Hippo and the Uber Kegger
Nov 3, 2017 22:54:53 GMT -6
Bonnie Blue, Kevin Bishop, and 1 more like this
Post by hippoharry on Nov 3, 2017 22:54:53 GMT -6
November 2nd, Four Days to Overload
“Okay, we rolling? Great. Now Harry, you got the script right?”
“Yeah, Barn, I got it.”
“Richie, keep that lens straight.”
“I’m try’an.”
“Did ya get a tripod?”
“No, because Rich said he could handle. I swear, if this video looks tilted, I will come down upon you with great anger and vengeance.”
“Got da shot, Richie?”
A rented camera pans out to a crowded walkway with a classical backdrop. Coming from the pride of Durham, NC, Harry Diderot, his brother Richie and the pastor’s son, Barney Strong, film on the campus of Duke University. A tall spire paints the backdrop of its infamous Clocktower Quad. History rings at noon from its iconic clock tower, the site of many sporting and political rallies alike. Home to the Cameron Crazies before attending the second church at Indoor Stadium. Students pass in all manners of Duke athletic wears – some in non-team colors – while the trio films Harry’s remote.
“Who we gonna take?”
“Just pick someone young and excitable.”
Harry asks a lone coed ensconced to her cellphone.
“Name’s Harry Diderot. Friends call me Hippo.”
“That’s cool—”
“Say, baby, you like wrestling?”
She lowers her tinted glasses and looks his size over. Her yuppie vibe, pink cardigan and tight jeans, draws a close up. Side cues from Barney pan the shot to both Harry and the student.
“No, It’s trash.”
“Whad ‘bout me?”
“And who are you?”
“Come on, girl, I’m the Hippo.”
“Is this an interview?”
Barney steps in and to offer his own take.
“We are here promoting UCI Overload. You may not watch the program, but I guarantee hours of fun. But before we get to the show, we would like to ask a few questions about your experience on campus.”
“Sure,” she says with books placed to her chest, “is this going to be on TV?”
“Hell yeah," Richie says, grinning.
“Can we have your name?”
“It's Amber…”
“Nice to meet you Amber. First question: ‘Do you think diversity makes schools stronger?’”
“I feel an open enrollment helps. But without POC on campus, we might as well hang the Battle Flag again. You can’t learn about yourself without meeting people unlike you.”
Harry and Barney nod to each other. Their Duke gear, recent purchases from the bookstore, makes both stand out sore amongst the young students walking around them.
“Great answer. Okay, ‘Would you consider basketball a diversion, or, a way of life here?’”
“Are you kidding me?” she says, laughing. “It’s religion around here.”
“No doubt.”
“Last one, then you can be on your way: ‘How do you think an institution can exist without diversity? Because the sad truth is: many sorely do. Your thoughts?’”
Amber takes a moment, unbeknownst how badly Richie works her final close-up.
“Amber, we got ya back. No matter whatcha say.”
“Thanks, but, it’s not that hard to mention. People think that we aren’t oppressive denying others an opportunity. Even if you coexist without mixing tribes, and do so with a smile, that is still segregation. We can’t expect things to change until the doors open for everyone.”
“Damn, Amber… premium shit there.”
“‘I don't know what the future may hold, but I know who holds the future.’ Amber, do you know who said that?”
“Ralph David Abernathy?”
“That’s right.” Barney smiles wide. “What are you studying here?”
“Pre-law.”
“Well thanks for your time, Amber. Tell your friends to see Overload. We’ll be here all week.”
She leaves with Richie giving her a poorly executed panning shot. Barney pulls the camera back to Harry and him. Both look stoked by that exchange. Richie then closes in on the Hippo.
“Say sum’fan, H.”
“Mane, she kicked ass. Like a whole barrel of it.”
“A barrel?” Barney says, laughing. “When you approached her. She had your ass over one.”
“Nah, only nerves. Yups don’ run into brothers my size. Gets 'em all scared, Barn.”
“Keep telling yourself that one,” he says. “Come on. I have another idea.”
