Post by hippoharry on Nov 11, 2017 4:43:19 GMT -6
November 11, Diane Nash Technical High School
Students of the split grade school (10 - 12) sit in droves in the cafetorium. Teachers float about the mostly black audience of teen boys and girls of the tech school. Fluids for various trades stain their clothes, making for a tired yet excited audience eager to do anything but classwork. A banner strings between support pillars proclaiming, “Be a Friend Week” in big multicolored letters. Their principal come front center next to a microphone stand. She has a plaid suit combo with hair almost as frilly as her white blouse. She taps the mic twice to a feedback screech.
“All right, all right. Calm down everyone,” she says. “We have guests today. And they’re going to talk you about the dangers of bullying. So without any more words from me, give it up for Jackeline Bradley, vice-president for Memphis Life and Auto!”
Mild applause summons a young black professional in a slate suit. It looks off the rack but her accessories sell it as something much more expensive. Flat-ironed hair gives her the look of a first-class flight attendant and the satin neck scarf completes this popping look. A drag bag sets up her easel with several cardboard signs.
“I am so happy to talk you kids today,” she says with a smile. “I mean, you ambitious young adults. I am currently an advisor to the board of education, and we wanted to do something that would help you all when facing the workplace. I know you seniors have big dreams in mind. And we want you to dream! But when it comes to the workplace, nothing kills a good idea like bad chemistry. Do you hear what I’m saying? Or should we get this place… turnt, up?”
Silence falls crushingly on the room. She continues with a presentation on the factors of professional relationships. Student volunteers give to a begrudging performance of situations in an office, where bullying can take place. Two girls are asked to gossip and the last one comes into the picture. Freeze frame and audience participation discusses how to use Ms. Bradley’s tools to success. In these, students learn the values of making professional friendships and supporting the coworkers for the best results. She then makes a quick exit with all those visual aids tucked under her arm. Even milder applause follows her out of sight and through a side door. Student return their ruckus until their principal takes the microphone again.
“Wasn’t that great?” she says despite students getting unruly again. “Well, we have a treat for you all. Can we give a big Cougars welcome to our next guest. He’s a professional wrestler, body builder and self-proclaimed healer of all ages. Give your hands up for “the Hippo” Harry Diderot!”
Free Hip-hop beats announce the appearance of Harry Diderot dressed in white slacks, a tight red shirt and a white scorpion jacket based off the one from Drive. His rough appearance and size catches the room by surprise. Some look excited, but most seem bored with hands weighing down their wrists. He takes the mic off its stand and goes straight from 1 to 10.
“Diane Nash High, where you at?” he says to a few screaming voices. “Aight, a good start. As they say, I’m the Hippo, Harry Diderot, and I come here to make a change to your lives. Now I may be on TV every week fighting for the UCI, but ain’t never been above peoples. Nah mane, my brand always been bout the people.”
That takes control of the audience even though so many look bored to tears.
“Listen up, y’all, cause we about to get this place popping. How bout another hand Ms. Bradley. You kno she flew from Dallas to talk to you kids. Give her a big one, I know you can.”
They clap like a bunch of zombies. Harry then gets a long, excited breath.
“We here to address a big problem. Huge problem at y’alls level, bullying. Can’t begin to tell you where ya wrong if ya start doing that. Yo mammas ain’t want a bully under their roof. Didn’t raise no bully. How bout we make a promise to stomp it all out? Whatcha say?”
Most nod and join in a monotone “yes” with him breathing hard at the mic.
“I knew you might not see dat big picture. So here’s a victim telling his side,” he says. “Bout to raise some noise for my number one boy, my brother Richie. Give him a hand, y’all.”
Mild applause welcomes Richie Diderot to his brother’s side. He dances a bit to a dirtier theme than what Harry came out to, working up a sweat too. His denim and long tee combo make for a street appearance, not like Harry’s yuppie look. They share the mic to a shuffling audience.
“Richie Rich,” Harry says, holding the mic like a reporter, “you seen this before?”
“Yeah mane, people got on me hard in high school. Almost failed.”
“Yo, why dude? Ain’t you want a good job. Don wanna work at Mickie D’s.”
“I know,” he says softer than before. “Hard being me, Harry. E’ry day, people get on ya case. They hated and called me bad names. Got to say, it hurt mane. Even thought of suicide once. But I looked to God and he done told me what to do: rise up and be a better man.”
