Post by hippoharry on Nov 17, 2017 20:27:50 GMT -6
Pizza Palace outside Jackson, Tenn.
An average pizza shack keeps a quiet profile for the TV Champion, Harry Diderot, and his closest friends, Barney Strong and Richie Diderot. A half-eaten pizza sits over an empty dining room with checkered placemats and Italianate wallpaper. They have sodas while laughing their asses off over something Richie just said. The TV Title hides under the table on an open seat next the Hippo. The waitress then drops by with their check.
“Here ya are, dearies,” she says while taking up empty drinks. “You pay that when y’all ready.”
“Thanks,” Barney says with his hand on the receipt.
“What you do’an, mane?”
“My part,” he tells Harry.
“Bro, my contract is 90gs.”
“Before taxes. Just let me help at some, Harry.”
Richie watches shaking his head while chilling to something on his phone. A tug-of-war between them ends with Barney swiping the bill from their gravy bowl.
“Fine, but I got the tip.”
“All right,” Barney says, throwing down about twenty in fives.
The waitress comes back, but this time, she has a line cook, a tall blonde guy with a lot of tattoos, and the owner, a short, balding guy with a goatee, at her side. She introduces them as “Toby” and “Mr. Trumbo” while holding her flip phone out.
“Yea girl, y’all want a selfie?”
“Something for the wall,” says the owner. “We get you guys’ PPVs, well, the big ones. Make us a lot of business too.”
“Sure thing.”
Harry outweighs and towers over them all at 6’6” height, making him the direct center of a photo containing all three of these pizza workers. Richie takes the photo on their phone and his own.
“Sweet pic y’all,” Richie says. “That ones go’an on our Instagram.”
“Well thanks for coming fellas,” says the waitress.
She then sees the tip as all three head out. They pile into Harry’s SUV and head down the road to Tupelo. Richie kicks his feet up while digging into the pizza box. A quick word from Harry gets his brother’s hand out of the box and back to conversation heating up between Barney and him.
“Look, mane, I’m trying to get you guys back in.”
“Did Spencer give any idea to when this suspension may be lifted?”
“Dun pissed him off,” Harry says. “We gotta do this shit on the DL.”
“Why he after us?”
“Richie, don’t worry about it. Just go back to your games.”
“No Barn, we ain’t 2nd class,” Richie says. “I wanna be there for my brother.”
“What about Jack and those Walker kids? Both sides have ruined your matches over the last two shows,” Barney says. “How much longer until someone comes for you? It’s obvious by now that Spencer doesn’t care about you or these matches.”
“Barn, I’m TV champ,” Harry says. “I draw hot money, aimiright?”
“This isn’t about money, Harry. You are a marked man whether you accept that or not,” Barney says. “If you can’t handle talks of security, then you aren’t ready to be a champ. At least, not for long. Because someone, somewhere, wants that belt more than you do.”
“You done?”
“Yeah, I’m done.”
Dat Hot Shoot
Barney Strong stands in front of a brick wall somewhere in the city of Jackson, Tenn. He wears his usual soapbox gear of a preacher’s suit, off the Penny’s rack, and colorful kufi hat. Footage seems poor in production, taken from a loose tripod.
“Our absence from the Hippo’s side has many wondering ‘what happened to the A-Town Crew’ – among other things. Our presence has not yet been felt as the earthshattering scene of our main man, Harry Diderot. Our absence was imposed after the chief of this company, Spencer Adams. We are not on a course to dethrone 1%’ers – quite the opposite, so long as he does not stand in the way of progress. ATC represents more than Harry’s backup, we are his strategizers—generals behind the scenes—helping him from ring to ring. Some think him stupid or aloof. That couldn’t be any more wrong. Our man came to UCI because he had a dream to bring an unseen world into view. Voice to fat, hushed lips.
Unlike what our CEO and his network people think, ATC represents a new coming that has no concerns about their place in the company. We came here to make sure he keeps to the message and all the burgs and boroughs standing behind us. From South Florida to Texarkana, Harry Diderot has emerged as the south’s new face. We broke free of Stone Mountain shadow, and now bring that same spirit to Tupelo. Miss – iss – I – pp – I am free. Hit them, Richie!”
He slides right where the near 600 pound Richie Diderot saunters into frame wearing a baggy jeans, Converse and a Bruce Lee/Game of Death bike jacket. His undershirt has faded image of ICE T from Law and Order.
“Now we com’an for you, Loco. Don think the social warriors out there gonna take you easy…
Who dat on da rooftop?
(all three) Loco!
Who still got a soft spot?
(all three) Loco!
