Post by hippoharry on Nov 26, 2017 0:56:27 GMT -6
Post-Match, Overload
Harry Diderot lies on a stretcher, unconscious, at the entrance ramp. He begins to come to only to find himself strapped in a neck brace while paramedics try to buckle him in for an ambulance ride. They reach the back when the Hippo slides off the side, hotter than hell on his way into the backstage. He comes across Bobby Zee and a camera guy and approaches them.
“Bobby, where dat clown go?
“Who?” Bobby says backing into the wall.
“Allen,” Harry says with a hold of his shirt, “where dat B go? Imma split his wig.”
“He’s not here. Spencer didn’t schedule him tonight.”
“Oh, he here brother,” he says. “Best show me where. Or Spence gonna be wearing these Jordans. Hear me?”
“I swear we didn’t see him, Harry.”
“Snitch ‘for I slap yo dick off.”
Both Bobby and the camera operator have no idea, pointing him instead towards the backstage office of Spencer Adams. Thoughts of the last few shows burn to mind. Despite early drama with Jack Schlongson and the first pinfall to his reign, Harry Diderot wanted to take it all in stride. Show that no one man could break his spirit. Now the Walker boy had pushed the wrong button. He comes across a door marked “Spencer Adams” in a sheet of 8x11 inly to find it locked. Diderot steps back and kicks the lock off its hinge. Inside he sees the company owner watching a monitor from a desk.
“Where that mother—”
“Harry,” Spencer says, “get back to the ambulance!”
“Not til you book dat rematch.”
“With Allen Walker? Why do you two even want to fight? You got the belt because of him.”
“Cause he crossed the wrong brother.”
“God dammit, get back to the ambulance. I don’t need this right now!”
“I wan that boy. I’m gonna whoop his ass.”
“You done?”
“Nah,” Harry says while trying to dislodge his brace, “got more beef with you too.”
“Harry, will you shut the hell up? This is a bad fucking idea, not before Civil War.”
“Don give a shit, mane.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Reinstate my crew. Then we cool.”
“Not happening...”
“Listen mane,” Harry says, “if Allen interrupts another match. Ain’ liable for that boy’s health.”
“If he interferes again,” Spencer says. “I’ll intervene. Until then, your friends remain suspended from ringside. And you cannot have them here, or…”
“Yeah, yeah, or we gonna have problems.”
“Problems… more like a suspension. Which I should remind you, would disqualify you from defending your TV Title. Are you still stalking that “jive turkey" shit?”
“When we win at Civil War,” Harry says. “Gonna find and whoop that Brit like his daddy should've.”
Paramedic flood the room, coaxing the furious Harry Diderot back on the stretcher. He ultimately refuses their help and leaves the arena under his own power. His phone then vibrates with aother message from that unlisted number he answered last week. A male’s voice reminds him of his old employer, hip-hop star Fr4nzoi. This deep, raspy voice orders him to pay residuals in order repay debt. Hanging up leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He ignores a text from his old friend and confidant, Barney Strong, pleading with him to go back and seek medical help. After a third message, he dials up his bro and hits the speaker button.
“Harry, where you at fool?”
“Richie, get Barney.”
“No way,” he says, “you got a broke neck.”
“It ain’ broke. Now get Barney.”
There’s a bit of a pause with wind whipping from somewhere outside. Sounds of a drive thru come over as his brother is clearly heard ordering something from the McDonald’s – ending with a Coke and McFlurry to boot.
“Boy, you hanging up on me for Mickie-D’s?”
“Fuck you, Harry, you called me.”
“Shut up,” he says squeezing his steering wheel. “Where the Barn at?”
“Ain’ here Harry.”
“Then where you at?”
“In an Uber,” he says panicked. “Why?”
“Cause this gonna be a bad night. I need a good word.”
“Like what?”
“Dammit Richie, you tell him to meet me at the motel. I be there soon.”
“Aight... you ok?”
“Yeah, hurt’an but not bad.”
