Post by hippoharry on Oct 20, 2017 18:29:07 GMT -6
Newark, NJ Four Days to Killing Floor
Newark, New Jersey jam-packs with a multiethnic crowd. Many wear UCI merchandize for top-ticket draws like Z-MAC, Kevin Bishop and Bonnie Blue. Police cordoned off the area, assuming something of an ANTIFA protest from how the crowd gathers at a makeshift pulpit arranged by two IKEA boxes. It all stand outside a public building, adding to fear and anticipation. This setup positons near a colossal head of Justice blindfolded. These couple hundred jump to “Believer” by Imagine Dragons, preceding the appearance of Barney Strong in brown pinstriped suit. All black sunglasses drift up from his notes to a collective summoned by the power of social media.
“I would say be seated, but we are at the witness stand. Do you see the eyes of justice? You shouldn’t—because they are blind. We see them bound but not gagged. Yet it continues to see the world and choose who’s guilty. I come before you a wronged man. A son mistaken for a criminal. A boy whose rear view mirror knows the flash of blue and red. Tremors while gripping that steering wheel, hoping to God everything ends well.
Sisters know the same crimes. They stand hands high, hearing their rites at this same altar across the country. There will not be peace until we decide where our place belongs between jails and residential areas. No man was raised behind bars. That is life of a tiger, claws sharp and ready, a danger to all. Panthers took this same ground and told the world they feared no evil. That they would fight no matter how hard a gavel struck their head. Do you feel safe now? Is your black ass safe in the driver’s seat? Forgive me lord, for my anger is real. By your son it is! But these hands are so damn angry. They crave a bloodbath. But we, daughters and sons, will not raise. Because we are stronger than that. We are stronger than that!”
Officers move in under peaceful terms and ask they disperse. All but the pastor’s son scatter in a matter of minutes. Barney stands there at his makeshift altar, shaking from his shoulders to knees, while two officers, one black the other white, tell him to get lost. He looks to his fellow man with a slow shake of his head. They throw him to the ground without resistance.
Hotel Outside Pittsburg, Night After Overload
Harry Diderot, his brother Richie and Barney Strong sit in a Super 8 late that night, so late it’s gone into morning. Empty Chinese boxes litter the room with Richie surfing their twenty-three channels. Harry leans back half-asleep while Barney has a laptop open. The changing lights wake the exhausted hippo.
“Barn, what you watchan now?”
“Ooh mane, lemma see!”
“Guys, quit it,” he tell the brothers Diderot. “I’m finalizing a permit.”
“For what?”
Richie turns over in his Cam Newton inspired male romper, suckling the last remnants of lo mein. Barney adjusts his glasses to a deflection of stupid things. Still, he keeps a smirk while cycling through a long email from what seems to be a city council.
“That in Newark?” Harry says.
“Yeah, cuz,” he tells him.
“But the show’s not in Newark. The hell you going there?”
He opens a tab to show the colossal head of Justice, as depicted outside the Essex County Courthouse. Its large features gives to imagination. Richie cranes his neck over despite noodles hanging out of his mouth.
“What all that shit?”
“It’s Justice,” Barney says, “You do know that symbol. Blindfolded; the scale and sword?”
“Mane, I don’ know some illuminati shit.”
“Dumbass,” Harry says, “he’s talking about laws, bro.”
“Right, and I’m going to give a speech about the current climate. Do you feel me?”
Richie grins. “Yeah mane, I got you.”
He smiles back. “I can’t make a setup without paying more. So I’m just going to use boxes.”
“Noice.”
“Yeah Rich, it is noice…”
Harry lies back again. “Well get your shit settled. Can’t sleep with all dis light, cuz.”
“Oh yeah, sorry Harry. Let me finish this email and we’re all good.”
During his scroll of their channels, Richie lands on a local access program showing old horror flicks. He catches the final minutes of Nosferatu and immediately ridicules its style. Harry drowns out the sound with two hands cross over his hairy barrel of a chest. Barney looks around his screen to see what has the big boy giggling so much.
“You are acting a damn fool right now.”
“You see this B,” he says, rolling to his side. “Run’an around with his casket. Da fuck man!”
“That is a classic, you dolt.”
“So is Big Mama’s House. But I ain’t defending it.”
