Post by hippoharry on Oct 14, 2017 1:49:56 GMT -6
Atlanta, GA, the Sunday before debut
“We hear the calling of Matthew… if there is one inch of doubt in your hearts, brothers and sisters; let me be your hand. Come to this pulpit. Let Jesus into your soul. Now if Sister Denise will help us raise our voices to God Almighty!”
Everyone rises for a final hymn. Reverend Strong moves to backdoors to lilting and crooning. By the end, the congregation seems on the verge of exhaustion. He raises a hand.
“Be this is god, country and good people. Let love be our message. Let the light shine!”
Everyone filters through the double doors. Reverend Strong shakes hands and brings in shoulder hugs for everyone on their way outside the church. Among them is the imposing size of Harry Diderot, flanked by his father, Vince, and obese brother, Richie. Vince and the pastor chare a good spell while the brother await their reckoning. Reverend Strong then brings Harry into the fold with one of those brotherly grabs.
“Harry,” he says, “ya ox, what are you still doing here?”
“Not moving til Wednesday. Well, I’m on the move is more like it.”
“Ya always got a home here. Never forget it.”
“Thanks, reverend.”
“And where you going, son? Think you gonna sneak around ya brother like that.”
Strong grabs the door-wide shoulders of his young parishioner and wrings him close. Harry and his pops walk off, letting Richie endure all their pastor’s ribbings. They stand in an open lobby since most of the congregation migrated towards coffee and finger foods.
“Boy,” says the patriarch, “we got to set this straight.”
“What’s that pops?”
“Richie is coming with you.”
“Doesn’t he have a job?”
“Out of the home,” he says, “Son, he needs to see more than his… well, you know.”
“Pops, I got this. So long as he pulls his weight.”
“Boy, we’ all proud you. Just know that home is always here.”
They pull in for a shoulder hug then break quick. Richie, escaping the grasp of Reverend Strong, hobbles over to them. A blue-chrome cane hobbles beside his struggling steps.
“Get over here, boy,” says their father.
“What is it pops?”
“Harry is going to take you with him.”
Richie goes in for a big hug, but their dad stops him halfway.
“Now I want to boys to do what’s right,” he says. “And stay outta what your uncle Pepper got into. You don’ wanna end up the river like him.”
Both brothers nod.
“Good,” he says, nodding, “now go say your good byes. We’ll talk back at da’ house.”
Diderot Family Home on Calhoun Avenue
Harry, Richie, their dad and a small collection of neighborhood friends have gathered. One of them, a white man in an Atlanta Hawks® polo, talks of show business. This talent agent regales the group of his time working with triphop sensation, Fr4nzoi, and other artists from the local scene. Harry holds back with his Dixie™ plate of catfish and fries – all dowsed in a lake of Crystal’s™ signature sauce.
“Harry,” the agent says, “do you remember when Lil’ G came around the studio.”
“Yeah…”
“So he tries to get in the recording session. And, shit you not, Fr4nzoi reaches for a pocket knife. Now you have to know, G is like 12—”
“Mane, he’s 16.”
“Either way,” the agents says, grinning wide, “G thinks his lyrics are ‘dope’. They are not.”
He laughs while the rest of Harry’s party shies back to their plates. Harry leaves them to find his brother seated around a group of friends in and around their mid to late 20’s. Everyone has a cheap beer in hand when the Big Dawg turns the corner.
“Hippo,” says one the girls, “where you been?”
“Out front with Georgie. What’re y’all doing?”
Richie laughs until falling off their dad’s red cooler.
“Hippo, got a match yet?”
“Yeah, Zip, his name’s Anthony Xavier.”
“Gonna whoop him good?”
“Maybe,” he says, “Richie, toss me one.”
Richie digs out a cold Milwaukee before conforming the plastic lid to his ass’s groove. They discuss training and how many reps Harry did on the press that morning. Zip, a mouthy dude with little dog syndrome, ridicules the weight. They fight about reps over sheer weight until a flex puts that bag of bones in his place.
“What are you gonna do in the ring?” asks another girl.
“Livia, I’mma do what I always do,” he says with a chest thump. “It’s all heart.”