“Need a doctor?”
“Nah mane, jus time. And when I see Allen Walker. He gonna regret his transgressions.”
Ghetto Space Opera
Richie Diderot and Barney Strong sit at a Shoney’s restaurant halfway through a meal. Both take in road food between some heated argument. Without Harry, they seem on edge while attacking each other over sunny side up eggs, toast and cheesy hash browns.
“Barn, mane, we gotta get his back. This company against the Hippo.”
“Relax, there’s still time to fix things,” Barney assures the younger Diderot. “And it doesn’t have to come with Walker’s head on a pike.”
“Da fuk you say?”
“Old politics – don’t think too hard about it,” he says. “Point being: we don’t have to stop being at Harry’s side just because Spencer Adams or an authority says so. We can still help him without being at ringside too.”
“But what if they jump him?”
“They won’t try it again,” he says while cutting eggs. “Allen Walker wants to get in Harry’s head. I’m worried how he’s going to take this week. Everything can cost him the title.”
“But he got that champion’s heart, mane.”
“Yes, but not without our help.”
They stop talking to hurry down food. Both keep checking their phones for either texts and the time while delaying their waitress and the receipt.
“When he coming?”
“Harry said after three… and it’s almost five.”
“Mane, where that fool?”
“I don’t know,” Barney says, “but he said it had to do with planning this week’s title defense.”
Just then, the open area next to Barney turns a bright blue color wherein the outline of Harry Diderot appears until rebuilding his entire 6 and a half foot frame. Both men turn with huge eyes, unsure of what to make of what just happened. Harry looks tired but super-energized.
“Da fuuuuuk—”
“Where were you?”
“Guys, I’ve seen space.”
“Like mother fucking Han Solo?!”
“Yeah… like fucking Han solo,” Harry says with a cheesy smile. “Hey, where my eggs?”
They look at each other then back to the Hippo.
“You weren’ coming… so I finished ‘em.”
“I see,” he says while tapping the table. “Seen the stars, but ain got nothing like these greasy holes.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Barn, you’da lost yo shit.”
“Whadda’bout me?”
“Bro, you ain fit’an in them alien chairs. Got no asses up there.”
They all laugh while a waitress gets his order: two eggs, scrambled, toast with bacon and sausage links. She then disappears after dropping off another round of Cokes.
“So what did you discuss up there? The means to galactic peace?”
“Shi… we made game plans for all them dudes.”
“And?”
“Yeah, then L wouldn’ let get out a laser sword.”
“Did she even have one?”
“Nah, just wanted some Star Wars shit.”
"And it was Star Trek instead?"
“Totally... mane, this match gonna be lit, Barn.”
“Damn straight, Harry!”
“But y'all still banned from the building,” he says. “Spence dat little pencil neck—”
“Any chance he changes his mind?”
Harry shakes his head “no” while gulping down his Coke.
“Have you thought about Allen Walker? Or just concentrating on the Civil War matchup?”
“Swelling's down,” he says, “But that B still on my radar. Gonna split his wig next time we meet. And that a guarantee. Now come on, foget bout them. Fucking starvan’, mane.”
Dat M-F’n Shoot
Black studio setting, one figure in baggy jeans and the scorpion jacket from Drive, stands Harry Diderot. Lights drift up to him leaning on a stool.
“Bout time for a civil war… all dis bad blood bout to spill. We in it for the money, the gold and that sweet nip of fame. Tit milk lapp’an all’round waiting for the big sky to open and call ya name. Jive by the pillars of them old gods and get yo bronze weiner clad in eternity. Tell them watch’an we blessed. Time tick tock on the war people. Time tick tock on where your life go’an. Look around you now and see them warships in place. Them soldiers on the hill. We gonna make a last stand because now is the time for war. Who let those hungry dogs out?”
Lights dim as the view shifts to outlines of a slender man in a smooth suit and all black kufi hat.