Barney shakes his head before returning to his email. Harry tells him to “shut da hell up” with his eyes closed. During the next hour, the original Dawn of the Dead follows. A man finds himself cornered by a stairwell with zombies pouring through. Richie goes berserk.
“Come on, why you open that? You know there zombies out there.”
“It’s theater, cuz. Try to appreciate the message.”
“Mane, you crazy as that flyboy.”
“Oh yeah?”
Migrating to Richie’s bed made sure not to wake the resting hippo. Midway, Harry gets up for a piss. He finds the two messing around with the TV blaring.
“Hey,” Harry says, “you know I’m tired. Shut that shit off already.”
“But it’s a classic. Besides, you need to get in the spirit,” Barney tells him. “Soon the spirits will be out of their graves and demons will overtake our neighborhoods.”
“So long as they ain’t ghosts.”
“Really, this is not the time for jokes like that.”
“Whacha talking about?” Richie says.
“Forget it, Rich,” he says. “Your brother is pulling the wrong leg.”
“Oh shit! They tearing that mother fu—”
“Language mane.”
“Harry, they eating him alive!”
“Yeah, they zombies. Now get your ass to sleep. Got a long day on the road tomorrow.”
“You heard him, Rich. Let’s get all this junk off the bed first.”
Harry disappears into the bathroom while the others ready for bed. A vanity mirror hangs to his right, showing the yellow blotches and bruising along his back. Although Harry had experienced the rigors of training over the past few months, nothing in those prelim circuits hurt like the real deal. He winced when pulling up the toilet seat. For a moment, it all seemed peaceful – even with those two rambling in other room. Hurt or not, he knew “the Hippo” had arrived.
The Journey Continues, a Message for Shadowlove
“Where did we begin, UCI? Was it the ship? Was it the moment we took another’s name? Was it the minute we had our own name? You look at me an’ see where it all began. A-Town and them cold grits on a good day, bread and budda’ when times got hard. I come before you a man with origins defined by shadows. We live in memory of Stone Mountain’s hooves stomped to a pulp. Times know dat caged bird and its song. We are the new face of this company. Spence ain’t the cover boy y’all think. Drive yourself and be something. Put yo hands up and move along. Move along they say. Get out of the way, B, ‘cause this shit is about to collapse. Pillars out there know what we do, communities that mourn and suffer, they lift up little black babies like me. They out there saying “wow, isn’t he special!” when the sports go on TV. Lemme break it all down now so we can get into the ring mano eh mano.
UCI brought in the Hippo for his talent. He can fly baby because he so fly. Nah, B, he so fleek. What else you want? See me hit dingers like Big Papí? TD grabs like Moss? We here to redefine what y’all come to expect of muscles heads in tighty whities. And dis ain’t no freak show to gasp and awe. Yo, we the new face of the competitor. Scouts report verticals, they say he got “a good build” on of them “pro bodies” and no prison tats. A face that sells crackerjacks. What you see is what you get. Harry Diderot is more than a name. More than this black sheep mane, a pick out the side, tied under some ghetto rags. We are here to redefine the man entire. Hit ‘em up Barn.”
“Who do you see in the avenues of a city? Are they crouched around the cardboard betting on bones? What do you see in the low-riding Lincoln shattering windows with a subwoofer? Have you seen this man before his death went viral? UCI, we are the new flag bearers – and you can join us. Harry the Hippo is not sick in the head. He’s not filled with rage like a Spike Lee hero. He is a man just like every one of you. Children of God worthy of praise and salutation. Humble from birth – not a noble son with a silver spoon – with stretch marks. He eats from the same can of pork and beans, burping at the family table. His elbows rest on the table. Do you get the message, my brothers and sisters? Harry is the new face that will lead us into a new era of this sport. The era of dominance is over. Sepia days of pasty chicken wings and figure-fours aged into perfection, or so they say. We are the new century. Fans, put your hands together for a Rich man’s perspective. Let the big boy make our voices clear.”
“We the front of your business,
we live in photoshop,
shak’an hands with Magic Johnson,
Condos n’ mansions,
NFL, NBA expansions,
200 game seasons fo’ no reason
living up to bottom line.
So here, bitch, read your sign.”
“You got the flow on this? Take this chapel to the Barn!”