“Before God, you was in trouble though?”
"Yeah, Diddy, lots a’ trouble. Can’t hide from your haters, cause they find you. And dis before the internet y’all. We talking face-to-face threats. Face-to-face words from good kids. They turned on me cause I ain’t fought back. It went on for years. Only God kept me in dis game, but it never had to be that way. Them kids could have been my friends. Instead, dey broke me down,” he says welling with tears. “You know what it like to dread coming to school. Ya wanna be here, but bad kids be up your grill the second y’all come inside. Jus wanna go somewhere else. To hide where dey can’ find you. Guess what – they always did.”
“So you under fire every day. Why not tell a teacher?”
"Ya don’ snitch,” Richie says while cleaning his eyes. “That get you killed where we come from. Bet y’all better than them kids, but you still don’ snitch.”
This confession has most of those kids silent, watching to see what might happen next.
“So what you do to survive, Richie?”
“Well HD,” he says, “did what anybody do, talk it out. Make friends with good people. When you make a friend, you lose a bully. Sound hard from here, but it worked for me. Make two friends and dey can’ getch you. Rep good people and them bad eggs got nothing.”
“You kick some as – I mean, you beat any of them up?”
He laughs. “Harry, ya can’ beat up everybody. Never make it out alive. I had good friends and dey watched my back. Get nuf people and never need ta fight. Catch my drift, y’all.”
“That’s right,” Harry says with mic to his face now. “Don’ underestimate a good friend. BFF’s ya best tool for bullies. Friends never leave people behind. You gotta commit to being cool with others. Bullies think they above the law – they ain’t. They jus another problem.” He lets the mic settle, when a feedback loop screeches again. “Now y’all wanna see some real strength?”
Harry presses play on the boom box, setting off another gangsta beat. Richie brings out a duffle bag with random items inside. The first is a gimmicked phonebook, which he then rips in half. Students go crazy when takes some cheap, aluminum frying pan and rolls it up like a newspaper. Another tune, something fast with a sick bass beat, goes as he does rope tricks like Balboa. Speed and consecutive jumps have the whole place pumped. He and Richie then take front and center to announce their slogan.
“Harry, what should I do when I feel alone?”
“Yo mane, make a friend.”
“What about them hard days?”
“Hard days pass,” he says. “Lumps make you stronger, Richie.”
Then together: “So be a friend, not the problem, boooyy!”
Mild applause sends them back to that side room, where Jackeline Bradley packs her things in a meticulous order. She spots the Diderot brothers while zipping up her drag bag.
“Nice speech,” she says, “if you want to sell cheap CDs.”
“Whatcha you mean, gir?” says Richie. “We had them kids bopping.”
“You didn’t have them “bopping,” she says. “They’re enjoying time out of class.”
“Forget that. They just saw a legend on the rise.”
“I realize on your shows it makes for a new voice. But in real life, kids, it never ends that simple. You can’t pray on a friend and hope all goes well. Bullying is everywhere.” She finishes collapsing the easel before turning to the brothers Diderot. “Social media breeds more pain than a schoolyard can ever dream. These kids endure more every year with loss of privacy. Don’t you get it, Mr. Diderot? We have to be an example, not just the good.”
“We get you, girl—”
“I’m married. I have two sons and a daughter in college,” she says. “I’m not yo girl.”
“Mz. Bradley,” Harry says getting between them, “Richie only wanted to be sure you understood what we looking to do for them kids. They need role models.”
“Harry, if you want to be a role model. Improve yourself in ways that don’t involve weights or wrestling.” She takes a long breath. “If Richie and you truly want to be part of the solution, hit the streets where they hurt. We have these walls under control. Impresses kids driven for a career won’t make a huge impact. They need teachers and professional advice. You two belong where the voices of gangs, drugs and failed athletics turn young black kids against the world.”
“We didn’ mean to piss you off—”
“Oh, I’m not pissed, Mr. Diderot,” she says with a straight face, “I’m keeping it real. The problems facing young black kids is bigger than anything we can address in one assembly. You need to find a podium so large that everyone has to stop and pay attention. Here is another fading experience.”
“And why you helping us?” Richie says. “After we gone against what ya told them kids?”
“Because as hard I try to fill my son, Terrell, with good messages. Something gets in the way.” She makes a quick text then continues. “He watched you win a title. You are his hero. The father and I divorced years ago. they watch your show… what’s it called?”
“Overload?”