“They say in the old book that war was the last resort. War was when words died and fists took their place. When good men had to fight because evil would not back down. Heroes did Haven’s will when the angels could not descend upon the battlefield. At the heart, we know there is a civil war. Brothers, sisters – fathers, mothers and grandparents – everyone has an existing beef. Bad blood to spill. We come this Sunday for settling our differences. War… where the sounds of shouting voices whimper then disappear with a bang. Fallen scores to the requiem of them all. We pray for signals in darkness, where war sits in the bellies of wicked people. Where the cursed live and the forgotten continue to die over and over again because they not yet lived. War... we call it the worst of humanity’s inventions, the worst of mankind, the epitome of evil. Sunday, there will be a civil war and that star foresaw. Where the best crumble in a dying victory. We are ready to battle. We are ready to be the last atop the hill. We are ready for war!”
Views shift back to Harry Diderot in his now infamous jacket. He then stands from the seat, letting the gray jacket fly off, revealing himself head to toe in fatigues, combat boots and a lengthy bandolier with some kind of rifle bullets. Topping it off with a black beret and aviators.
“Team Verez is ready to go to war. We got this shit on lockdown from the start. Rewind if you wan’ but we got this match from front to back. Corey Bull will not field them like some gen’ral, he gonna look to be a nuke from the start. See, I kno guyz like him. They try to be Deebo but it all fiction, mane. I see the mountain but ain scared. Bull gonna carry that team his back. Y’all see it a mile away. Tag his own ass in and try and fight da the damn world. Tell you how it gonna start – a promise to all y’all watch’an right now – I will walk up to that B and slap him cold. Gonna hear it in them nosebleeds. Tempo set, king me, Hippo Diderot…
See, when them bullies try to put they foot down, you push back. No bruise worse than bowing to a B. No size gonna get us clown’an. No monster gonna scare me awake at night. I sleep with both hands crossed and a 9 in the drawer, no fear, no sweat big man. I seen you with Bishop and the show y’all put on. See, when it comes to this style, you ain’ seen a guy like me. Loco and L got their parts to play. Strategies planned in the deeps of space. But it all comes down you and me, the true big dawg of UCI. And I ain’ back’an down from no one claiming this place with a flag. Ya saw Bishop and let him turn ya rotten. Mane, don’ you know he a spout’an fool? He the weak link in cause this game and the future clog his mind. He looks too far ahead, leav’an yo Motombo ass behind in the paint. Magic gonna dribble, Magic gonna pass, but in the end, big man, he always look’an to score. Occupy the halo all you want – best spot on the court when this brother phenom come dunk’an on you from the rafters. Listen for the pop, then watch it again when they blow up yo’ Twitter, mane. Gonna be damn disgrace.
By the way, I mean that too. I am going to walk up to you, Bull, and slap you stupid at the bell. That is my plan. Big Dawgs get dat bone, and you hogg’an my paint, son…
I could lend the spotlight to my new blood, the space killa L Verez, or my frienemy Payaso, but it come down to me on this dis track, and we still spinn’an this LP clockwise. Come up to track two we see Karlie Nash and what some call a Dirt Devil sweep’an carpets clean, but I leave my bro to be the Dafoe to their Spiderman 3…”
Focus to Richie Diderot in a spotlight wearing something like a Salt n’ Pepper jacket, even though it’s tight on him, and an orange and green Miami jersey. Harry can be heard in the background beatboxing as Richie readies his pipebomb.
“Gonna go down on dis new sensation,
find’an rhythm on turkey vacation,
when old school birds hit the coop
an ice cold killa making scoops
bouncey bounce , boing boing…”
Harry stops his track cold.
“Hey mane, we choose our styles. Time to be smart bout this cat fo she pay her dues. Not gonna letcha finish that beat, grits and gravy, cause she deserves better than that. I’mma toast this one where it hurts. We know the game plan for Karlie Nash. We don’ waste our time bash’an like some cheap ass heel. Cause talk is cheap. Proof is in dat pudding – and we ain’ talk’an cigars and Cosby sweaters – this track scratching back to another show. I seen that match you had wid L, and I know there’s another side to you, Nash. You ain’ all sniping the last century from ya passenger side. You got the skill but no direction. Time for war an you still clown’an down. Look grl, I gots all kinds of respect – even when my bro be throw’an all that poor man’s shade. We here as the street sweepers cleaning our block like an old school BLOOD fo they turned bad.