“If the message sounds like a threat – because it is. We are tired of being held back. We want this LP to drop hard and send quakes from coast to coast. Join East and West in the cradle of Atlanta. Do you see the space on his mantle? Everyone will in time. When the titles change hands to the bloodstained, tear soaked pain of your fellow man. The young kids pulled out of the mud with only their smiles showing. Now you understand what we are all about, UCI. We will fight not only for ourselves, but also for every person stuck in another’s boot sole. Every hardworking cashier and burger flipper. The humble millions wearing blue and orange vests from California to New Jersey. Harry is your man. He is your new hero. He is the Atlas ready to hold your world. When you wake each morning, and the numbers roll in, we see ourselves in another’s shadow. We covet Jaguars, million-dollar yachts and the women dancing around Kendrick Lamar. The difference is we are truly humble. Now please, let the Hippo do what he does best.”
“UCI, I got the move to make this B shine. Like my brothers said, we doing this shit together. Don’t be afraid of a few changes. We making a new era together! I will not abandon you for the lure of gold. We fight and win titles together. I’ll sit with you in an inch of rain. Be your champion through long nights and growing pains. Together, this will be our day. This gonna be our rise into the goddamn clouds. You feel me yet?
On the road to victory come a lot of faces. The next is an institution, the Church of Shadowlove. He has been here from the start. That said, much respect brother, ‘cause you ain’t the problem. You another tough guy working hard. Ya’ earned your spot and the money and all the fleek shit in ya foyer. But we can’t let Da Vinci go on – not until we get our place at the table. I know dis just another match in your storied career, but you better turn from your gate community and see the three vagrants on your street corner – mad men throwing bricks through ya window.
Camp Crystal Lake buries its own. Stories make us fear the truth, that someone else is out there to get us. I wanna be your boogey man. I want you to see from the head of your hun’erd foot table three new faces – and they askan you to pass the hot sauce. Shadowlove clings to the mountain of the company’s old days. The early years before Spencer Adams took it into a nosedive. When he forgot what it meant to be humble. The low lying sludge of the Toxic Avenger, bringing his own brand of justice. Truth said, homie, you all right. But this is not your company anymore. This is not some old school vampire shit. ‘Cause Blade is here, Chritopher Lee, and this shit is about to go crazy up in here. When you that crowd get lit, think of that boogey man in your golden avenues throwing his shade. Flee to an expensive getaway. Ski in the alps, or whatevs ya type do, mane. You keep being you. Find yourself a new calling in this world. Because this shadow of the past now has the keys to your kingdom.”
Newark New Jersey, Three Days to Killing Floor
On the steps from the city jail, Harry Diderot opens the door for a petulant friend. His old school hiphop get up, denim and leather, contrast with orange aviators. His best friend, Barney Strong, limps from the top step in a brown suit reeking of despair. A colorful kufi cap sits deflated to his tired breast.
“You eat anything?”
“Water and soup.”
“So yo hungry?”
“Yes…”
“Richie ain’t here, mane,” Harry says. “Just us. Wherever you want.”
“Anything is fine, cuz.”
They go into his ’96 Explorer in search of food. Before long, they pull into a ratty joint with a fish and fries sign atop the wall. Several people outside, hanging mostly, nod to their contrasting figures going through its swinging door. Hippo’s 6’6” frame has some people on edge staring like bouncer into challenging looks. A quick look from Barney asks the big question, “Why the hell are we going here?” The line has a cafeteria rail with plastic trays and options ala carte; soul favorites like greens, red beans and rice, catfish and fries and a mound of lumpy potatoes.
“Scuse me miss,” Harry says, “load up his plate. My brother just got out.”
The server nods, slopping on extra heaps of potatoes and greens. Her warm smile lifts Barney’s sulking head from the ground. They pay at the end and pick seats near a dirty window. Harry drowns his catfish, three pieces, in Crystal’s while the pastor’s boy pokes smaller bites.
“So what happened?”
“I had a permit—”
“I don’t care why,” Harry says. “Ain’t no 5-0. Jus tell me.”
“They thought I was ANTIFA. A revolutionary bent of violence.”
“Cops rough you up?”
Barney grabbed his shoulder. “Nothing bad, but I had a right to be there.”
“Then you stepped over da line.”
“I didn’t Harry!”
“Listen mane, I tell you what happened. Cause sometimes, you so smart you stupid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brother, listen to me, they ain’t care bout no permit. Ain’t give a damn about your message. You on a soapbox and times jus ain’t right. You can’t be X in a time like this.”
