview originally appeared in issue #34 of Modern Fix Magazine in 2003).

– interview by james wright

It’s almost 11pm on a Saturday night and I’m nervous as hell. My hands are dripping in sweat, partly in fear and the other half in anticipation of what’s to come. The clock continues to inch closer to 11 o’clock.

The sign outside the bar reads, “50 beautiful women and one ugly one.” We couldn’t have chose a more fitting location for what’s to come.

The air inside the bar reeks of sex and cheap whisky. A gorgeous female is up on-stage swiveling her hips in tune with the music. The locals gaze at the girl wide-eyed with dollar bills in hand.

Why am I spending my Saturday night at a strip club? One word, Pakelika. The enigmatic masked man who helps front the Kottonmouth Kings.

Pakelika has just released his first EP in the form of “Another Cult Classic”. The EP is a diverse musical offering that Tackles subjects like drugs, women and the state of hip-hop. The masked man has unleashed a bombshell on the music industry the size of Hiroshima.

After hearing an advance copy of the album, I knew that I must seek answers from the man himself. Who is he? What is he? How many women has he really fucked? How much can he really smoke? Which brings me here, to a strip-club with a million gorgeous women all vying for your hard earned cash. I was told Pakelika would be here and he would grant me the answers I sought.

After a watching series of women display their “goods” on stage, I noticed it was after 11:00 and still no sign of Pak. I politely asked the waitress, “Do you know someone by the name of Pakelika? Do you know if he’s here?” Her face turned stone cold and emotionless as she replied, “Wait here.”

After 5 minutes had passed, three large men in black suits approached me and told me to follow them. Passing through the backstage area and seeing strippers performing their acts on loyal customers, we arrived at large metal door. The door looked like something out of Star Wars or Lord of the Rings. It looked almost like a door to a medieval jail cell.

Passing through the door, I was greeted by Pakelika, sitting on a throne in full mask and gear. Pak was being entertained by three gorgeous women, all dancing to ear bleeding music. With a beer in one hand and joint in the other, Pakelika is obviously at home.

The music suddenly stops and one of the women glares at me straight in the eyes and says, “If it is information you seek, then ask and you shall receive.”

Rather nervous before the man himself, my questions pour out like tap water, “Who are you? Why do you wear a mask? Why don’t you talk?”

The masked man turns and whispers to one of his lovely companions. “He is the greatest entertainer of all-time,” she replies for him. “As for the mask… It doesn’t matter what you look like, only that you believe in yourself.”

Feeling a little more comfortable I forged ahead, ”Where do you stand in the war against marijuana?”

Nodding to the woman beside him, he responds through her, “It’s a plant, not law. Pakelika will use marijuana whether legal or not. If plants are illegal then maybe they should outlaw lettuce,” she smirks.

I quickly responded with, “Then how much do you really smoke?”

Without hesitation she replies, “As much as he wants. Between two and three pounds a month.”

His answers seemed to provoke my questions. A cold sweat had begun to develop on my forehead, but I wasn’t leaving until I got the answers I needed.

Forgetting for a brief second whom I was talking to, I had to asked, “Pak where did you get all these women?”

He raised his hand in a motion of silence. “Pakelika loves women. Pakelika loves women who love women,” she said in a commanding voice. “If only you knew the magnitude of his conquests. Put it this way, Wilt Chamberlin would be jealous.”

No sooner did the woman utter the words from her luscious lips, when another forcefully said, “You will be granted one more question and only one more answer.”

The sweat from my forehead was now running down my face like a faucet. I had to know, “Pak what do you think of the bullshit war in Iraq?”

The masked man raised his hands towards the ceiling and stood up. Without even looking at his lovely interpreter, he nodded and without hesitation she replied, “War sucks. Pakelika supports the people.”

Before I could even think, the same three men who had escorted me in, grabbed ahold me. I needed more, this was too good to be over. In a last effort I screamed, “Pak, what do you want people to remember from your words?”

In an almost god like fashion, Pakelika threw his cape over his shoulders and for the first time he spoke, his words like thunder. “Be yourself,” he commanded.

The words echoed in my head as I was being escorted out. The men in suits, with my limbs in their hands, took me back through the club and through the front doors. Throwing me like a bag of garbage, I landed on the hard concrete still trying to process what had happened.

I was fortunate enough to get a few minutes of the great one’s time, yet still sought answers to the questions that plague me and every Kottonmouth King fan.