The party winds down with only a few people lounging on the back deck. Harry sits between his pops and Rev. Strong. Beside them are Zip, his cousin Brit and the eldest Strong Boy, Barney. His Easy-E haircut pokes out from a Falcon’s cap. Unlike the rest of the party, Barney’s mom was white, making him a stand out from the rest. Their father goes for a new beer but stops.
“Boy,” Vince says to Richie, “you squash’an my cooler.”
“We need more chairs.”
“There were more until your ass broke ‘em.”
“Vince,” says the reverend, “give the kid a break.”
“Reverend, he needs to get out his cave. Go an’ walk somewhere.”
“Have mercy…”
Zip and Brit leave with war good byes. Harry promises to keep in touch as they disappear down the street. Zip still carries his open container down to one side. Rev. Strong shakes his head while sliding into more space.
“Vince,” he says, “the food was great.”
“Tasha makes the best fry,” Richie adds.
“You got that right. Now Vince, you got a minute.”
“Yeah?”
“I want to ask you, and the boys, sumthan.”
He then made an unavoidable request: That they should take Barney too. Both had been friends since childhood. Inseparable at times, in and out of danger, to the point where they ate at each other’s houses. Before her passing, Momma Diderot always made sloppy Joes or her famous mac n’ cheese casserole. However, the Strongs took care of most families in their neighborhood. Falling under that dreaded poverty line hit them hard, but the good reverend always kept the boys fed—even when Vince struggled. Finally, the Diderot’s could repay their kindness.
The Road to a New a Life
“Who out there ready to rumble? UCI, life is about to get bigger in HD with your man, Harry Diderot. The Hippo on the scene about to stretch the sides on this bitch, y’all ready. I meant it … are you ready!?
Throw downs long take the name of the streets, but I am not some B on WorldStar hiphop. I came here to bring a revolution with my fist raised. My place has always been in the hearts of good people. I believe in that Almighty – have mercy on us all – doing what’s right even when times get rough. Pulled up from hand-me-downs. Cold bologna and nothing, cramming down a chopped cheese when there was a buck to my name. Diderot’s know what this country does when every white man sleeps in a comfy bed. We know the hunger – brother am I hungry. But I never ate until my lil’ Richie got his fill. I am my brother’s keeper and always will be. UCI, you are about to witness the next big star in a game defined by the same face. So hold onto ya’ butts because this ride is about to begin.
This isn’t my diss track on the company or anyone within in it. People have to work. Y’all see the grind even when we not tweeting shit about it. I hit the gym with the eye of a Tiger. Rest this roster be looking at my like Balboa. I’m Apollo. I’m that scary black man staring daggers into you, crushing sand like George Foreman. Gonna stamp this place George Jr. when I’m done with it. Things are popping off – so you better get ready for the quakes I’m starting around here. Hippo 1; world zip.
UCI, best get a breath in now, ‘cause I’m about to slap it right out. The crisp clap on ya’ newborn ass. Will Smith welcoming yo’ face to Earth. My message is simple. Harry Diderot is not here to ruin what others built. Oh no, I am here to clean up the mess left by so many who see this world as their own. Titles define our people here, and in time, I will be the guidng light y’all asking for. A-town never bowed to that East Coast/West Coast beef. It rose while the bullets rained ‘cause we are the little guy. Gum on the rich man’s shoe. Contract or not, you know I’m still hitting up the Payless. Riding Jinko low and dirty. UCI, we are the same cloth. We are part of a revolution that this company ain’t ready to see. You ready to follow the Hippo? These 16s’ leave a big print wherever I go. Look for them prints. I will not lead you astray.
Now the mission comes to its first stop. A proving ground in the Pitt. Steel city, get your towels out! I better see them waving with the Big Dawg make his arrival this week on Overload. Okay, time to breathe my brothers, my soul sistas, and get our asses in the pew for a reading from Brother Richie. Warm ‘em the grits, boy.”
“Bout to break this down… UCI, you ready for Grits and Gray? I’m bout to pour over ya’ biscuits yo. Sour up the competition yo. Bring the walls down with this master sound on repeat. Jericho fell, the back seat is now the front, and we are on the wave of revolution!