We mak’an major moves on the ghost man
stalk’an ‘round coast to coast, and he boast’an
some shit list on net, forget and regret your transgressions
all those sick ass premonitions an’ impressions
see the future dark ‘fo he embark on the next match.
Who dat on the front page?
(all three) Loco!
Who standing on the wrong stage?
(all three) Loco!
Who dat down on the mat…
Come one mane, it’s Loco.”
“Now hold that sick track, my brother,” says Harry Diderot off-screen. “Bout to get turnt now.”
Harry Diderot has his white Drive jacket, showing its gold scorpion on the back first, before turning back to the camera. His crew moves out of the shot with sunlight off his glass and the TV title shining from his waistline.
“Loco, we all hear ya. We know that last week’s debacle ain’ yo fault. That the heart of a fighter still in there, mane. I hear you and respect that person we used to call El Payaso. Google say dat a clown, a crazy clown. No offense, but lately brah, you been more of an ass clown. Now I ain’ one to stoop so low Loco. So let’s settle it like competitors.
You go ‘round the back and TV screens telling everyone you out here you were screwed. Yeah mane, I saw killing floor from a set in da back. I know that this company eats its own too. We both been the victims of an out of control locker room. Yet you out here saying this world ‘gainst you. That you have enemies watching from everywhere. Maybe get one of them tinfoil hat, mane, ‘cause you hanging yourself on them accusations.
And let us get to that “shit list” you banging Twitter ‘bout. Spout’an some nonsense about a world of hurt and all those who did you wrong. Mane, if I wasted years of my life with all those bastards that lied, cheated and stole from me, Loco, I still be reading their names. This ain’ a black thing. This ain’ no hood thugg’an thing either. We talking about life, Loco, and how much it sucks at times. B, whatcha gonna do is drop and pray. Stop running and blaming others. Ain’ healthy to take the world down a black hole with ya. That gonna be more heartache.
You get so worked up ya forget the damn ring. See’an ghosts while them punches fly’an at yo face. Get angry and get your shit together, Loco, ‘cause Hippo Harry Diderot is on a mission. Now that I have cemented myself into the champion’s row, I have an image to keep and a people to keep close to my heart. Ain’ gonna let the past interfere with what I do in the ring. Dwelling is drowning, mane. And I am not in the position to fish yo ass out the river, amirite? You damn right I am. So heed them words and get yo’self back on track. Because the ring is mine and the TV title is still running on Hippo time – an’ you best get down with that, my friend.”
Dat Dark Past Returns
Harry sits on the edge of his bed while Richie and Barney snore away under covers. He flips through his phone for a night of texts missed during their commute. Among them are cryptic, or more, nonsense talk proclaiming the second coming of “the Smart Diderots” among other things. He texts back to this number, knowing them to be from none of than Joe Smarts:
All hail the Smarts Diderots
Joe, I’m in. 🔥🔥🏠
Wha???
Gonna burn dis house down
Cool........ U ready 4 this?
Yea mane. Got dis on lock down 💪🏾💯💯
K
Mane you crazy 🤣 smh
He smiles when replying to another new face, the friendly galactic protector, L Verez. A sly message or two has since become a fun barrage of text between them. Especially after early announcements of the upcoming Civil War match:
Yo star child 🌞whaddup?
Not much Hippo. Hope you’re well.
Always… when ya gonna let me see that spaceship?
lol
Nah, mane, wanna see dat 💩 show me ya whip!
I’ll think about it. Good luck this week.
Live long an prosper 🖖🏾👽
lol
Halfway through a message a calls comes through. Another unknown number – this time from an Georgia area code. He picks it up despite better judgment tell him not to.
“It 10 am, mane. What you want?”
“Harry, good to hear you again.”
He nearly hung up the phone when that unmistakable voice came through, one both raspy and smooth like Charles Bradley.
“Hey, did I stutter?” says this voice. “I know you’re back down south, Harry.”
“What you want Francis?”
“Still dropping that one, boy. You’ve some nerve to treat me like this. Don’t dare forget what got you in this place. Poor kids don’t just become superstars, and it’s about time you anteed up.”
“Don’ own me, Francis.”
“I’ve heard that one all the time,” he says. “Just remember, you in my playground now.”
Harry hangs up with anger surging through his fists. He almost chucked his phone across the room until the groggy assist from the preacher’s son interfered. Barney cannot hope to match his best friend’s strength; instead, he tries to talk the Hippo down.
“Harry, what are you doing?”
“It’s Francis. He’s chasing down his money again.”
"Damn..." Barney sits down next to him. “Why not give him what he wants?”
“Can’ do that,” Harry says squeezing his phone. “Not after the shit he pulled in Kansas City.”