“I’m not trying to be Malcolm X,” he says with a wounded look.
“You know that’s why you here, right?”
“Because I’m stupid?”
“Mane, your daddy told me to bring your black ass up here because he scared what’s becoming of you,” Harry says while holding fried fish. “Yeah, this ain’t no game. Nobody knows you here. You got nothing but me and Richy Rich. Need to play this game smart or dis world gonna eat you alive. That’s why you here, Barn, ‘cause you need to grow out of this militant shit.”
Barney inhales his sides before digging into a plate of catfish, although no amount of Crystal sauce will bring him back to smiles. Everything just seems so bland between them.
“You want a sweet potato pie?”
“Harry, don’t you have a figure to keep up?”
“The fuck – you my momma now?”
They laugh hard until a two kids a fatherly figure approach them. They ask for photo, recognizing his face from the last Overload. Barney sits back, grinning a bit now, as Harry holds both boys in separate hands like King Kong. Besides a photo op and autograph, Harry shakes the dad down for a food tip, learning then of a great place for donuts on the way out of that burg. By the times they’re plates look clean, a cook from the back brings out a take-out order of fish and fries for them. Shoulder hugs between them ensures a hefty tip from the Hippo’s loving spirit. He and Barney emerge into a cityscape dwarfing the A-Town skyline.
“You’re famous now.”
“Wipe off that smirk,” Harry says, “we ain’t there yet.”
“One match at a time, eh coach?”
“Shit, you how we do this. Shadowlove is first. Then we can talk about fame.”
“Beat the best and rise?”
“Beat the beast, then show our trophies.”
Both load up into the Explorer, where his phone has an inundation of texts – mostly from Grits n’ Gravy, currently at some China buffet – cluttering his screen. A quick flip through Richie’s pics unveils two things: One, Richie bought a Pharrell hat, and two, Rev. Strong has no idea his son was arrested. The message from his pastor contained a few good words and some sappy passage from II Corinthians about staying true to self, soul and God. He passes the phone over to Barney who shakes his head.
“You know you got to now.”
“Yeah,” Barney says, “you drive cuz. I’ll deal with my dad.”
Newark, New Jersey jam-packs with a multiethnic crowd. Many wear UCI merchandize for top-ticket draws like Z-MAC, Kevin Bishop and Bonnie Blue. Police cordoned off the area, assuming something of an ANTIFA protest from how the crowd gathers at a makeshift pulpit arranged by two IKEA boxes. It all stand outside a public building, adding to fear and anticipation. This setup positons near a colossal head of Justice blindfolded. These couple hundred jump to “Believer” by Imagine Dragons, preceding the appearance of Barney Strong in brown pinstriped suit. All black sunglasses drift up from his notes to a collective summoned by the power of social media.
“I would say be seated, but we are at the witness stand. Do you see the eyes of justice? You shouldn’t—because they are blind. We see them bound but not gagged. Yet it continues to see the world and choose who’s guilty. I come before you a wronged man. A son mistaken for a criminal. A boy whose rear view mirror knows the flash of blue and red. Tremors while gripping that steering wheel, hoping to God everything ends well.
Sisters know the same crimes. They stand hands high, hearing their rites at this same altar across the country. There will not be peace until we decide where our place belongs between jails and residential areas. No man was raised behind bars. That is life of a tiger, claws sharp and ready, a danger to all. Panthers took this same ground and told the world they feared no evil. That they would fight no matter how hard a gavel struck their head. Do you feel safe now? Is your black ass safe in the driver’s seat? Forgive me lord, for my anger is real. By your son it is! But these hands are so damn angry. They crave a bloodbath. But we, daughters and sons, will not raise. Because we are stronger than that. We are stronger than that!”
Officers move in under peaceful terms and ask they disperse. All but the pastor’s son scatter in a matter of minutes. Barney stands there at his makeshift altar, shaking from his shoulders to knees, while two officers, one black the other white, tell him to get lost. He looks to his fellow man with a slow shake of his head. They throw him to the ground without resistance.
Hotel Outside Pittsburg, Night After Overload
Harry Diderot, his brother Richie and Barney Strong sit in a Super 8 late that night, so late it’s gone into morning. Empty Chinese boxes litter the room with Richie surfing their twenty-three channels. Harry leans back half-asleep while Barney has a laptop open. The changing lights wake the exhausted hippo.