Grits on the mic, disaster fall, hurricane raw
spitting fire straight dope, y’all
hitting tires on the slope, y’all
Bim-blam on rackety-tack, taking two on that double tap,
Hiphop, southern rap, whack ass B’s widen da gap,
We overcome y’all. We supersede y’all, Because a dream never fades.”
“Hit up the side, Barney. Put yo’ hands up for the Barn, everybody!”
“UCI, this is a message from the desk on Harry “the Hippo” Diderot. Here is here to stay. He wants more, and no one is going to tell him otherwise. Richie is the fire; I am the brains. We may sound like the next triphop track full of jabs and griping about the world. Trust me, sisters and brothers out there, we are excited to begin. A journey from the cliff’s edge is a wide expanse. But we are not afraid of how far to go. We are not going to flinch in the face of a challenge. No one is going to tell us that we can and cannot do. Only that power Almighty can do that. From top to bottom, Harry is here to bring a new message. He is the strong shoulder of Atlas, holding a world on its side. I challenge anyone to find a roadblock to this unstoppable machine. Show us a steam engine and John Henry will win. Show us your biggest player, and he will dunk on them. Brothers, sisters – listen please – because Harry is here to change the game.”
“Damn Barn, bringing that Bulldog gibe. We all didn’t go to college ‘round here, but we know the good word. Pittsburg, I know you feeling this track hot off its press, but we ain’t down yet. Because there’s still a game to win. So let the other side prepare its defense for this tongue-lashing the Hippo’s about to dispense. Anthony Xavier – where you at bro! I know you in the gym right now working on those holds. You got yo’ 1,000 grifts like the Ice Man, but you no Malenko. Shit, you’d lose this rap battle to Lance Storm. I hit this mic hard from the breadbasket up. When life blocks, it gives the belly, then its chin. Always punching up, up, up.
Seriously tho, I respect you mane. You bring a solid game that a lot of punks forget anymore. The Swiss Army Knife with tools for every problem. Popping the wine and fixing the socket. Cutting wires and cutting loose threads. But when it comes to a fight, are you sure about this? I went from gym to gym breaking records in every weight room. Stripping plaques off their panels and pushing things to the next level. You have the game mastered, or so you say, but do you know what the Hippo has coming for you? Nobody has a tape on this. I trained in the sweat stains that no man would enter. No offense, I bet you drove around it and its neighborhood. Just saying – not like there’s a badass over here or nu’than. I honed my game in da hood where cameras hide on the fear getting ganked. Jokes aside, mane, no one has a plan for the heart and soul I bring to this ring. Bring your holds. Let’s get this B fried up like catfish. Bring the Crystal’s hot and hard on their paper plate, burning these walls straight down. You feel me?”
Roadside to a New Life
Harry Diderot, his brother Richie, and the pastor’s son, Barney, roll up to a Pilot station outside the city limits of Louisville, KY. Richie heads in for a fill-up. Harry pumps gas in his ’96 explorer when their friend comes around the side.
“Harry,” he says, “do you know what you really want out of this company?”
“Yeah, it’s a revolution.”
“Black athletes comes through every year saying the same thing. What makes you think we’re doing anything groundbreaking?”
“Because we believe, mane. I know it’s tough. But we have to get ready for this grind.”
“Harry,” Barney says with a hand on the window, “what about Richie?”
“He’s in the right place. Besides, he’d drown without me. Well, in a cup of that Caine’s dip, more like it. Barney, he needs me more than I need him.”
“I never thought you’d turn on him,” he says. “I just can’t shake that we’re out of our element.”
“Leave the ring and this business to me,” Harry tells him. “You guys have my back?”
“Always.”
They bring it close for a bro-grab before heading inside to pay. Richie passes them with a scratch-off and family size bag of BBQ Fritos. Harry sighs at the counter. Both return to car, finding Richie an arm deep in that bag in the backseat. He and Barney go up front and take off down the highway. After a few minutes of driving—all to the constant sound of crunching chips—Harry loses it.
“Mane, gonna give it a rest?”
“Whatcha mean?”