“Was that when you were still with his crew?”
“Barn, this ain’ yo party. Stay out.”
Their altercation wakes Richie from his fetal, pillow-laden position.
“Francis bother’an you again?”
“Don’ Richie—”
“Just how much do you owe him?” Barney says.
“Enough, and with interest. He try’an to shark me, Barn.”
Their fight spills over into a continental breakfast of waffles, bacon and a tray of scrambled eggs. All three try to let temper simmer when another message interrupts the peace:
I’m tired of fighting you, Harry. I want my money and I won’t take a no this time.
Harry then shuts the damn thing off before returning to his meal. Their tired face slowly come to rise while thoughts of the match flood Diderot’s mind. From them he sees a common sickness poisoning every angle of showbiz.
“Y’all ever wonder what makes us want shit like my belt?”
“Power, respect, money – combinations of all three?”
“I get that, Barn. Whad-a-bout title people.”
Barney laughs. “Like those Gold Standard guys trying say they deserve title shots.”
“L gave one out. Maybe I should too.”
“Mane, them fools ain’ earned a date with the Hippo.”
“Brah, we gotta be a team on this. And I wanna prove to those three why I’m champ.”
“Is that because they keep ignoring you on Twitter?”
“Maybe, but this is the new era of UCI. An’ we don’ back down from internet punks.”
“I’m just saying that we should study these guys before jumping in the water. Then give them a shot.”
“What you think, Richie?”
His brother looks up from a plate of waffles dripping from his chin.
“L gonna beat some ass,” he says. “Forget dem fools.”
One more message comes through, but Harry lets it go unchecked. Breakfast only goes so far – not with the eyes of Fr4nzoi back on them. Diderot sees danger around every corner. His old employer always talked a tough game like some bloodthirsty gangbanger. Always let the goons do that “heavy lifting” in his place. As much as he would like to that local rapper turned fashion CEO gunned down, it was not the Hippo’s way. Seeing those two across from him made all the better that men like Francis tried to siphon via threats and other bullshit. He made a final vow to not back down, not matter what Francis sent in his place. Be they OGs or dumbass thugs, Harry would resist with every ounce of his being.
“Barn, you’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yeah, cuz,” he says with a determined look. “ATC coming back. Spencer ain’ gonna stand in our way no more. And Francis can kiss my black ass – ‘cause the Hippo ain bow’an to no man!”
An average pizza shack keeps a quiet profile for the TV Champion, Harry Diderot, and his closest friends, Barney Strong and Richie Diderot. A half-eaten pizza sits over an empty dining room with checkered placemats and Italianate wallpaper. They have sodas while laughing their asses off over something Richie just said. The TV Title hides under the table on an open seat next the Hippo. The waitress then drops by with their check.
“Here ya are, dearies,” she says while taking up empty drinks. “You pay that when y’all ready.”
“Thanks,” Barney says with his hand on the receipt.
“What you do’an, mane?”
“My part,” he tells Harry.
“Bro, my contract is 90gs.”
“Before taxes. Just let me help at some, Harry.”
Richie watches shaking his head while chilling to something on his phone. A tug-of-war between them ends with Barney swiping the bill from their gravy bowl.
“Fine, but I got the tip.”
“All right,” Barney says, throwing down about twenty in fives.
The waitress comes back, but this time, she has a line cook, a tall blonde guy with a lot of tattoos, and the owner, a short, balding guy with a goatee, at her side. She introduces them as “Toby” and “Mr. Trumbo” while holding her flip phone out.
“Yea girl, y’all want a selfie?”
“Something for the wall,” says the owner. “We get you guys’ PPVs, well, the big ones. Make us a lot of business too.”
“Sure thing.”
Harry outweighs and towers over them all at 6’6” height, making him the direct center of a photo containing all three of these pizza workers. Richie takes the photo on their phone and his own.
“Sweet pic y’all,” Richie says. “That ones go’an on our Instagram.”
“Well thanks for coming fellas,” says the waitress.
She then sees the tip as all three head out. They pile into Harry’s SUV and head down the road to Tupelo. Richie kicks his feet up while digging into the pizza box. A quick word from Harry gets his brother’s hand out of the box and back to conversation heating up between Barney and him.
“Look, mane, I’m trying to get you guys back in.”
“Did Spencer give any idea to when this suspension may be lifted?”
“Dun pissed him off,” Harry says. “We gotta do this shit on the DL.”
“Why he after us?”
“Richie, don’t worry about it. Just go back to your games.”
“No Barn, we ain’t 2nd class,” Richie says. “I wanna be there for my brother.”