Early Morning of November 4th
Several hundred students have gathered in what can only be described the perfect storm of frat parties. Theses two adjacent parties have since bled into an über kegger. Between erected a makeshift turntable with a cocky dude in Beats® dropping sick bass. Mingling between these neighboring lawns roves Harry Diderot. His friend and brother Richie have disappeared within the mob. He calls out but changes his mind soon after. His size attracts a crowd – many of these students saw him earlier on campus and remembered his distinctive look. An invite to this part cemented an afternoon of long, incoherent discussions of equality across the campus. Of those parked around the Hippo, emerges a young man with a half-stroking face. Too many nati’s have the goateed prick feeling strong.
“Hey man,” the drunk says, “you want to go, bro?”
“Whatcha got against me?”
“You were on campus this morning. Out there baiting people.”
“No one baiting but you, mane. Bes step off my space.”
A second dude in a pink popped collar pulls his friend away before things get ugly. Harry continues through the party, trying everything from Jell-O shots to hooch mixed in a Rubermaid® container. Others passed him, assuming he played for the football team. Two random girls dropped numbers that promptly tossed out. Flirting was one thing. The Hippo always knows better than to taken that drunken backdoor. When eventually came upon Richie passing a roach between a bunch of kids ten years younger than him.
“What you doing, Big Boy?”
“Harry,” he says with a stupid grin, “hit dis shit.”
“Hell no. We leav’an soon, bro. Don’ get too comfy.”
“You driving?”
“Nah, Barn gonna hit up an Uber. Where he at, Rich?”
Richie points towards another group of coeds, mixed equally of race and gender, where the preacher’s son has assumed his usual shtick. A handheld Gideon open in hand, Barney gives his interpretation of some lesson. By his look, he can tell the preacher-boy has not enjoyed himself like the Diderot brothers have. Harry breaks up the lesson by stepping into their semicircle.
“Hey, it’s the Hippo. Everyone, have you met my good friend, Harry Diderot?”
“Ain’t here for that.”
“Then what’s up, cuz?”
“Richie all kinds fucked up. Need to split this scene, mane.”
“Come take a seat,” Barney says. “There’s room for more.”
Harry waves him off before rejoining the chaos now spilling over an entire city block. The crowd now looks more than a thousand thick and still growing. Knowing their mission was one of peace and fight hype for the company, Harry descends upon the turntable and its grooving DJ. One look makes him step back from the table. The Hippo then takes up a megaphone hidden behind some sort of preacher pulpit repurposed as CD and mixer storage.
“Ev’body, this place be jumping! But I got to tell you the good news!”
People gather as the song builds. Knowing some bits of art from his time bouncing, Harry keeps the tune mellow without a build. Dozens more flock to him and immediately get freaky to the sick beat. Once enough seem in shouting distance he takes up that megaphone again.
“Who going to Overload?” he says to a small cheer. Others chant “drop that shit” as the song builds slow and steady. “Oh we gonna drop it hard. First, I got something to say. And y’all need to hear me out.”
“Tell ‘em Hippo!” screams Richie while grinding between girls. They still have that athletic wear from the team-shop, although his brother came across a chip captain’s hat at some point during the last 5 – 10 minutes. “Break it down, Harry!”
“Before we get down to biz’nas, a word from our spiritual advisor.”
Everyone cheers to Barney Strong joining Harry at the turntables. A few scratches rewind to a mellow beat, giving the preacher’s son room to build his own.
“People of Durham, Cameron Crazies, we are the new era of UCI. Peel back the layers of the ring, and you find trailblazers like us. Hardnosed heavyweights like Joe Lewis, George Foreman, and the Great One, Muhammad Ali. Modern heroes like Iron Mike, de la Hoya and Lenox Lewis, redefining what we know of the ring. But what about those of a different breed. To that I mean professional wrestling. Now we know what you’re thinking: ‘Why would I care about that? Isn’t that stuff staged with no substance? Don’t they prey on stereotypes and promote white champions over hard fighting persons of color. Yes, but not anymore! We are here to change what your daddy and grand-pappy watched in the territories. To rock world like Dwayne Johnson and benchpress it to the heavens like Tony Atlas. Break the barrier like Ron Simmons with sexy steps of your native son, the Nature Boy, Rick Flair.
Just how do we change a constant thing? It begins in the seats. We need everyone to there for the show this week. Did we mention student tickers? Those will be available tomorrow morning—as number last. I’m told there will be 2,000 seats. So go out and grab those tomorrow. UCI needs your support. Come see this man, ‘Hippo’ Harry Diderot as he faces his toughest challenge yet. I’d tell you all about the Television Champion, but where’s the fun in that?