“We ain’t stopping until we reach Pitt,” he says. “Better save some for then.”
“But that’s like… awhile, Harry.”
“Besides, we had Big Macs like an hour ago. Give it a rest, all right.”
“Okay, damn.”
Near the Ohio-Pennsylvania border, they take a quickie at a rest stop. Everyone piles out for a shit and stretch. Harry and Richie find themselves in stalls all alone in the AM hours. Harry checks the three or four dozen text messages sent between the last few stops, several from their dad and local kids. He swipes through them when a knock jars him.
“Thanks Harry.”
“What you mean?”
“I know I can’t stop,” says Richie from the opposite stall, “Just thanks.”
“Yeah…”
Weak knees have Richie huffing in route back to their car, parked handicap for his needs. Despite going head-to-head earlier, Richie still swiped for a Coke® and baggy of Famous Amos cookies, which he tries to hide to one side. Harry looks the other way. Barney sighs as weight shifts heavy on their back wheels. Down the road, the pastor’s son speaks up.
“That track was something,” he says with a smile. “What did you guys think?”
“Sick, mane.”
“Hippo is on this shit,” Richie says. “You got this, bro.”
“What about that Anthony Xavier though? He seems legit.”
“Guys,” Harry says over them, “I trained for this. UCI has no idea what we are about to bring to this show. Overload, PPV – doesn’t matter to me – because I am going to be me. That’s what the people want. I’m not in it for the money. I’m not in it to win the gold. I want to be the best.”
“Fu—”
“Grits,” he says, “what did momma say?”
“If you gonna cuss,” he says, shaking his head, “don’ say that F word.”
“I will slap you stupid if you do.”
“Harry,” Barney asks, “what about the match? Do think the people will catch on.”
“I already said ethic will get me there, mane. Pittsburg is a tough place. So long as we stripe in their colors, as much as it burns my red and black to do so, we will. Steel town is going to be my proving ground. You got the backseat, but you always gonna be there, B. I know that.”
“A-town on this Bitch!”
Both look and nod with Richie rustling in bag from the back seat. Night stripes thousands of yellow lights all in the direction of I70, coming upon a Pittsburg dawn and a huge debut.
“We hear the calling of Matthew… if there is one inch of doubt in your hearts, brothers and sisters; let me be your hand. Come to this pulpit. Let Jesus into your soul. Now if Sister Denise will help us raise our voices to God Almighty!”
Everyone rises for a final hymn. Reverend Strong moves to backdoors to lilting and crooning. By the end, the congregation seems on the verge of exhaustion. He raises a hand.
“Be this is god, country and good people. Let love be our message. Let the light shine!”
Everyone filters through the double doors. Reverend Strong shakes hands and brings in shoulder hugs for everyone on their way outside the church. Among them is the imposing size of Harry Diderot, flanked by his father, Vince, and obese brother, Richie. Vince and the pastor chare a good spell while the brother await their reckoning. Reverend Strong then brings Harry into the fold with one of those brotherly grabs.
“Harry,” he says, “ya ox, what are you still doing here?”
“Not moving til Wednesday. Well, I’m on the move is more like it.”
“Ya always got a home here. Never forget it.”
“Thanks, reverend.”
“And where you going, son? Think you gonna sneak around ya brother like that.”
Strong grabs the door-wide shoulders of his young parishioner and wrings him close. Harry and his pops walk off, letting Richie endure all their pastor’s ribbings. They stand in an open lobby since most of the congregation migrated towards coffee and finger foods.
“Boy,” says the patriarch, “we got to set this straight.”
“What’s that pops?”
“Richie is coming with you.”
“Doesn’t he have a job?”
“Out of the home,” he says, “Son, he needs to see more than his… well, you know.”
“Pops, I got this. So long as he pulls his weight.”
“Boy, we’ all proud you. Just know that home is always here.”
They pull in for a shoulder hug then break quick. Richie, escaping the grasp of Reverend Strong, hobbles over to them. A blue-chrome cane hobbles beside his struggling steps.
“Get over here, boy,” says their father.
“What is it pops?”
“Harry is going to take you with him.”
Richie goes in for a big hug, but their dad stops him halfway.