“Barn, what you watchan now?”
“Ooh mane, lemma see!”
“Guys, quit it,” he tell the brothers Diderot. “I’m finalizing a permit.”
“For what?”
Richie turns over in his Cam Newton inspired male romper, suckling the last remnants of lo mein. Barney adjusts his glasses to a deflection of stupid things. Still, he keeps a smirk while cycling through a long email from what seems to be a city council.
“That in Newark?” Harry says.
“Yeah, cuz,” he tells him.
“But the show’s not in Newark. The hell you going there?”
He opens a tab to show the colossal head of Justice, as depicted outside the Essex County Courthouse. Its large features gives to imagination. Richie cranes his neck over despite noodles hanging out of his mouth.
“What all that shit?”
“It’s Justice,” Barney says, “You do know that symbol. Blindfolded; the scale and sword?”
“Mane, I don’ know some illuminati shit.”
“Dumbass,” Harry says, “he’s talking about laws, bro.”
“Right, and I’m going to give a speech about the current climate. Do you feel me?”
Richie grins. “Yeah mane, I got you.”
He smiles back. “I can’t make a setup without paying more. So I’m just going to use boxes.”
“Noice.”
“Yeah Rich, it is noice…”
Harry lies back again. “Well get your shit settled. Can’t sleep with all dis light, cuz.”
“Oh yeah, sorry Harry. Let me finish this email and we’re all good.”
During his scroll of their channels, Richie lands on a local access program showing old horror flicks. He catches the final minutes of Nosferatu and immediately ridicules its style. Harry drowns out the sound with two hands cross over his hairy barrel of a chest. Barney looks around his screen to see what has the big boy giggling so much.
“You are acting a damn fool right now.”
“You see this B,” he says, rolling to his side. “Run’an around with his casket. Da fuck man!”
“That is a classic, you dolt.”
“So is Big Mama’s House. But I ain’t defending it.”
Barney shakes his head before returning to his email. Harry tells him to “shut da hell up” with his eyes closed. During the next hour, the original Dawn of the Dead follows. A man finds himself cornered by a stairwell with zombies pouring through. Richie goes berserk.
“Come on, why you open that? You know there zombies out there.”
“It’s theater, cuz. Try to appreciate the message.”
“Mane, you crazy as that flyboy.”
“Oh yeah?”
Migrating to Richie’s bed made sure not to wake the resting hippo. Midway, Harry gets up for a piss. He finds the two messing around with the TV blaring.
“Hey,” Harry says, “you know I’m tired. Shut that shit off already.”
“But it’s a classic. Besides, you need to get in the spirit,” Barney tells him. “Soon the spirits will be out of their graves and demons will overtake our neighborhoods.”
“So long as they ain’t ghosts.”
“Really, this is not the time for jokes like that.”
“Whacha talking about?” Richie says.
“Forget it, Rich,” he says. “Your brother is pulling the wrong leg.”
“Oh shit! They tearing that mother fu—”
“Language mane.”
“Harry, they eating him alive!”
“Yeah, they zombies. Now get your ass to sleep. Got a long day on the road tomorrow.”
“You heard him, Rich. Let’s get all this junk off the bed first.”
Harry disappears into the bathroom while the others ready for bed. A vanity mirror hangs to his right, showing the yellow blotches and bruising along his back. Although Harry had experienced the rigors of training over the past few months, nothing in those prelim circuits hurt like the real deal. He winced when pulling up the toilet seat. For a moment, it all seemed peaceful – even with those two rambling in other room. Hurt or not, he knew “the Hippo” had arrived.
The Journey Continues, a Message for Shadowlove
“Where did we begin, UCI? Was it the ship? Was it the moment we took another’s name? Was it the minute we had our own name? You look at me an’ see where it all began. A-Town and them cold grits on a good day, bread and budda’ when times got hard. I come before you a man with origins defined by shadows. We live in memory of Stone Mountain’s hooves stomped to a pulp. Times know dat caged bird and its song. We are the new face of this company. Spence ain’t the cover boy y’all think. Drive yourself and be something. Put yo hands up and move along. Move along they say. Get out of the way, B, ‘cause this shit is about to collapse. Pillars out there know what we do, communities that mourn and suffer, they lift up little black babies like me. They out there saying “wow, isn’t he special!” when the sports go on TV. Lemme break it all down now so we can get into the ring mano eh mano.