Here’s my benediction everyone: Be true to yourself. Accept nothing but the best for you and everyone. If you cannot change the person inside you, then how can you ever hope to enact change to this world? I beseech everyone to look for your inner light and let it shine, shine, shine. Now brutha, drop that bass!”
Harry scratches a few times letting it all build—when Richie charges to join them.
“Give it up for Richie Rich, ev’body! Go one mane, drop something sick!”
Unwisely, they hand the megaphone over to the dilating stare of Richie Diderot, whom stares before even more people than just a minute ago. He steadies himself on the pulpit. Harry pushes a few buttons until an OG beat replaces that epic house rhythm.
“Richie Rich got all da beef, coming at like killer keef
dab yo ass up to this, ain’t time for yo—”
Richie drops the horn in route to puking in a bush. Harry picks up steam with a new tune, spinning and scratching to a faster beat. Grinding continues with Barney tending to his brother. Their original DJ eggs him on from the side, begging the Hippo to drop that bass. He doesn’t.
“You heard the good word, now let me specify. Harry Diderot is going to be your new TV champ. Why, ‘cause I know what that belt means. Jack the Crack has been the champ like thrice the time I been on this roster, but that means he’s entrenched. Well the Hippo coming full steam now, ready, will’an to fight. He seen me now. I watched him too. We took care of business at Killing Floor. Everyone doubted what I could do against the veteran Shadowlove. But true love prevailed, y’all, and here I stand with the chance to win a belt no one but a fool thinks I can win. Well, let me put down the law on that.
UCI thinks I am another one of dem kneelers. A black fist in a leather glove. Some black panther wannabe try’an to get himself in the papers. An Instagram filter for oppression. Crying Emoji’s in place of a Facebook ‘like’. They wonder how much has the Hippo really suffered. Sure bounced and had his nose broken by some POS swing a barstool. Kicked his A after that—but easy job making lots a’ dough. Protected Fr4Nzoi during his A-town recording. We rolled dirty up da 678, picking up girls and putting down Cîroc. Grey Goose got ‘em loose, but I stand here a different man. Hell, that B even named a club after me. Harry’s Harem got the best show on the east side. But that ain’t me, mane. I suffered for this dream. Left it all to be my own man—not some whack-ass brothah scoring poon and taking hits. I grew from that shit. Lifted myself from the garbage and returned home a better man.
UCI is the new Diderot. Poppa H in da house! But we ain’t gonna drop that bass yet. Oh no, there’s more history to pull out the damn attic. We jus’ outside Tobacco Road. You can feel them broken back on all the way down from New Jersey. I felt them crying. But that wasn’t me. Sure, we had our hard days of chopped cheese, hot weenies on a slice a’ white with hot sauce. Gotta put out the Crystal’s if you wanna have fun. As black and bad as that all is, peoples, Jack Schlongson got it worse, yo. We see the evil of man whenever we go. Yet I have allies. His people hide in the back rooms, the parlors swirling der’ cosmo all pretty-like. Jack don’ have the same kinda support. No people at his back. He needs the A-Town Crew like none other.
But we can’t get caught up the old wars. We got a fight now. The way I see it, he earned that belt deserves to be champ. That title don’ define Jack the Crack—but sure as hell get him respect. Hell, that B slick as Ghandi on that shit. Let me be the Abernathy to you march. We can do much good here, Jack, but first, you need to rise man. That title ain’t worth your greatness. You swing like a butterfly and kiss dis world goodnight. My history is there for all to see. UCI, shit mane, they wiped his run with our tag belts from da’ books. Mofo’s tried to take him out da picture. Now he back and better than ever. A dominant champion with his eyes set on more. Jack, let me be the chocolate bars to your new rainbow flag. Murtaugh and my Riggs, as we getting too old for dis shit. You want me to drop the bass—here’s what the people be waiting for. The Hippo knows why you fight, Jack. He respects your game. Dat runs deep, mane, blood deep. Let me push you up and as you pull to out da’ water. We both gonna rise on this one, baby.