“Now I want to boys to do what’s right,” he says. “And stay outta what your uncle Pepper got into. You don’ wanna end up the river like him.”
Both brothers nod.
“Good,” he says, nodding, “now go say your good byes. We’ll talk back at da’ house.”
Diderot Family Home on Calhoun Avenue
Harry, Richie, their dad and a small collection of neighborhood friends have gathered. One of them, a white man in an Atlanta Hawks® polo, talks of show business. This talent agent regales the group of his time working with triphop sensation, Fr4nzoi, and other artists from the local scene. Harry holds back with his Dixie™ plate of catfish and fries – all dowsed in a lake of Crystal’s™ signature sauce.
“Harry,” the agent says, “do you remember when Lil’ G came around the studio.”
“Yeah…”
“So he tries to get in the recording session. And, shit you not, Fr4nzoi reaches for a pocket knife. Now you have to know, G is like 12—”
“Mane, he’s 16.”
“Either way,” the agents says, grinning wide, “G thinks his lyrics are ‘dope’. They are not.”
He laughs while the rest of Harry’s party shies back to their plates. Harry leaves them to find his brother seated around a group of friends in and around their mid to late 20’s. Everyone has a cheap beer in hand when the Big Dawg turns the corner.
“Hippo,” says one the girls, “where you been?”
“Out front with Georgie. What’re y’all doing?”
Richie laughs until falling off their dad’s red cooler.
“Hippo, got a match yet?”
“Yeah, Zip, his name’s Anthony Xavier.”
“Gonna whoop him good?”
“Maybe,” he says, “Richie, toss me one.”
Richie digs out a cold Milwaukee before conforming the plastic lid to his ass’s groove. They discuss training and how many reps Harry did on the press that morning. Zip, a mouthy dude with little dog syndrome, ridicules the weight. They fight about reps over sheer weight until a flex puts that bag of bones in his place.
“What are you gonna do in the ring?” asks another girl.
“Livia, I’mma do what I always do,” he says with a chest thump. “It’s all heart.”
The party winds down with only a few people lounging on the back deck. Harry sits between his pops and Rev. Strong. Beside them are Zip, his cousin Brit and the eldest Strong Boy, Barney. His Easy-E haircut pokes out from a Falcon’s cap. Unlike the rest of the party, Barney’s mom was white, making him a stand out from the rest. Their father goes for a new beer but stops.
“Boy,” Vince says to Richie, “you squash’an my cooler.”
“We need more chairs.”
“There were more until your ass broke ‘em.”
“Vince,” says the reverend, “give the kid a break.”
“Reverend, he needs to get out his cave. Go an’ walk somewhere.”
“Have mercy…”
Zip and Brit leave with war good byes. Harry promises to keep in touch as they disappear down the street. Zip still carries his open container down to one side. Rev. Strong shakes his head while sliding into more space.
“Vince,” he says, “the food was great.”
“Tasha makes the best fry,” Richie adds.
“You got that right. Now Vince, you got a minute.”
“Yeah?”
“I want to ask you, and the boys, sumthan.”
He then made an unavoidable request: That they should take Barney too. Both had been friends since childhood. Inseparable at times, in and out of danger, to the point where they ate at each other’s houses. Before her passing, Momma Diderot always made sloppy Joes or her famous mac n’ cheese casserole. However, the Strongs took care of most families in their neighborhood. Falling under that dreaded poverty line hit them hard, but the good reverend always kept the boys fed—even when Vince struggled. Finally, the Diderot’s could repay their kindness.
The Road to a New a Life
“Who out there ready to rumble? UCI, life is about to get bigger in HD with your man, Harry Diderot. The Hippo on the scene about to stretch the sides on this bitch, y’all ready. I meant it … are you ready!?
Throw downs long take the name of the streets, but I am not some B on WorldStar hiphop. I came here to bring a revolution with my fist raised. My place has always been in the hearts of good people. I believe in that Almighty – have mercy on us all – doing what’s right even when times get rough. Pulled up from hand-me-downs. Cold bologna and nothing, cramming down a chopped cheese when there was a buck to my name. Diderot’s know what this country does when every white man sleeps in a comfy bed. We know the hunger – brother am I hungry. But I never ate until my lil’ Richie got his fill. I am my brother’s keeper and always will be. UCI, you are about to witness the next big star in a game defined by the same face. So hold onto ya’ butts because this ride is about to begin.