UCI brought in the Hippo for his talent. He can fly baby because he so fly. Nah, B, he so fleek. What else you want? See me hit dingers like Big Papí? TD grabs like Moss? We here to redefine what y’all come to expect of muscles heads in tighty whities. And dis ain’t no freak show to gasp and awe. Yo, we the new face of the competitor. Scouts report verticals, they say he got “a good build” on of them “pro bodies” and no prison tats. A face that sells crackerjacks. What you see is what you get. Harry Diderot is more than a name. More than this black sheep mane, a pick out the side, tied under some ghetto rags. We are here to redefine the man entire. Hit ‘em up Barn.”
“Who do you see in the avenues of a city? Are they crouched around the cardboard betting on bones? What do you see in the low-riding Lincoln shattering windows with a subwoofer? Have you seen this man before his death went viral? UCI, we are the new flag bearers – and you can join us. Harry the Hippo is not sick in the head. He’s not filled with rage like a Spike Lee hero. He is a man just like every one of you. Children of God worthy of praise and salutation. Humble from birth – not a noble son with a silver spoon – with stretch marks. He eats from the same can of pork and beans, burping at the family table. His elbows rest on the table. Do you get the message, my brothers and sisters? Harry is the new face that will lead us into a new era of this sport. The era of dominance is over. Sepia days of pasty chicken wings and figure-fours aged into perfection, or so they say. We are the new century. Fans, put your hands together for a Rich man’s perspective. Let the big boy make our voices clear.”
“We the front of your business,
we live in photoshop,
shak’an hands with Magic Johnson,
Condos n’ mansions,
NFL, NBA expansions,
200 game seasons fo’ no reason
living up to bottom line.
So here, bitch, read your sign.”
“You got the flow on this? Take this chapel to the Barn!”
“If the message sounds like a threat – because it is. We are tired of being held back. We want this LP to drop hard and send quakes from coast to coast. Join East and West in the cradle of Atlanta. Do you see the space on his mantle? Everyone will in time. When the titles change hands to the bloodstained, tear soaked pain of your fellow man. The young kids pulled out of the mud with only their smiles showing. Now you understand what we are all about, UCI. We will fight not only for ourselves, but also for every person stuck in another’s boot sole. Every hardworking cashier and burger flipper. The humble millions wearing blue and orange vests from California to New Jersey. Harry is your man. He is your new hero. He is the Atlas ready to hold your world. When you wake each morning, and the numbers roll in, we see ourselves in another’s shadow. We covet Jaguars, million-dollar yachts and the women dancing around Kendrick Lamar. The difference is we are truly humble. Now please, let the Hippo do what he does best.”
“UCI, I got the move to make this B shine. Like my brothers said, we doing this shit together. Don’t be afraid of a few changes. We making a new era together! I will not abandon you for the lure of gold. We fight and win titles together. I’ll sit with you in an inch of rain. Be your champion through long nights and growing pains. Together, this will be our day. This gonna be our rise into the goddamn clouds. You feel me yet?
On the road to victory come a lot of faces. The next is an institution, the Church of Shadowlove. He has been here from the start. That said, much respect brother, ‘cause you ain’t the problem. You another tough guy working hard. Ya’ earned your spot and the money and all the fleek shit in ya foyer. But we can’t let Da Vinci go on – not until we get our place at the table. I know dis just another match in your storied career, but you better turn from your gate community and see the three vagrants on your street corner – mad men throwing bricks through ya window.
Camp Crystal Lake buries its own. Stories make us fear the truth, that someone else is out there to get us. I wanna be your boogey man. I want you to see from the head of your hun’erd foot table three new faces – and they askan you to pass the hot sauce. Shadowlove clings to the mountain of the company’s old days. The early years before Spencer Adams took it into a nosedive. When he forgot what it meant to be humble. The low lying sludge of the Toxic Avenger, bringing his own brand of justice. Truth said, homie, you all right. But this is not your company anymore. This is not some old school vampire shit. ‘Cause Blade is here, Chritopher Lee, and this shit is about to go crazy up in here. When you that crowd get lit, think of that boogey man in your golden avenues throwing his shade. Flee to an expensive getaway. Ski in the alps, or whatevs ya type do, mane. You keep being you. Find yourself a new calling in this world. Because this shadow of the past now has the keys to your kingdom.”