“Right, and the boys want to be like you. No one else captures their imagination like “the Hippo” Harry Diderot,” she says while reading another text. “I’d rather say more, but they need me back at the office, Mr. Diderot. So here’s all I need to tell you. My son thinks you are a god. He records trach talk on his phone. And as cute as that is, Harry, you are the sole person in his life right now. Kids lose and gain interest by the month—and you are the current flavor. Simply put, if you ever fill his head with anything but good things. If you betray his trust and get on the bad side of the news, drugs or whatever, I will personally take you down. You never get between a mother and her cubs. Do understand me, Mr. Diderot?”
“Yeah,” he says with a blank expression, “we cool.”
“Good,” she says out the door. “Oh… can I get a quick pic? For my son, of course.”
“You got it, Mz Bradley.”
That selfie is the first of nearly two hundred taken with Harry and Grits N’ Gravy during what turns out to be an intense showing of young fans. It trends for a mere ten minutes before fading back into the cellar of internet-based garbage. But those brothers Diderot leave the school content and filled new purpose. For nothing straights a man like a principled mother.
November 11, the Lorraine Motel
Harry Diderot, unaccompanied, walks into frame by a now infamous sign. He wears an all-black suit, tie, dress shirt and un-shined shoes. He stands by the sign like a security guard with a sunny glint hitting those blacked-out frames.
“You catching this, Richie?”
“Ya, H, give ‘em the sweet stuff.”
“How we feeling, UCI, on this day of remembrance. We know soldiers in our lives and pay dem respect,” he says with crossed hands. “But Tennessee is more than a battlefield. Civil War saw brothers die. Families torn apart. Military heroes come from dese counties. None bigger than Alvin C. York. Dat badass took a German platoon by him damn self. We focus on prisoners, not kills, cause that BAMF took a 130 prisoner. Others fought wid distinction earning multiple medals of honor—ain’t talking bout no video game either. Real heroes dying for our country,” he whips a hand and makes a solid salute. “God bless dem boys, no matter what colors dey wear.”
“Bro, you got me crying, mane.”
“Keep the sign in shot,” he points towards the Lorraine Motel memorial. “Others fell in the fight for somethan other than war. Look up to my right,” he says, directing Richie to a Plexiglas display cut from a motel room on the second level. “On that railing, we lost another great soldier. MLK gave his life on dem steps, changing our world forever. When Spencer Adams announced Tennessee as our next stop, I knew dis would be out statement to the world. Where the trenches dug deep and the world began a new era… one in the King’s memory.”
Harry points towards the site once more and then looks back to the camera.
“I always want this place to keep perspective,” Harry says. “We be fightan’ for you, UCI, and it ain’t gonna be easy. But God lit that path to the promised land. For I stand before you the newest Television Champion. Hard work got me this far an I ain’t done yet.” He bends down off screen and retrieves his belt from the sidewalk. “People stood here in a time of crisis. Dey knew a great man had fallen, but so many stood by to carry his torch. Now I ain’t gonna say me or Grits n’ Gravy ever gonna be that worthy. You see me here because more warriors die er’ryday for causes we don’ see. Mr. King was of exception in a time of oppressed brothers and sisters. We had nothing then… but when I look there and see the belt UCI knows I deserve, they get woke to what really happening ‘round this place. We see the future dat great soldier set so that I can be here today.” Harry reaches into his suit pocket to find a black glove. “In honor of the fallen, ain’t gonna be no ribbons on my lapel. Today, we suit for the good word. We prepare for a new world where a black man can be your champ and not live in fear. But we got more work to do in his name. Bullies want to stop us, y’all, an we ain’t gonna stand for that shit. We gonna rise above.”
“Damn straight, Harry!”
Diderot slips on a single black glove then cradles his fingers.
“Bullies be ‘round er’ry corner. None more so than Allen Walker. Guess I start by thanking you, but ain’t point in that. You jus bent on being you. This title got ya punch-drunk an you do anything to get you damn hands on it. Didn see you take out Jack the Crack, but I do believe, the good lawd provides for those whom serve him right. Time after time, Jack’s crew stole that match from me. I had it within my grasp, only to have the take it all away. Fortunes went his way and I dem rafters, heard people chantan’ my name. Then the music hit an thought it all over. Game over, mane, game. over. Then sumt’an happened. I came to my feet and that gorgeous foo was down for the count. I did what any would in my case. I survived.”