First, baby, my face is up here. Stop look’an at dis gold no matter how long you kno it drag. Can’ go in expect’an to win without put’an that work in. These weeks been a flash in the House of Diderot. A rollercoaster ride with turkeys in the way. But this one gonna be different. Three people stand in the way of yet another defense for this belt. Besides, whatcha want wid it? Catch that car, dawg, but then what? Champs define this gold. Bill Russel won MVP so many times they put that B’s name on the plate. Champs define the future of our company, and I hate to say right now, you so deep in ya bubble, Nash, ain’ see much more than a week. I see the future of the company. UCI needs L, it needs Loco, and it needs the Hippo on this mic. Where you belong? Cause you not push’an in the right direction. Ain’ too late to turn back.
And I hope all y’all got ya ears open for dat message, James, cause you can learn a thing or two from the ballad of Karlie Nash. She got the heart for this game but no vision. You got the Gold Standard bought on dat goal. But didn’t yo daddy tell all y’all: Coffee’s for closers! You got them Jordan moves in yo pocket but any half-rate guard gonna pick ‘em clean. See yo’self Shaq’an the rim before you jump. Dropping that ball on the one yard line. Gotta be all-day like AP, relentless in the finish until the game gives. Score your forty sure, but a team with seventy and a buncha singles ain’ gonna win the championship. They only make highlight reels. Funny thing bout them Top 10s is we forget all but like four or five. The rest fade like every other challenger to this gold. I came here to win this war, not get the most kills. From Bull down we be spray’an windows to the floor ‘til the smoke rises… where Team Verez sees our enemies fall. See all ya'll Sunday. Hippo out!”
He drops the mic as the video cuts.
Harry Diderot lies on a stretcher, unconscious, at the entrance ramp. He begins to come to only to find himself strapped in a neck brace while paramedics try to buckle him in for an ambulance ride. They reach the back when the Hippo slides off the side, hotter than hell on his way into the backstage. He comes across Bobby Zee and a camera guy and approaches them.
“Bobby, where dat clown go?
“Who?” Bobby says backing into the wall.
“Allen,” Harry says with a hold of his shirt, “where dat B go? Imma split his wig.”
“He’s not here. Spencer didn’t schedule him tonight.”
“Oh, he here brother,” he says. “Best show me where. Or Spence gonna be wearing these Jordans. Hear me?”
“I swear we didn’t see him, Harry.”
“Snitch ‘for I slap yo dick off.”
Both Bobby and the camera operator have no idea, pointing him instead towards the backstage office of Spencer Adams. Thoughts of the last few shows burn to mind. Despite early drama with Jack Schlongson and the first pinfall to his reign, Harry Diderot wanted to take it all in stride. Show that no one man could break his spirit. Now the Walker boy had pushed the wrong button. He comes across a door marked “Spencer Adams” in a sheet of 8x11 inly to find it locked. Diderot steps back and kicks the lock off its hinge. Inside he sees the company owner watching a monitor from a desk.
“Where that mother—”
“Harry,” Spencer says, “get back to the ambulance!”
“Not til you book dat rematch.”
“With Allen Walker? Why do you two even want to fight? You got the belt because of him.”
“Cause he crossed the wrong brother.”
“God dammit, get back to the ambulance. I don’t need this right now!”
“I wan that boy. I’m gonna whoop his ass.”
“You done?”
“Nah,” Harry says while trying to dislodge his brace, “got more beef with you too.”
“Harry, will you shut the hell up? This is a bad fucking idea, not before Civil War.”
“Don give a shit, mane.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Reinstate my crew. Then we cool.”
