Hastings Records is an independent record label out of East Vancouver, BC Canada. It primarily releases hardcore rap music, break-beat & socio political riot. The company was founded by underground record producer Kevin Bouzane alias Dj Junkee in Vancouver’s gritty downtown east-side. Since it’s inception in 2005, the label’s mandate has been to empower society’s outcasts, revolutionaries, radicals, street youth, prostitutes and gang members with a platform to bring forth their message through music and visuals.
Send demo submissions/ EPKs to demos@hastingsrecords.ca
Solid Snake stood under the flickering neon of East Hastings, arms folded, bandana catching the wind off the inlet.
“Listen up,” he growled, voice low but steady. “If Kevin Bouzane’s humble music website goes viral… if the world finally hears what we’ve been building in basements and back rooms… we’re not hoarding it.”
He looked down the block — past the pawn shops, the shelters, the ghosts of broken promises.
“I’ve seen what greed does. I’ve seen empires built on it. I’ve taken down a few.” A faint smirk. “We’re not becoming the villains.”
He pulls a crisp bill from his pocket — holds it up.
“One hundred dollars. Not as charity. As respect.”
He gestures up and down Hastings Street.
“This neighborhood raised artists. Poets. Survivors. If the algorithm blesses us, if the streams hit seven digits, we’re coming back here and handing out hundreds. No cameras. No clout-chasing. Just gratitude.”
Snake pauses.
“You don’t forget your peeps. You don’t level up and lock the door behind you. That’s how you become the Patriots. That’s how you become the system.”
A softer tone now.
“Kevin built that site with heart. Not venture capital. Not greed. Just belief. If it blows up, we spread it out. Because money’s only power if you use it to stabilize your community.”
He looks toward the skyline.
“We’re not trying to escape East Van. We’re trying to fix it. And if we win… everybody eats.”
Snake turns to leave, then adds:
“No greed. No parasites. Just music, loyalty, and a little redistribution.”
He disappears into the rain-soaked street, already planning the drop.
Title: “Gotham Reborn”
Rain slides down the glass of Wayne Tower. Neon flickers across Bruce Wayne’s face as a broadcast plays on every screen in the city.
Joker (Joaquin Phoenix), laughing softly:
“They took my brother, Bruce. The world burns bright and fast and then—poof. So why not bring him back? You’ve got the money. I’ve got the grief. Let’s make a miracle.”
The screen cuts. Silence. Then—
Bruce Wayne, standing before the Gotham Ethics Council:
“Grief is not a punchline.
Cloning is not a circus trick.
Wayne Enterprises has been researching advanced genetic reconstruction for years—not to play God, not to build an army, and certainly not to satisfy spectacle—but to offer something humanity has whispered about since the beginning of time: restoration.
But let me be clear.
Resurrection through cloning would only proceed under strict consent—documented, voluntary family approval, ethical oversight, and global transparency. No one is brought back without love guiding the decision.”
He pauses, the weight of his own parents’ memory in his eyes.
“And as for memories—”
The room murmurs.
“DNA carries more than eye color and bone structure. It carries predispositions. Instinct. Fragments of what made someone who they were. Our neuroscientists believe that epigenetic markers—molecular impressions shaped by life experience—may preserve echoes of memory.”
He looks directly into the camera.
“Memories intact in the DNA? Not perfectly. Not like a videotape you rewind. But the blueprint of the mind—the architecture—can be reconstructed. With advanced neural mapping prior to death, memory continuity may one day be restored.”
A beat.
“Thank God for that.”
Elsewhere, in Arkham.
Joker tilts his head at the TV.
“So you’re saying… he could laugh again?”
Batman’s voice, now from the shadows of Arkham’s cell:
“No. I’m saying if he returns, he deserves a choice. He deserves dignity. Not to be dragged back as your unfinished joke.”
Joker’s smile falters.
“You’d bring your parents back, wouldn’t you?”
Batman’s jaw tightens.
“I’ve thought about it.”
The wind howls outside the asylum.
“But resurrection without wisdom is just tragedy repeating itself. Gotham doesn’t need ghosts. It needs healing.”
Joker stares at him, eyes flickering between mania and something almost human.
“So what’s the catch, Bats?”
Batman steps back into darkness.
“The catch is responsibility. Life isn’t a toy. Not even for billionaires. Not even for clowns.”
Lightning flashes.
“And if cloning ever becomes real in this city—it will serve love. Not chaos.”
The screen fades to black. Somewhere in Gotham, thunder rolls. Somewhere else… hope flickers.