Harry adjusts takes his sunglass off to look into the camera. He motions for a close up.
“How much, H?”
“Jus my face, Richie. Wanna look this turkey in the eyes.”
“Da fuk man,” he giggles off camera. “Gotchu.”
“I wanna face Allen Walker and tell him what in store this week. See, he think this gonna be a cake walk. That his mission to the belt will make him complete. Sorry son, you in da wrong neighborhood. You fight yourself and attack others til you feel good. Ain’t no avenue where you don prove yo’self a petty, manipulative little shit. You even use ya own flesh and blood as the ladder to get ya here. Cause deep down, in that place grayer than jolly ole’ England, you know that people like your sister better. It tears you apart. So you compete and push them all away. Gots to know the value of family,” he says. “Richie Rich, keep dat view on me.”
“Sorry mane,” says the voice of Richie. The camera wobbles back into place after staring down a purple Dodge Charger that had rumbled down the street. “Keep going, HD,"
“Gotta learn the value of family. They ain’t some stepping stool, Allen, they air beneath yo’ winds. You will never get close to this belt until you understand that. Embrace what yo family can do for you. As is, y’all jus stuck fighting each other for the mountaintop. Ain’t no blueprint for success, mane, you gotta get that shit fixed. Cause no mic, camera or Twitter rant gonna prove you a better man than anyone on this roster till you get your life in order. Feel me?”
“Show ‘em da belt, Harry!”
Diderot flashes the belt then slaps it over his shoulder.
“Television Champion got a good ring to it… come Monday, you gonnna find out why I surged to where I am. A main-eventer after two matches. Allen, you spend all this time using people to get up dat food chain, when you there, ya gonna find a lot bigger fish waiting. You going prime time with the Hippo. I got people behind me… in the stands and round the world behind TV screens, phones, laptops and anywhere you access video. They wanna see Harry Diderot cause I do the people right. Don need no cheap tricks to get ahead. John Henry gonna swing! swing! swing! his hammer down. Allen Walker, gots to say it now so you don’ forget, you ain’t got a soul to your back. Thuglife rule #1: Always bring ya people – else you gonna get stomped out!”
Harry then flashes a power fist with his one black glove.
“Power of the people beats the power of one. See Monday, son, cause it’s time for whoop ass.”
Students of the split grade school (10 - 12) sit in droves in the cafetorium. Teachers float about the mostly black audience of teen boys and girls of the tech school. Fluids for various trades stain their clothes, making for a tired yet excited audience eager to do anything but classwork. A banner strings between support pillars proclaiming, “Be a Friend Week” in big multicolored letters. Their principal come front center next to a microphone stand. She has a plaid suit combo with hair almost as frilly as her white blouse. She taps the mic twice to a feedback screech.
“All right, all right. Calm down everyone,” she says. “We have guests today. And they’re going to talk you about the dangers of bullying. So without any more words from me, give it up for Jackeline Bradley, vice-president for Memphis Life and Auto!”
Mild applause summons a young black professional in a slate suit. It looks off the rack but her accessories sell it as something much more expensive. Flat-ironed hair gives her the look of a first-class flight attendant and the satin neck scarf completes this popping look. A drag bag sets up her easel with several cardboard signs.
“I am so happy to talk you kids today,” she says with a smile. “I mean, you ambitious young adults. I am currently an advisor to the board of education, and we wanted to do something that would help you all when facing the workplace. I know you seniors have big dreams in mind. And we want you to dream! But when it comes to the workplace, nothing kills a good idea like bad chemistry. Do you hear what I’m saying? Or should we get this place… turnt, up?”
Silence falls crushingly on the room. She continues with a presentation on the factors of professional relationships. Student volunteers give to a begrudging performance of situations in an office, where bullying can take place. Two girls are asked to gossip and the last one comes into the picture. Freeze frame and audience participation discusses how to use Ms. Bradley’s tools to success. In these, students learn the values of making professional friendships and supporting the coworkers for the best results. She then makes a quick exit with all those visual aids tucked under her arm. Even milder applause follows her out of sight and through a side door. Student return their ruckus until their principal takes the microphone again.
“Wasn’t that great?” she says despite students getting unruly again. “Well, we have a treat for you all. Can we give a big Cougars welcome to our next guest. He’s a professional wrestler, body builder and self-proclaimed healer of all ages. Give your hands up for “the Hippo” Harry Diderot!”