In the ring, I ain’t gonna hold back a punch. You seen what I can do against that sexy demon Shadowlove. We forget the first one ‘cause that Tony Xaxier was a nobody. We here for the bright lights ‘cause under dat limelight, my brother, we bring good to this world. People get on your feet. Get off ya asses and cheer for my man, Jack the Crack Schlongson. Longest streak by far for a belt changing like this shitty fall weather. Cold one day, then sweating my balls off the next. Waking in cold sweats with GD cold. What’s up with that shit? Mane Jack, you got this whole company on fire. And you and me bout set this B ablaze. A-Town around the corner. Empire will rise and fall. But we da real housewives running this shit. You the top dun round here—even if the belts don’ say so. We got the Preecha on this side and the universe protected by L Verez. Me n’ You Jack, we gonna go farther than that. I say we pull the thing down. Make room for everyone, no matter who dey is or where dey come from.
You want that bass—oh it comma y’all—jus you wait. First, got to point the whole damn world on notice. The Hippo ain’t no flash in the pan. He stick round all day like bacon fat. When I become the new TV Champ, I promise to do you all right. To shed light on the wrong dis world think outta our sight. But y’all kids kno day score by now: Whites 1 million and counting. Colored folks on the other column like them whack-ass Generals. Winning that belt will change the odds. A challenge every week and a chance to show y’all what it means to change the world. So yeah, I might as well be kneeling after all dis’ shit over with, but I do for you, and especially you,” he says before dropping the megaphone.
Music grows to its highest peak. Then, with damn about burst open, Harry Diderot drop the bass hard and heavy.
Partygoers throw arms up as it rocks their souls.
November 3rd, 4:03 am
Harry Diderot sits on a porch couch with a couple nearby getting close and comfy. He swirls around his last beer of the night, when a familiar face plops down next him. Now free of her academic appearance, Amber the coed takes a seat to his right. One cushion separates them as she digs in the cooler for a cold Keystone. Her deep V and Duke zip-up hoodie surprise him more than the sound of a cracking can.
“Hey girl, didn’t think you’d be round.”
“I’m not a prude.”
“Yeah… so when you get here?”
“My roomies said there was some huge black dude giving a crazy speech. I knew it was you.”
“So you come to see me?”
She shrugs. “I have an afternoon shift at the Quick Mart. No reason to stay inside all night.”
“Yeah, I dig it.” Harry slouches back. “Dis ain’t your scene, is it?”
“Not really, but I have make sure my friends get back.”
“You handle that one?”
“I’ll be fine,” Amber says. “Not like I’ll finish it.”
“So… you gonna come to the show?”
“I have a boyfriend. But yes, we’re going.”
“Don’ get me wrong, Amber. You better than me.”
“What?”
“I mean it,” Harry says, turning to her. “I’m bad news outside this ring. You gotta look forward.”
“I am, but are you?”
“Sometimes…”
“Well, you don’t sound very happy about it.”
“This business ain’t easy. You think it all D and A, but you driv’an everyday.”
Amber had been texting the whole time, yet Harry only now noticed.
“Yo friends need a ride?”
“I drove them, actually. One’s upstairs sleeping it out. The other went home with her cousin.”
“Aight,” Harry says. “Gotta be careful dese places and drunk boys.”
She nods then looks up from her phone. “I pegged you wrong, Harry.”
“Nah, I came atch'a wrong. Now we even.”
“All right,” she says, smiling. “Say, can I get a vid?”
“Like what?”
“I wasn’t completely honest with you,” Amber says. “My family watches you guys.”
“No shit!”
“Yeah, it’d make my pa-pa’s day. He thinks you’re great.”
Harry puts down his drink and does a fast makeover. Now ready for a phone lens, he points for her to start shooting.
“Listen up, mane, this Harry Diderot. Wanna let cha’ know how fleek yo granddaughter is. She the best. Also, wanna send a message out to those punk ass siblings. Allen, you and yo sis got another thing coming if you keep acting up. You might feel invincible on da tweeda’ but we coming for you two. It might be me, could be Jack, or any other people you hassl’n online. Bully keep talking til they get their mouths shut. I’ll jack slap you the way yo daddy was supposed to. Have something to put in there, but I wanna keep this message PG13. Look down and you know. Your reign of being a pain in our asses is bout to come to an end.”
Amber can’t stop laughing. Before long, the exhausted shapes of Richie and Barney lure him away to an Uber. He waves to Amber once more before ducking into the back seat of a Toyota SUV. Before the driver pulls out, the door opens once more. Amber smiles—until Richie Diderot pops out to throw up on the street corner. Her mortified look is last he sees before heading back into the wild dead of night.