“Not happening...”
“Listen mane,” Harry says, “if Allen interrupts another match. Ain’ liable for that boy’s health.”
“If he interferes again,” Spencer says. “I’ll intervene. Until then, your friends remain suspended from ringside. And you cannot have them here, or…”
“Yeah, yeah, or we gonna have problems.”
“Problems… more like a suspension. Which I should remind you, would disqualify you from defending your TV Title. Are you still stalking that “jive turkey" shit?”
“When we win at Civil War,” Harry says. “Gonna find and whoop that Brit like his daddy should've.”
Paramedic flood the room, coaxing the furious Harry Diderot back on the stretcher. He ultimately refuses their help and leaves the arena under his own power. His phone then vibrates with aother message from that unlisted number he answered last week. A male’s voice reminds him of his old employer, hip-hop star Fr4nzoi. This deep, raspy voice orders him to pay residuals in order repay debt. Hanging up leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He ignores a text from his old friend and confidant, Barney Strong, pleading with him to go back and seek medical help. After a third message, he dials up his bro and hits the speaker button.
“Harry, where you at fool?”
“Richie, get Barney.”
“No way,” he says, “you got a broke neck.”
“It ain’ broke. Now get Barney.”
There’s a bit of a pause with wind whipping from somewhere outside. Sounds of a drive thru come over as his brother is clearly heard ordering something from the McDonald’s – ending with a Coke and McFlurry to boot.
“Boy, you hanging up on me for Mickie-D’s?”
“Fuck you, Harry, you called me.”
“Shut up,” he says squeezing his steering wheel. “Where the Barn at?”
“Ain’ here Harry.”
“Then where you at?”
“In an Uber,” he says panicked. “Why?”
“Cause this gonna be a bad night. I need a good word.”
“Like what?”
“Dammit Richie, you tell him to meet me at the motel. I be there soon.”
“Aight... you ok?”
“Yeah, hurt’an but not bad.”
“Need a doctor?”
“Nah mane, jus time. And when I see Allen Walker. He gonna regret his transgressions.”
Ghetto Space Opera
Richie Diderot and Barney Strong sit at a Shoney’s restaurant halfway through a meal. Both take in road food between some heated argument. Without Harry, they seem on edge while attacking each other over sunny side up eggs, toast and cheesy hash browns.
“Barn, mane, we gotta get his back. This company against the Hippo.”
“Relax, there’s still time to fix things,” Barney assures the younger Diderot. “And it doesn’t have to come with Walker’s head on a pike.”
“Da fuk you say?”
“Old politics – don’t think too hard about it,” he says. “Point being: we don’t have to stop being at Harry’s side just because Spencer Adams or an authority says so. We can still help him without being at ringside too.”
“But what if they jump him?”
“They won’t try it again,” he says while cutting eggs. “Allen Walker wants to get in Harry’s head. I’m worried how he’s going to take this week. Everything can cost him the title.”
“But he got that champion’s heart, mane.”
“Yes, but not without our help.”
They stop talking to hurry down food. Both keep checking their phones for either texts and the time while delaying their waitress and the receipt.
“When he coming?”
“Harry said after three… and it’s almost five.”
“Mane, where that fool?”
“I don’t know,” Barney says, “but he said it had to do with planning this week’s title defense.”
Just then, the open area next to Barney turns a bright blue color wherein the outline of Harry Diderot appears until rebuilding his entire 6 and a half foot frame. Both men turn with huge eyes, unsure of what to make of what just happened. Harry looks tired but super-energized.
“Da fuuuuuk—”
“Where were you?”
“Guys, I’ve seen space.”
“Like mother fucking Han Solo?!”
“Yeah… like fucking Han solo,” Harry says with a cheesy smile. “Hey, where my eggs?”
They look at each other then back to the Hippo.
“You weren’ coming… so I finished ‘em.”
“I see,” he says while tapping the table. “Seen the stars, but ain got nothing like these greasy holes.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Barn, you’da lost yo shit.”