Free Hip-hop beats announce the appearance of Harry Diderot dressed in white slacks, a tight red shirt and a white scorpion jacket based off the one from Drive. His rough appearance and size catches the room by surprise. Some look excited, but most seem bored with hands weighing down their wrists. He takes the mic off its stand and goes straight from 1 to 10.
“Diane Nash High, where you at?” he says to a few screaming voices. “Aight, a good start. As they say, I’m the Hippo, Harry Diderot, and I come here to make a change to your lives. Now I may be on TV every week fighting for the UCI, but ain’t never been above peoples. Nah mane, my brand always been bout the people.”
That takes control of the audience even though so many look bored to tears.
“Listen up, y’all, cause we about to get this place popping. How bout another hand Ms. Bradley. You kno she flew from Dallas to talk to you kids. Give her a big one, I know you can.”
They clap like a bunch of zombies. Harry then gets a long, excited breath.
“We here to address a big problem. Huge problem at y’alls level, bullying. Can’t begin to tell you where ya wrong if ya start doing that. Yo mammas ain’t want a bully under their roof. Didn’t raise no bully. How bout we make a promise to stomp it all out? Whatcha say?”
Most nod and join in a monotone “yes” with him breathing hard at the mic.
“I knew you might not see dat big picture. So here’s a victim telling his side,” he says. “Bout to raise some noise for my number one boy, my brother Richie. Give him a hand, y’all.”
Mild applause welcomes Richie Diderot to his brother’s side. He dances a bit to a dirtier theme than what Harry came out to, working up a sweat too. His denim and long tee combo make for a street appearance, not like Harry’s yuppie look. They share the mic to a shuffling audience.
“Richie Rich,” Harry says, holding the mic like a reporter, “you seen this before?”
“Yeah mane, people got on me hard in high school. Almost failed.”
“Yo, why dude? Ain’t you want a good job. Don wanna work at Mickie D’s.”
“I know,” he says softer than before. “Hard being me, Harry. E’ry day, people get on ya case. They hated and called me bad names. Got to say, it hurt mane. Even thought of suicide once. But I looked to God and he done told me what to do: rise up and be a better man.”
“Before God, you was in trouble though?”
"Yeah, Diddy, lots a’ trouble. Can’t hide from your haters, cause they find you. And dis before the internet y’all. We talking face-to-face threats. Face-to-face words from good kids. They turned on me cause I ain’t fought back. It went on for years. Only God kept me in dis game, but it never had to be that way. Them kids could have been my friends. Instead, dey broke me down,” he says welling with tears. “You know what it like to dread coming to school. Ya wanna be here, but bad kids be up your grill the second y’all come inside. Jus wanna go somewhere else. To hide where dey can’ find you. Guess what – they always did.”
“So you under fire every day. Why not tell a teacher?”
"Ya don’ snitch,” Richie says while cleaning his eyes. “That get you killed where we come from. Bet y’all better than them kids, but you still don’ snitch.”
This confession has most of those kids silent, watching to see what might happen next.
“So what you do to survive, Richie?”
“Well HD,” he says, “did what anybody do, talk it out. Make friends with good people. When you make a friend, you lose a bully. Sound hard from here, but it worked for me. Make two friends and dey can’ getch you. Rep good people and them bad eggs got nothing.”
“You kick some as – I mean, you beat any of them up?”
He laughs. “Harry, ya can’ beat up everybody. Never make it out alive. I had good friends and dey watched my back. Get nuf people and never need ta fight. Catch my drift, y’all.”
“That’s right,” Harry says with mic to his face now. “Don’ underestimate a good friend. BFF’s ya best tool for bullies. Friends never leave people behind. You gotta commit to being cool with others. Bullies think they above the law – they ain’t. They jus another problem.” He lets the mic settle, when a feedback loop screeches again. “Now y’all wanna see some real strength?”
Harry presses play on the boom box, setting off another gangsta beat. Richie brings out a duffle bag with random items inside. The first is a gimmicked phonebook, which he then rips in half. Students go crazy when takes some cheap, aluminum frying pan and rolls it up like a newspaper. Another tune, something fast with a sick bass beat, goes as he does rope tricks like Balboa. Speed and consecutive jumps have the whole place pumped. He and Richie then take front and center to announce their slogan.
“Harry, what should I do when I feel alone?”
“Yo mane, make a friend.”
“What about them hard days?”
“Hard days pass,” he says. “Lumps make you stronger, Richie.”