“Okay, we rolling? Great. Now Harry, you got the script right?”
“Yeah, Barn, I got it.”
“Richie, keep that lens straight.”
“I’m try’an.”
“Did ya get a tripod?”
“No, because Rich said he could handle. I swear, if this video looks tilted, I will come down upon you with great anger and vengeance.”
“Got da shot, Richie?”
A rented camera pans out to a crowded walkway with a classical backdrop. Coming from the pride of Durham, NC, Harry Diderot, his brother Richie and the pastor’s son, Barney Strong, film on the campus of Duke University. A tall spire paints the backdrop of its infamous Clocktower Quad. History rings at noon from its iconic clock tower, the site of many sporting and political rallies alike. Home to the Cameron Crazies before attending the second church at Indoor Stadium. Students pass in all manners of Duke athletic wears – some in non-team colors – while the trio films Harry’s remote.
“Who we gonna take?”
“Just pick someone young and excitable.”
Harry asks a lone coed ensconced to her cellphone.
“Name’s Harry Diderot. Friends call me Hippo.”
“That’s cool—”
“Say, baby, you like wrestling?”
She lowers her tinted glasses and looks his size over. Her yuppie vibe, pink cardigan and tight jeans, draws a close up. Side cues from Barney pan the shot to both Harry and the student.
“No, It’s trash.”
“Whad ‘bout me?”
“And who are you?”
“Come on, girl, I’m the Hippo.”
“Is this an interview?”
Barney steps in and to offer his own take.
“We are here promoting UCI Overload. You may not watch the program, but I guarantee hours of fun. But before we get to the show, we would like to ask a few questions about your experience on campus.”
“Sure,” she says with books placed to her chest, “is this going to be on TV?”
“Hell yeah," Richie says, grinning.
“Can we have your name?”
“It's Amber…”
“Nice to meet you Amber. First question: ‘Do you think diversity makes schools stronger?’”
“I feel an open enrollment helps. But without POC on campus, we might as well hang the Battle Flag again. You can’t learn about yourself without meeting people unlike you.”
Harry and Barney nod to each other. Their Duke gear, recent purchases from the bookstore, makes both stand out sore amongst the young students walking around them.
“Great answer. Okay, ‘Would you consider basketball a diversion, or, a way of life here?’”
“Are you kidding me?” she says, laughing. “It’s religion around here.”
“No doubt.”
“Last one, then you can be on your way: ‘How do you think an institution can exist without diversity? Because the sad truth is: many sorely do. Your thoughts?’”
Amber takes a moment, unbeknownst how badly Richie works her final close-up.
“Amber, we got ya back. No matter whatcha say.”
“Thanks, but, it’s not that hard to mention. People think that we aren’t oppressive denying others an opportunity. Even if you coexist without mixing tribes, and do so with a smile, that is still segregation. We can’t expect things to change until the doors open for everyone.”
“Damn, Amber… premium shit there.”
“‘I don't know what the future may hold, but I know who holds the future.’ Amber, do you know who said that?”
“Ralph David Abernathy?”
“That’s right.” Barney smiles wide. “What are you studying here?”
“Pre-law.”
“Well thanks for your time, Amber. Tell your friends to see Overload. We’ll be here all week.”
She leaves with Richie giving her a poorly executed panning shot. Barney pulls the camera back to Harry and him. Both look stoked by that exchange. Richie then closes in on the Hippo.
“Say sum’fan, H.”
“Mane, she kicked ass. Like a whole barrel of it.”
“A barrel?” Barney says, laughing. “When you approached her. She had your ass over one.”
“Nah, only nerves. Yups don’ run into brothers my size. Gets 'em all scared, Barn.”
“Keep telling yourself that one,” he says. “Come on. I have another idea.”
Early Morning of November 4th
Several hundred students have gathered in what can only be described the perfect storm of frat parties. Theses two adjacent parties have since bled into an über kegger. Between erected a makeshift turntable with a cocky dude in Beats® dropping sick bass. Mingling between these neighboring lawns roves Harry Diderot. His friend and brother Richie have disappeared within the mob. He calls out but changes his mind soon after. His size attracts a crowd – many of these students saw him earlier on campus and remembered his distinctive look. An invite to this part cemented an afternoon of long, incoherent discussions of equality across the campus. Of those parked around the Hippo, emerges a young man with a half-stroking face. Too many nati’s have the goateed prick feeling strong.