“Whadda’bout me?”
“Bro, you ain fit’an in them alien chairs. Got no asses up there.”
They all laugh while a waitress gets his order: two eggs, scrambled, toast with bacon and sausage links. She then disappears after dropping off another round of Cokes.
“So what did you discuss up there? The means to galactic peace?”
“Shi… we made game plans for all them dudes.”
“And?”
“Yeah, then L wouldn’ let get out a laser sword.”
“Did she even have one?”
“Nah, just wanted some Star Wars shit.”
"And it was Star Trek instead?"
“Totally... mane, this match gonna be lit, Barn.”
“Damn straight, Harry!”
“But y'all still banned from the building,” he says. “Spence dat little pencil neck—”
“Any chance he changes his mind?”
Harry shakes his head “no” while gulping down his Coke.
“Have you thought about Allen Walker? Or just concentrating on the Civil War matchup?”
“Swelling's down,” he says, “But that B still on my radar. Gonna split his wig next time we meet. And that a guarantee. Now come on, foget bout them. Fucking starvan’, mane.”
Dat M-F’n Shoot
Black studio setting, one figure in baggy jeans and the scorpion jacket from Drive, stands Harry Diderot. Lights drift up to him leaning on a stool.
“Bout time for a civil war… all dis bad blood bout to spill. We in it for the money, the gold and that sweet nip of fame. Tit milk lapp’an all’round waiting for the big sky to open and call ya name. Jive by the pillars of them old gods and get yo bronze weiner clad in eternity. Tell them watch’an we blessed. Time tick tock on the war people. Time tick tock on where your life go’an. Look around you now and see them warships in place. Them soldiers on the hill. We gonna make a last stand because now is the time for war. Who let those hungry dogs out?”
Lights dim as the view shifts to outlines of a slender man in a smooth suit and all black kufi hat.
“They say in the old book that war was the last resort. War was when words died and fists took their place. When good men had to fight because evil would not back down. Heroes did Haven’s will when the angels could not descend upon the battlefield. At the heart, we know there is a civil war. Brothers, sisters – fathers, mothers and grandparents – everyone has an existing beef. Bad blood to spill. We come this Sunday for settling our differences. War… where the sounds of shouting voices whimper then disappear with a bang. Fallen scores to the requiem of them all. We pray for signals in darkness, where war sits in the bellies of wicked people. Where the cursed live and the forgotten continue to die over and over again because they not yet lived. War... we call it the worst of humanity’s inventions, the worst of mankind, the epitome of evil. Sunday, there will be a civil war and that star foresaw. Where the best crumble in a dying victory. We are ready to battle. We are ready to be the last atop the hill. We are ready for war!”
Views shift back to Harry Diderot in his now infamous jacket. He then stands from the seat, letting the gray jacket fly off, revealing himself head to toe in fatigues, combat boots and a lengthy bandolier with some kind of rifle bullets. Topping it off with a black beret and aviators.
“Team Verez is ready to go to war. We got this shit on lockdown from the start. Rewind if you wan’ but we got this match from front to back. Corey Bull will not field them like some gen’ral, he gonna look to be a nuke from the start. See, I kno guyz like him. They try to be Deebo but it all fiction, mane. I see the mountain but ain scared. Bull gonna carry that team his back. Y’all see it a mile away. Tag his own ass in and try and fight da the damn world. Tell you how it gonna start – a promise to all y’all watch’an right now – I will walk up to that B and slap him cold. Gonna hear it in them nosebleeds. Tempo set, king me, Hippo Diderot…
See, when them bullies try to put they foot down, you push back. No bruise worse than bowing to a B. No size gonna get us clown’an. No monster gonna scare me awake at night. I sleep with both hands crossed and a 9 in the drawer, no fear, no sweat big man. I seen you with Bishop and the show y’all put on. See, when it comes to this style, you ain’ seen a guy like me. Loco and L got their parts to play. Strategies planned in the deeps of space. But it all comes down you and me, the true big dawg of UCI. And I ain’ back’an down from no one claiming this place with a flag. Ya saw Bishop and let him turn ya rotten. Mane, don’ you know he a spout’an fool? He the weak link in cause this game and the future clog his mind. He looks too far ahead, leav’an yo Motombo ass behind in the paint. Magic gonna dribble, Magic gonna pass, but in the end, big man, he always look’an to score. Occupy the halo all you want – best spot on the court when this brother phenom come dunk’an on you from the rafters. Listen for the pop, then watch it again when they blow up yo’ Twitter, mane. Gonna be damn disgrace.