Then together: “So be a friend, not the problem, boooyy!”
Mild applause sends them back to that side room, where Jackeline Bradley packs her things in a meticulous order. She spots the Diderot brothers while zipping up her drag bag.
“Nice speech,” she says, “if you want to sell cheap CDs.”
“Whatcha you mean, gir?” says Richie. “We had them kids bopping.”
“You didn’t have them “bopping,” she says. “They’re enjoying time out of class.”
“Forget that. They just saw a legend on the rise.”
“I realize on your shows it makes for a new voice. But in real life, kids, it never ends that simple. You can’t pray on a friend and hope all goes well. Bullying is everywhere.” She finishes collapsing the easel before turning to the brothers Diderot. “Social media breeds more pain than a schoolyard can ever dream. These kids endure more every year with loss of privacy. Don’t you get it, Mr. Diderot? We have to be an example, not just the good.”
“We get you, girl—”
“I’m married. I have two sons and a daughter in college,” she says. “I’m not yo girl.”
“Mz. Bradley,” Harry says getting between them, “Richie only wanted to be sure you understood what we looking to do for them kids. They need role models.”
“Harry, if you want to be a role model. Improve yourself in ways that don’t involve weights or wrestling.” She takes a long breath. “If Richie and you truly want to be part of the solution, hit the streets where they hurt. We have these walls under control. Impresses kids driven for a career won’t make a huge impact. They need teachers and professional advice. You two belong where the voices of gangs, drugs and failed athletics turn young black kids against the world.”
“We didn’ mean to piss you off—”
“Oh, I’m not pissed, Mr. Diderot,” she says with a straight face, “I’m keeping it real. The problems facing young black kids is bigger than anything we can address in one assembly. You need to find a podium so large that everyone has to stop and pay attention. Here is another fading experience.”
“And why you helping us?” Richie says. “After we gone against what ya told them kids?”
“Because as hard I try to fill my son, Terrell, with good messages. Something gets in the way.” She makes a quick text then continues. “He watched you win a title. You are his hero. The father and I divorced years ago. they watch your show… what’s it called?”
“Overload?”
“Right, and the boys want to be like you. No one else captures their imagination like “the Hippo” Harry Diderot,” she says while reading another text. “I’d rather say more, but they need me back at the office, Mr. Diderot. So here’s all I need to tell you. My son thinks you are a god. He records trach talk on his phone. And as cute as that is, Harry, you are the sole person in his life right now. Kids lose and gain interest by the month—and you are the current flavor. Simply put, if you ever fill his head with anything but good things. If you betray his trust and get on the bad side of the news, drugs or whatever, I will personally take you down. You never get between a mother and her cubs. Do understand me, Mr. Diderot?”
“Yeah,” he says with a blank expression, “we cool.”
“Good,” she says out the door. “Oh… can I get a quick pic? For my son, of course.”
“You got it, Mz Bradley.”
That selfie is the first of nearly two hundred taken with Harry and Grits N’ Gravy during what turns out to be an intense showing of young fans. It trends for a mere ten minutes before fading back into the cellar of internet-based garbage. But those brothers Diderot leave the school content and filled new purpose. For nothing straights a man like a principled mother.
November 11, the Lorraine Motel
Harry Diderot, unaccompanied, walks into frame by a now infamous sign. He wears an all-black suit, tie, dress shirt and un-shined shoes. He stands by the sign like a security guard with a sunny glint hitting those blacked-out frames.
“You catching this, Richie?”
“Ya, H, give ‘em the sweet stuff.”
“How we feeling, UCI, on this day of remembrance. We know soldiers in our lives and pay dem respect,” he says with crossed hands. “But Tennessee is more than a battlefield. Civil War saw brothers die. Families torn apart. Military heroes come from dese counties. None bigger than Alvin C. York. Dat badass took a German platoon by him damn self. We focus on prisoners, not kills, cause that BAMF took a 130 prisoner. Others fought wid distinction earning multiple medals of honor—ain’t talking bout no video game either. Real heroes dying for our country,” he whips a hand and makes a solid salute. “God bless dem boys, no matter what colors dey wear.”
“Bro, you got me crying, mane.”