“Hey man,” the drunk says, “you want to go, bro?”
“Whatcha got against me?”
“You were on campus this morning. Out there baiting people.”
“No one baiting but you, mane. Bes step off my space.”
A second dude in a pink popped collar pulls his friend away before things get ugly. Harry continues through the party, trying everything from Jell-O shots to hooch mixed in a Rubermaid® container. Others passed him, assuming he played for the football team. Two random girls dropped numbers that promptly tossed out. Flirting was one thing. The Hippo always knows better than to taken that drunken backdoor. When eventually came upon Richie passing a roach between a bunch of kids ten years younger than him.
“What you doing, Big Boy?”
“Harry,” he says with a stupid grin, “hit dis shit.”
“Hell no. We leav’an soon, bro. Don’ get too comfy.”
“You driving?”
“Nah, Barn gonna hit up an Uber. Where he at, Rich?”
Richie points towards another group of coeds, mixed equally of race and gender, where the preacher’s son has assumed his usual shtick. A handheld Gideon open in hand, Barney gives his interpretation of some lesson. By his look, he can tell the preacher-boy has not enjoyed himself like the Diderot brothers have. Harry breaks up the lesson by stepping into their semicircle.
“Hey, it’s the Hippo. Everyone, have you met my good friend, Harry Diderot?”
“Ain’t here for that.”
“Then what’s up, cuz?”
“Richie all kinds fucked up. Need to split this scene, mane.”
“Come take a seat,” Barney says. “There’s room for more.”
Harry waves him off before rejoining the chaos now spilling over an entire city block. The crowd now looks more than a thousand thick and still growing. Knowing their mission was one of peace and fight hype for the company, Harry descends upon the turntable and its grooving DJ. One look makes him step back from the table. The Hippo then takes up a megaphone hidden behind some sort of preacher pulpit repurposed as CD and mixer storage.
“Ev’body, this place be jumping! But I got to tell you the good news!”
People gather as the song builds. Knowing some bits of art from his time bouncing, Harry keeps the tune mellow without a build. Dozens more flock to him and immediately get freaky to the sick beat. Once enough seem in shouting distance he takes up that megaphone again.
“Who going to Overload?” he says to a small cheer. Others chant “drop that shit” as the song builds slow and steady. “Oh we gonna drop it hard. First, I got something to say. And y’all need to hear me out.”
“Tell ‘em Hippo!” screams Richie while grinding between girls. They still have that athletic wear from the team-shop, although his brother came across a chip captain’s hat at some point during the last 5 – 10 minutes. “Break it down, Harry!”
“Before we get down to biz’nas, a word from our spiritual advisor.”
Everyone cheers to Barney Strong joining Harry at the turntables. A few scratches rewind to a mellow beat, giving the preacher’s son room to build his own.
“People of Durham, Cameron Crazies, we are the new era of UCI. Peel back the layers of the ring, and you find trailblazers like us. Hardnosed heavyweights like Joe Lewis, George Foreman, and the Great One, Muhammad Ali. Modern heroes like Iron Mike, de la Hoya and Lenox Lewis, redefining what we know of the ring. But what about those of a different breed. To that I mean professional wrestling. Now we know what you’re thinking: ‘Why would I care about that? Isn’t that stuff staged with no substance? Don’t they prey on stereotypes and promote white champions over hard fighting persons of color. Yes, but not anymore! We are here to change what your daddy and grand-pappy watched in the territories. To rock world like Dwayne Johnson and benchpress it to the heavens like Tony Atlas. Break the barrier like Ron Simmons with sexy steps of your native son, the Nature Boy, Rick Flair.
Just how do we change a constant thing? It begins in the seats. We need everyone to there for the show this week. Did we mention student tickers? Those will be available tomorrow morning—as number last. I’m told there will be 2,000 seats. So go out and grab those tomorrow. UCI needs your support. Come see this man, ‘Hippo’ Harry Diderot as he faces his toughest challenge yet. I’d tell you all about the Television Champion, but where’s the fun in that?