This isn’t my diss track on the company or anyone within in it. People have to work. Y’all see the grind even when we not tweeting shit about it. I hit the gym with the eye of a Tiger. Rest this roster be looking at my like Balboa. I’m Apollo. I’m that scary black man staring daggers into you, crushing sand like George Foreman. Gonna stamp this place George Jr. when I’m done with it. Things are popping off – so you better get ready for the quakes I’m starting around here. Hippo 1; world zip.
UCI, best get a breath in now, ‘cause I’m about to slap it right out. The crisp clap on ya’ newborn ass. Will Smith welcoming yo’ face to Earth. My message is simple. Harry Diderot is not here to ruin what others built. Oh no, I am here to clean up the mess left by so many who see this world as their own. Titles define our people here, and in time, I will be the guidng light y’all asking for. A-town never bowed to that East Coast/West Coast beef. It rose while the bullets rained ‘cause we are the little guy. Gum on the rich man’s shoe. Contract or not, you know I’m still hitting up the Payless. Riding Jinko low and dirty. UCI, we are the same cloth. We are part of a revolution that this company ain’t ready to see. You ready to follow the Hippo? These 16s’ leave a big print wherever I go. Look for them prints. I will not lead you astray.
Now the mission comes to its first stop. A proving ground in the Pitt. Steel city, get your towels out! I better see them waving with the Big Dawg make his arrival this week on Overload. Okay, time to breathe my brothers, my soul sistas, and get our asses in the pew for a reading from Brother Richie. Warm ‘em the grits, boy.”
“Bout to break this down… UCI, you ready for Grits and Gray? I’m bout to pour over ya’ biscuits yo. Sour up the competition yo. Bring the walls down with this master sound on repeat. Jericho fell, the back seat is now the front, and we are on the wave of revolution!
Grits on the mic, disaster fall, hurricane raw
spitting fire straight dope, y’all
hitting tires on the slope, y’all
Bim-blam on rackety-tack, taking two on that double tap,
Hiphop, southern rap, whack ass B’s widen da gap,
We overcome y’all. We supersede y’all, Because a dream never fades.”
“Hit up the side, Barney. Put yo’ hands up for the Barn, everybody!”
“UCI, this is a message from the desk on Harry “the Hippo” Diderot. Here is here to stay. He wants more, and no one is going to tell him otherwise. Richie is the fire; I am the brains. We may sound like the next triphop track full of jabs and griping about the world. Trust me, sisters and brothers out there, we are excited to begin. A journey from the cliff’s edge is a wide expanse. But we are not afraid of how far to go. We are not going to flinch in the face of a challenge. No one is going to tell us that we can and cannot do. Only that power Almighty can do that. From top to bottom, Harry is here to bring a new message. He is the strong shoulder of Atlas, holding a world on its side. I challenge anyone to find a roadblock to this unstoppable machine. Show us a steam engine and John Henry will win. Show us your biggest player, and he will dunk on them. Brothers, sisters – listen please – because Harry is here to change the game.”
“Damn Barn, bringing that Bulldog gibe. We all didn’t go to college ‘round here, but we know the good word. Pittsburg, I know you feeling this track hot off its press, but we ain’t down yet. Because there’s still a game to win. So let the other side prepare its defense for this tongue-lashing the Hippo’s about to dispense. Anthony Xavier – where you at bro! I know you in the gym right now working on those holds. You got yo’ 1,000 grifts like the Ice Man, but you no Malenko. Shit, you’d lose this rap battle to Lance Storm. I hit this mic hard from the breadbasket up. When life blocks, it gives the belly, then its chin. Always punching up, up, up.