“Keep the sign in shot,” he points towards the Lorraine Motel memorial. “Others fell in the fight for somethan other than war. Look up to my right,” he says, directing Richie to a Plexiglas display cut from a motel room on the second level. “On that railing, we lost another great soldier. MLK gave his life on dem steps, changing our world forever. When Spencer Adams announced Tennessee as our next stop, I knew dis would be out statement to the world. Where the trenches dug deep and the world began a new era… one in the King’s memory.”
Harry points towards the site once more and then looks back to the camera.
“I always want this place to keep perspective,” Harry says. “We be fightan’ for you, UCI, and it ain’t gonna be easy. But God lit that path to the promised land. For I stand before you the newest Television Champion. Hard work got me this far an I ain’t done yet.” He bends down off screen and retrieves his belt from the sidewalk. “People stood here in a time of crisis. Dey knew a great man had fallen, but so many stood by to carry his torch. Now I ain’t gonna say me or Grits n’ Gravy ever gonna be that worthy. You see me here because more warriors die er’ryday for causes we don’ see. Mr. King was of exception in a time of oppressed brothers and sisters. We had nothing then… but when I look there and see the belt UCI knows I deserve, they get woke to what really happening ‘round this place. We see the future dat great soldier set so that I can be here today.” Harry reaches into his suit pocket to find a black glove. “In honor of the fallen, ain’t gonna be no ribbons on my lapel. Today, we suit for the good word. We prepare for a new world where a black man can be your champ and not live in fear. But we got more work to do in his name. Bullies want to stop us, y’all, an we ain’t gonna stand for that shit. We gonna rise above.”
“Damn straight, Harry!”
Diderot slips on a single black glove then cradles his fingers.
“Bullies be ‘round er’ry corner. None more so than Allen Walker. Guess I start by thanking you, but ain’t point in that. You jus bent on being you. This title got ya punch-drunk an you do anything to get you damn hands on it. Didn see you take out Jack the Crack, but I do believe, the good lawd provides for those whom serve him right. Time after time, Jack’s crew stole that match from me. I had it within my grasp, only to have the take it all away. Fortunes went his way and I dem rafters, heard people chantan’ my name. Then the music hit an thought it all over. Game over, mane, game. over. Then sumt’an happened. I came to my feet and that gorgeous foo was down for the count. I did what any would in my case. I survived.”
Harry adjusts takes his sunglass off to look into the camera. He motions for a close up.
“How much, H?”
“Jus my face, Richie. Wanna look this turkey in the eyes.”
“Da fuk man,” he giggles off camera. “Gotchu.”
“I wanna face Allen Walker and tell him what in store this week. See, he think this gonna be a cake walk. That his mission to the belt will make him complete. Sorry son, you in da wrong neighborhood. You fight yourself and attack others til you feel good. Ain’t no avenue where you don prove yo’self a petty, manipulative little shit. You even use ya own flesh and blood as the ladder to get ya here. Cause deep down, in that place grayer than jolly ole’ England, you know that people like your sister better. It tears you apart. So you compete and push them all away. Gots to know the value of family,” he says. “Richie Rich, keep dat view on me.”
“Sorry mane,” says the voice of Richie. The camera wobbles back into place after staring down a purple Dodge Charger that had rumbled down the street. “Keep going, HD,"
“Gotta learn the value of family. They ain’t some stepping stool, Allen, they air beneath yo’ winds. You will never get close to this belt until you understand that. Embrace what yo family can do for you. As is, y’all jus stuck fighting each other for the mountaintop. Ain’t no blueprint for success, mane, you gotta get that shit fixed. Cause no mic, camera or Twitter rant gonna prove you a better man than anyone on this roster till you get your life in order. Feel me?”
“Show ‘em da belt, Harry!”
Diderot flashes the belt then slaps it over his shoulder.
“Television Champion got a good ring to it… come Monday, you gonnna find out why I surged to where I am. A main-eventer after two matches. Allen, you spend all this time using people to get up dat food chain, when you there, ya gonna find a lot bigger fish waiting. You going prime time with the Hippo. I got people behind me… in the stands and round the world behind TV screens, phones, laptops and anywhere you access video. They wanna see Harry Diderot cause I do the people right. Don need no cheap tricks to get ahead. John Henry gonna swing! swing! swing! his hammer down. Allen Walker, gots to say it now so you don’ forget, you ain’t got a soul to your back. Thuglife rule #1: Always bring ya people – else you gonna get stomped out!”
Harry then flashes a power fist with his one black glove.
“Power of the people beats the power of one. See Monday, son, cause it’s time for whoop ass.”