Newark New Jersey, Three Days to Killing Floor
On the steps from the city jail, Harry Diderot opens the door for a petulant friend. His old school hiphop get up, denim and leather, contrast with orange aviators. His best friend, Barney Strong, limps from the top step in a brown suit reeking of despair. A colorful kufi cap sits deflated to his tired breast.
“You eat anything?”
“Water and soup.”
“So yo hungry?”
“Yes…”
“Richie ain’t here, mane,” Harry says. “Just us. Wherever you want.”
“Anything is fine, cuz.”
They go into his ’96 Explorer in search of food. Before long, they pull into a ratty joint with a fish and fries sign atop the wall. Several people outside, hanging mostly, nod to their contrasting figures going through its swinging door. Hippo’s 6’6” frame has some people on edge staring like bouncer into challenging looks. A quick look from Barney asks the big question, “Why the hell are we going here?” The line has a cafeteria rail with plastic trays and options ala carte; soul favorites like greens, red beans and rice, catfish and fries and a mound of lumpy potatoes.
“Scuse me miss,” Harry says, “load up his plate. My brother just got out.”
The server nods, slopping on extra heaps of potatoes and greens. Her warm smile lifts Barney’s sulking head from the ground. They pay at the end and pick seats near a dirty window. Harry drowns his catfish, three pieces, in Crystal’s while the pastor’s boy pokes smaller bites.
“So what happened?”
“I had a permit—”
“I don’t care why,” Harry says. “Ain’t no 5-0. Jus tell me.”
“They thought I was ANTIFA. A revolutionary bent of violence.”
“Cops rough you up?”
Barney grabbed his shoulder. “Nothing bad, but I had a right to be there.”
“Then you stepped over da line.”
“I didn’t Harry!”
“Listen mane, I tell you what happened. Cause sometimes, you so smart you stupid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brother, listen to me, they ain’t care bout no permit. Ain’t give a damn about your message. You on a soapbox and times jus ain’t right. You can’t be X in a time like this.”
“I’m not trying to be Malcolm X,” he says with a wounded look.
“You know that’s why you here, right?”
“Because I’m stupid?”
“Mane, your daddy told me to bring your black ass up here because he scared what’s becoming of you,” Harry says while holding fried fish. “Yeah, this ain’t no game. Nobody knows you here. You got nothing but me and Richy Rich. Need to play this game smart or dis world gonna eat you alive. That’s why you here, Barn, ‘cause you need to grow out of this militant shit.”
Barney inhales his sides before digging into a plate of catfish, although no amount of Crystal sauce will bring him back to smiles. Everything just seems so bland between them.
“You want a sweet potato pie?”
“Harry, don’t you have a figure to keep up?”
“The fuck – you my momma now?”
They laugh hard until a two kids a fatherly figure approach them. They ask for photo, recognizing his face from the last Overload. Barney sits back, grinning a bit now, as Harry holds both boys in separate hands like King Kong. Besides a photo op and autograph, Harry shakes the dad down for a food tip, learning then of a great place for donuts on the way out of that burg. By the times they’re plates look clean, a cook from the back brings out a take-out order of fish and fries for them. Shoulder hugs between them ensures a hefty tip from the Hippo’s loving spirit. He and Barney emerge into a cityscape dwarfing the A-Town skyline.
“You’re famous now.”
“Wipe off that smirk,” Harry says, “we ain’t there yet.”
“One match at a time, eh coach?”
“Shit, you how we do this. Shadowlove is first. Then we can talk about fame.”
“Beat the best and rise?”
“Beat the beast, then show our trophies.”
Both load up into the Explorer, where his phone has an inundation of texts – mostly from Grits n’ Gravy, currently at some China buffet – cluttering his screen. A quick flip through Richie’s pics unveils two things: One, Richie bought a Pharrell hat, and two, Rev. Strong has no idea his son was arrested. The message from his pastor contained a few good words and some sappy passage from II Corinthians about staying true to self, soul and God. He passes the phone over to Barney who shakes his head.
“You know you got to now.”
“Yeah,” Barney says, “you drive cuz. I’ll deal with my dad.”