Seriously tho, I respect you mane. You bring a solid game that a lot of punks forget anymore. The Swiss Army Knife with tools for every problem. Popping the wine and fixing the socket. Cutting wires and cutting loose threads. But when it comes to a fight, are you sure about this? I went from gym to gym breaking records in every weight room. Stripping plaques off their panels and pushing things to the next level. You have the game mastered, or so you say, but do you know what the Hippo has coming for you? Nobody has a tape on this. I trained in the sweat stains that no man would enter. No offense, I bet you drove around it and its neighborhood. Just saying – not like there’s a badass over here or nu’than. I honed my game in da hood where cameras hide on the fear getting ganked. Jokes aside, mane, no one has a plan for the heart and soul I bring to this ring. Bring your holds. Let’s get this B fried up like catfish. Bring the Crystal’s hot and hard on their paper plate, burning these walls straight down. You feel me?”
Roadside to a New Life
Harry Diderot, his brother Richie, and the pastor’s son, Barney, roll up to a Pilot station outside the city limits of Louisville, KY. Richie heads in for a fill-up. Harry pumps gas in his ’96 explorer when their friend comes around the side.
“Harry,” he says, “do you know what you really want out of this company?”
“Yeah, it’s a revolution.”
“Black athletes comes through every year saying the same thing. What makes you think we’re doing anything groundbreaking?”
“Because we believe, mane. I know it’s tough. But we have to get ready for this grind.”
“Harry,” Barney says with a hand on the window, “what about Richie?”
“He’s in the right place. Besides, he’d drown without me. Well, in a cup of that Caine’s dip, more like it. Barney, he needs me more than I need him.”
“I never thought you’d turn on him,” he says. “I just can’t shake that we’re out of our element.”
“Leave the ring and this business to me,” Harry tells him. “You guys have my back?”
“Always.”
They bring it close for a bro-grab before heading inside to pay. Richie passes them with a scratch-off and family size bag of BBQ Fritos. Harry sighs at the counter. Both return to car, finding Richie an arm deep in that bag in the backseat. He and Barney go up front and take off down the highway. After a few minutes of driving—all to the constant sound of crunching chips—Harry loses it.
“Mane, gonna give it a rest?”
“Whatcha mean?”
“We ain’t stopping until we reach Pitt,” he says. “Better save some for then.”
“But that’s like… awhile, Harry.”
“Besides, we had Big Macs like an hour ago. Give it a rest, all right.”
“Okay, damn.”
Near the Ohio-Pennsylvania border, they take a quickie at a rest stop. Everyone piles out for a shit and stretch. Harry and Richie find themselves in stalls all alone in the AM hours. Harry checks the three or four dozen text messages sent between the last few stops, several from their dad and local kids. He swipes through them when a knock jars him.
“Thanks Harry.”
“What you mean?”
“I know I can’t stop,” says Richie from the opposite stall, “Just thanks.”
“Yeah…”
Weak knees have Richie huffing in route back to their car, parked handicap for his needs. Despite going head-to-head earlier, Richie still swiped for a Coke® and baggy of Famous Amos cookies, which he tries to hide to one side. Harry looks the other way. Barney sighs as weight shifts heavy on their back wheels. Down the road, the pastor’s son speaks up.
“That track was something,” he says with a smile. “What did you guys think?”
“Sick, mane.”
“Hippo is on this shit,” Richie says. “You got this, bro.”
“What about that Anthony Xavier though? He seems legit.”
“Guys,” Harry says over them, “I trained for this. UCI has no idea what we are about to bring to this show. Overload, PPV – doesn’t matter to me – because I am going to be me. That’s what the people want. I’m not in it for the money. I’m not in it to win the gold. I want to be the best.”
“Fu—”
“Grits,” he says, “what did momma say?”
“If you gonna cuss,” he says, shaking his head, “don’ say that F word.”
“I will slap you stupid if you do.”
“Harry,” Barney asks, “what about the match? Do think the people will catch on.”
“I already said ethic will get me there, mane. Pittsburg is a tough place. So long as we stripe in their colors, as much as it burns my red and black to do so, we will. Steel town is going to be my proving ground. You got the backseat, but you always gonna be there, B. I know that.”
“A-town on this Bitch!”
Both look and nod with Richie rustling in bag from the back seat. Night stripes thousands of yellow lights all in the direction of I70, coming upon a Pittsburg dawn and a huge debut.