“What about Jack and those Walker kids? Both sides have ruined your matches over the last two shows,” Barney says. “How much longer until someone comes for you? It’s obvious by now that Spencer doesn’t care about you or these matches.”
“Barn, I’m TV champ,” Harry says. “I draw hot money, aimiright?”
“This isn’t about money, Harry. You are a marked man whether you accept that or not,” Barney says. “If you can’t handle talks of security, then you aren’t ready to be a champ. At least, not for long. Because someone, somewhere, wants that belt more than you do.”
“You done?”
“Yeah, I’m done.”
Dat Hot Shoot
Barney Strong stands in front of a brick wall somewhere in the city of Jackson, Tenn. He wears his usual soapbox gear of a preacher’s suit, off the Penny’s rack, and colorful kufi hat. Footage seems poor in production, taken from a loose tripod.
“Our absence from the Hippo’s side has many wondering ‘what happened to the A-Town Crew’ – among other things. Our presence has not yet been felt as the earthshattering scene of our main man, Harry Diderot. Our absence was imposed after the chief of this company, Spencer Adams. We are not on a course to dethrone 1%’ers – quite the opposite, so long as he does not stand in the way of progress. ATC represents more than Harry’s backup, we are his strategizers—generals behind the scenes—helping him from ring to ring. Some think him stupid or aloof. That couldn’t be any more wrong. Our man came to UCI because he had a dream to bring an unseen world into view. Voice to fat, hushed lips.
Unlike what our CEO and his network people think, ATC represents a new coming that has no concerns about their place in the company. We came here to make sure he keeps to the message and all the burgs and boroughs standing behind us. From South Florida to Texarkana, Harry Diderot has emerged as the south’s new face. We broke free of Stone Mountain shadow, and now bring that same spirit to Tupelo. Miss – iss – I – pp – I am free. Hit them, Richie!”
He slides right where the near 600 pound Richie Diderot saunters into frame wearing a baggy jeans, Converse and a Bruce Lee/Game of Death bike jacket. His undershirt has faded image of ICE T from Law and Order.
“Now we com’an for you, Loco. Don think the social warriors out there gonna take you easy…
Who dat on da rooftop?
(all three) Loco!
Who still got a soft spot?
(all three) Loco!
We mak’an major moves on the ghost man
stalk’an ‘round coast to coast, and he boast’an
some shit list on net, forget and regret your transgressions
all those sick ass premonitions an’ impressions
see the future dark ‘fo he embark on the next match.
Who dat on the front page?
(all three) Loco!
Who standing on the wrong stage?
(all three) Loco!
Who dat down on the mat…
Come one mane, it’s Loco.”
“Now hold that sick track, my brother,” says Harry Diderot off-screen. “Bout to get turnt now.”
Harry Diderot has his white Drive jacket, showing its gold scorpion on the back first, before turning back to the camera. His crew moves out of the shot with sunlight off his glass and the TV title shining from his waistline.
“Loco, we all hear ya. We know that last week’s debacle ain’ yo fault. That the heart of a fighter still in there, mane. I hear you and respect that person we used to call El Payaso. Google say dat a clown, a crazy clown. No offense, but lately brah, you been more of an ass clown. Now I ain’ one to stoop so low Loco. So let’s settle it like competitors.
You go ‘round the back and TV screens telling everyone you out here you were screwed. Yeah mane, I saw killing floor from a set in da back. I know that this company eats its own too. We both been the victims of an out of control locker room. Yet you out here saying this world ‘gainst you. That you have enemies watching from everywhere. Maybe get one of them tinfoil hat, mane, ‘cause you hanging yourself on them accusations.
And let us get to that “shit list” you banging Twitter ‘bout. Spout’an some nonsense about a world of hurt and all those who did you wrong. Mane, if I wasted years of my life with all those bastards that lied, cheated and stole from me, Loco, I still be reading their names. This ain’ a black thing. This ain’ no hood thugg’an thing either. We talking about life, Loco, and how much it sucks at times. B, whatcha gonna do is drop and pray. Stop running and blaming others. Ain’ healthy to take the world down a black hole with ya. That gonna be more heartache.
You get so worked up ya forget the damn ring. See’an ghosts while them punches fly’an at yo face. Get angry and get your shit together, Loco, ‘cause Hippo Harry Diderot is on a mission. Now that I have cemented myself into the champion’s row, I have an image to keep and a people to keep close to my heart. Ain’ gonna let the past interfere with what I do in the ring. Dwelling is drowning, mane. And I am not in the position to fish yo ass out the river, amirite? You damn right I am. So heed them words and get yo’self back on track. Because the ring is mine and the TV title is still running on Hippo time – an’ you best get down with that, my friend.”