Here’s my benediction everyone: Be true to yourself. Accept nothing but the best for you and everyone. If you cannot change the person inside you, then how can you ever hope to enact change to this world? I beseech everyone to look for your inner light and let it shine, shine, shine. Now brutha, drop that bass!”
Harry scratches a few times letting it all build—when Richie charges to join them.
“Give it up for Richie Rich, ev’body! Go one mane, drop something sick!”
Unwisely, they hand the megaphone over to the dilating stare of Richie Diderot, whom stares before even more people than just a minute ago. He steadies himself on the pulpit. Harry pushes a few buttons until an OG beat replaces that epic house rhythm.
“Richie Rich got all da beef, coming at like killer keef
dab yo ass up to this, ain’t time for yo—”
Richie drops the horn in route to puking in a bush. Harry picks up steam with a new tune, spinning and scratching to a faster beat. Grinding continues with Barney tending to his brother. Their original DJ eggs him on from the side, begging the Hippo to drop that bass. He doesn’t.
“You heard the good word, now let me specify. Harry Diderot is going to be your new TV champ. Why, ‘cause I know what that belt means. Jack the Crack has been the champ like thrice the time I been on this roster, but that means he’s entrenched. Well the Hippo coming full steam now, ready, will’an to fight. He seen me now. I watched him too. We took care of business at Killing Floor. Everyone doubted what I could do against the veteran Shadowlove. But true love prevailed, y’all, and here I stand with the chance to win a belt no one but a fool thinks I can win. Well, let me put down the law on that.
UCI thinks I am another one of dem kneelers. A black fist in a leather glove. Some black panther wannabe try’an to get himself in the papers. An Instagram filter for oppression. Crying Emoji’s in place of a Facebook ‘like’. They wonder how much has the Hippo really suffered. Sure bounced and had his nose broken by some POS swing a barstool. Kicked his A after that—but easy job making lots a’ dough. Protected Fr4Nzoi during his A-town recording. We rolled dirty up da 678, picking up girls and putting down Cîroc. Grey Goose got ‘em loose, but I stand here a different man. Hell, that B even named a club after me. Harry’s Harem got the best show on the east side. But that ain’t me, mane. I suffered for this dream. Left it all to be my own man—not some whack-ass brothah scoring poon and taking hits. I grew from that shit. Lifted myself from the garbage and returned home a better man.
UCI is the new Diderot. Poppa H in da house! But we ain’t gonna drop that bass yet. Oh no, there’s more history to pull out the damn attic. We jus’ outside Tobacco Road. You can feel them broken back on all the way down from New Jersey. I felt them crying. But that wasn’t me. Sure, we had our hard days of chopped cheese, hot weenies on a slice a’ white with hot sauce. Gotta put out the Crystal’s if you wanna have fun. As black and bad as that all is, peoples, Jack Schlongson got it worse, yo. We see the evil of man whenever we go. Yet I have allies. His people hide in the back rooms, the parlors swirling der’ cosmo all pretty-like. Jack don’ have the same kinda support. No people at his back. He needs the A-Town Crew like none other.
But we can’t get caught up the old wars. We got a fight now. The way I see it, he earned that belt deserves to be champ. That title don’ define Jack the Crack—but sure as hell get him respect. Hell, that B slick as Ghandi on that shit. Let me be the Abernathy to you march. We can do much good here, Jack, but first, you need to rise man. That title ain’t worth your greatness. You swing like a butterfly and kiss dis world goodnight. My history is there for all to see. UCI, shit mane, they wiped his run with our tag belts from da’ books. Mofo’s tried to take him out da picture. Now he back and better than ever. A dominant champion with his eyes set on more. Jack, let me be the chocolate bars to your new rainbow flag. Murtaugh and my Riggs, as we getting too old for dis shit. You want me to drop the bass—here’s what the people be waiting for. The Hippo knows why you fight, Jack. He respects your game. Dat runs deep, mane, blood deep. Let me push you up and as you pull to out da’ water. We both gonna rise on this one, baby.