By the way, I mean that too. I am going to walk up to you, Bull, and slap you stupid at the bell. That is my plan. Big Dawgs get dat bone, and you hogg’an my paint, son…
I could lend the spotlight to my new blood, the space killa L Verez, or my frienemy Payaso, but it come down to me on this dis track, and we still spinn’an this LP clockwise. Come up to track two we see Karlie Nash and what some call a Dirt Devil sweep’an carpets clean, but I leave my bro to be the Dafoe to their Spiderman 3…”
Focus to Richie Diderot in a spotlight wearing something like a Salt n’ Pepper jacket, even though it’s tight on him, and an orange and green Miami jersey. Harry can be heard in the background beatboxing as Richie readies his pipebomb.
“Gonna go down on dis new sensation,
find’an rhythm on turkey vacation,
when old school birds hit the coop
an ice cold killa making scoops
bouncey bounce , boing boing…”
Harry stops his track cold.
“Hey mane, we choose our styles. Time to be smart bout this cat fo she pay her dues. Not gonna letcha finish that beat, grits and gravy, cause she deserves better than that. I’mma toast this one where it hurts. We know the game plan for Karlie Nash. We don’ waste our time bash’an like some cheap ass heel. Cause talk is cheap. Proof is in dat pudding – and we ain’ talk’an cigars and Cosby sweaters – this track scratching back to another show. I seen that match you had wid L, and I know there’s another side to you, Nash. You ain’ all sniping the last century from ya passenger side. You got the skill but no direction. Time for war an you still clown’an down. Look grl, I gots all kinds of respect – even when my bro be throw’an all that poor man’s shade. We here as the street sweepers cleaning our block like an old school BLOOD fo they turned bad.
First, baby, my face is up here. Stop look’an at dis gold no matter how long you kno it drag. Can’ go in expect’an to win without put’an that work in. These weeks been a flash in the House of Diderot. A rollercoaster ride with turkeys in the way. But this one gonna be different. Three people stand in the way of yet another defense for this belt. Besides, whatcha want wid it? Catch that car, dawg, but then what? Champs define this gold. Bill Russel won MVP so many times they put that B’s name on the plate. Champs define the future of our company, and I hate to say right now, you so deep in ya bubble, Nash, ain’ see much more than a week. I see the future of the company. UCI needs L, it needs Loco, and it needs the Hippo on this mic. Where you belong? Cause you not push’an in the right direction. Ain’ too late to turn back.
And I hope all y’all got ya ears open for dat message, James, cause you can learn a thing or two from the ballad of Karlie Nash. She got the heart for this game but no vision. You got the Gold Standard bought on dat goal. But didn’t yo daddy tell all y’all: Coffee’s for closers! You got them Jordan moves in yo pocket but any half-rate guard gonna pick ‘em clean. See yo’self Shaq’an the rim before you jump. Dropping that ball on the one yard line. Gotta be all-day like AP, relentless in the finish until the game gives. Score your forty sure, but a team with seventy and a buncha singles ain’ gonna win the championship. They only make highlight reels. Funny thing bout them Top 10s is we forget all but like four or five. The rest fade like every other challenger to this gold. I came here to win this war, not get the most kills. From Bull down we be spray’an windows to the floor ‘til the smoke rises… where Team Verez sees our enemies fall. See all ya'll Sunday. Hippo out!”
He drops the mic as the video cuts.