Dat Dark Past Returns
Harry sits on the edge of his bed while Richie and Barney snore away under covers. He flips through his phone for a night of texts missed during their commute. Among them are cryptic, or more, nonsense talk proclaiming the second coming of “the Smart Diderots” among other things. He texts back to this number, knowing them to be from none of than Joe Smarts:
All hail the Smarts Diderots
Joe, I’m in. 🔥🔥🏠
Wha???
Gonna burn dis house down
Cool........ U ready 4 this?
Yea mane. Got dis on lock down 💪🏾💯💯
K
Mane you crazy 🤣 smh
He smiles when replying to another new face, the friendly galactic protector, L Verez. A sly message or two has since become a fun barrage of text between them. Especially after early announcements of the upcoming Civil War match:
Yo star child 🌞whaddup?
Not much Hippo. Hope you’re well.
Always… when ya gonna let me see that spaceship?
lol
Nah, mane, wanna see dat 💩 show me ya whip!
I’ll think about it. Good luck this week.
Live long an prosper 🖖🏾👽
lol
Halfway through a message a calls comes through. Another unknown number – this time from an Georgia area code. He picks it up despite better judgment tell him not to.
“It 10 am, mane. What you want?”
“Harry, good to hear you again.”
He nearly hung up the phone when that unmistakable voice came through, one both raspy and smooth like Charles Bradley.
“Hey, did I stutter?” says this voice. “I know you’re back down south, Harry.”
“What you want Francis?”
“Still dropping that one, boy. You’ve some nerve to treat me like this. Don’t dare forget what got you in this place. Poor kids don’t just become superstars, and it’s about time you anteed up.”
“Don’ own me, Francis.”
“I’ve heard that one all the time,” he says. “Just remember, you in my playground now.”
Harry hangs up with anger surging through his fists. He almost chucked his phone across the room until the groggy assist from the preacher’s son interfered. Barney cannot hope to match his best friend’s strength; instead, he tries to talk the Hippo down.
“Harry, what are you doing?”
“It’s Francis. He’s chasing down his money again.”
"Damn..." Barney sits down next to him. “Why not give him what he wants?”
“Can’ do that,” Harry says squeezing his phone. “Not after the shit he pulled in Kansas City.”
“Was that when you were still with his crew?”
“Barn, this ain’ yo party. Stay out.”
Their altercation wakes Richie from his fetal, pillow-laden position.
“Francis bother’an you again?”
“Don’ Richie—”
“Just how much do you owe him?” Barney says.
“Enough, and with interest. He try’an to shark me, Barn.”
Their fight spills over into a continental breakfast of waffles, bacon and a tray of scrambled eggs. All three try to let temper simmer when another message interrupts the peace:
I’m tired of fighting you, Harry. I want my money and I won’t take a no this time.
Harry then shuts the damn thing off before returning to his meal. Their tired face slowly come to rise while thoughts of the match flood Diderot’s mind. From them he sees a common sickness poisoning every angle of showbiz.
“Y’all ever wonder what makes us want shit like my belt?”
“Power, respect, money – combinations of all three?”
“I get that, Barn. Whad-a-bout title people.”
Barney laughs. “Like those Gold Standard guys trying say they deserve title shots.”
“L gave one out. Maybe I should too.”
“Mane, them fools ain’ earned a date with the Hippo.”
“Brah, we gotta be a team on this. And I wanna prove to those three why I’m champ.”
“Is that because they keep ignoring you on Twitter?”
“Maybe, but this is the new era of UCI. An’ we don’ back down from internet punks.”
“I’m just saying that we should study these guys before jumping in the water. Then give them a shot.”
“What you think, Richie?”
His brother looks up from a plate of waffles dripping from his chin.
“L gonna beat some ass,” he says. “Forget dem fools.”
One more message comes through, but Harry lets it go unchecked. Breakfast only goes so far – not with the eyes of Fr4nzoi back on them. Diderot sees danger around every corner. His old employer always talked a tough game like some bloodthirsty gangbanger. Always let the goons do that “heavy lifting” in his place. As much as he would like to that local rapper turned fashion CEO gunned down, it was not the Hippo’s way. Seeing those two across from him made all the better that men like Francis tried to siphon via threats and other bullshit. He made a final vow to not back down, not matter what Francis sent in his place. Be they OGs or dumbass thugs, Harry would resist with every ounce of his being.
“Barn, you’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yeah, cuz,” he says with a determined look. “ATC coming back. Spencer ain’ gonna stand in our way no more. And Francis can kiss my black ass – ‘cause the Hippo ain bow’an to no man!”