In the ring, I ain’t gonna hold back a punch. You seen what I can do against that sexy demon Shadowlove. We forget the first one ‘cause that Tony Xaxier was a nobody. We here for the bright lights ‘cause under dat limelight, my brother, we bring good to this world. People get on your feet. Get off ya asses and cheer for my man, Jack the Crack Schlongson. Longest streak by far for a belt changing like this shitty fall weather. Cold one day, then sweating my balls off the next. Waking in cold sweats with GD cold. What’s up with that shit? Mane Jack, you got this whole company on fire. And you and me bout set this B ablaze. A-Town around the corner. Empire will rise and fall. But we da real housewives running this shit. You the top dun round here—even if the belts don’ say so. We got the Preecha on this side and the universe protected by L Verez. Me n’ You Jack, we gonna go farther than that. I say we pull the thing down. Make room for everyone, no matter who dey is or where dey come from.
You want that bass—oh it comma y’all—jus you wait. First, got to point the whole damn world on notice. The Hippo ain’t no flash in the pan. He stick round all day like bacon fat. When I become the new TV Champ, I promise to do you all right. To shed light on the wrong dis world think outta our sight. But y’all kids kno day score by now: Whites 1 million and counting. Colored folks on the other column like them whack-ass Generals. Winning that belt will change the odds. A challenge every week and a chance to show y’all what it means to change the world. So yeah, I might as well be kneeling after all dis’ shit over with, but I do for you, and especially you,” he says before dropping the megaphone.
Music grows to its highest peak. Then, with damn about burst open, Harry Diderot drop the bass hard and heavy.
Partygoers throw arms up as it rocks their souls.
November 3rd, 4:03 am
Harry Diderot sits on a porch couch with a couple nearby getting close and comfy. He swirls around his last beer of the night, when a familiar face plops down next him. Now free of her academic appearance, Amber the coed takes a seat to his right. One cushion separates them as she digs in the cooler for a cold Keystone. Her deep V and Duke zip-up hoodie surprise him more than the sound of a cracking can.
“Hey girl, didn’t think you’d be round.”
“I’m not a prude.”
“Yeah… so when you get here?”
“My roomies said there was some huge black dude giving a crazy speech. I knew it was you.”
“So you come to see me?”
She shrugs. “I have an afternoon shift at the Quick Mart. No reason to stay inside all night.”
“Yeah, I dig it.” Harry slouches back. “Dis ain’t your scene, is it?”
“Not really, but I have make sure my friends get back.”
“You handle that one?”
“I’ll be fine,” Amber says. “Not like I’ll finish it.”
“So… you gonna come to the show?”
“I have a boyfriend. But yes, we’re going.”
“Don’ get me wrong, Amber. You better than me.”
“What?”
“I mean it,” Harry says, turning to her. “I’m bad news outside this ring. You gotta look forward.”
“I am, but are you?”
“Sometimes…”
“Well, you don’t sound very happy about it.”
“This business ain’t easy. You think it all D and A, but you driv’an everyday.”
Amber had been texting the whole time, yet Harry only now noticed.
“Yo friends need a ride?”
“I drove them, actually. One’s upstairs sleeping it out. The other went home with her cousin.”
“Aight,” Harry says. “Gotta be careful dese places and drunk boys.”
She nods then looks up from her phone. “I pegged you wrong, Harry.”
“Nah, I came atch'a wrong. Now we even.”
“All right,” she says, smiling. “Say, can I get a vid?”
“Like what?”
“I wasn’t completely honest with you,” Amber says. “My family watches you guys.”
“No shit!”
“Yeah, it’d make my pa-pa’s day. He thinks you’re great.”
Harry puts down his drink and does a fast makeover. Now ready for a phone lens, he points for her to start shooting.
“Listen up, mane, this Harry Diderot. Wanna let cha’ know how fleek yo granddaughter is. She the best. Also, wanna send a message out to those punk ass siblings. Allen, you and yo sis got another thing coming if you keep acting up. You might feel invincible on da tweeda’ but we coming for you two. It might be me, could be Jack, or any other people you hassl’n online. Bully keep talking til they get their mouths shut. I’ll jack slap you the way yo daddy was supposed to. Have something to put in there, but I wanna keep this message PG13. Look down and you know. Your reign of being a pain in our asses is bout to come to an end.”
Amber can’t stop laughing. Before long, the exhausted shapes of Richie and Barney lure him away to an Uber. He waves to Amber once more before ducking into the back seat of a Toyota SUV. Before the driver pulls out, the door opens once more. Amber smiles—until Richie Diderot pops out to throw up on the street corner. Her mortified look is last he sees before heading back into the wild dead of night.
