Hoggish's Arc

Chapter 2 of 7

Hoggish gripped the silver blade and pulled. The point slid free of the dirt. The microphone head buzzed to life, mesh humming against his palm. A voice crackled out of it, tinny and sharp. "Want to use me? Then spit something dope. Prove it, or drop me." Hoggish grinned. He set the floating bear down and rolled his shoulders. His chihuahua hopped off and sat in the grass, tail flicking. "You picked the wrong Sasquatch to test," Hoggish said. He tapped a beat on his thigh and let the words fly. He rapped about the swamp, the coins that sprouted from the vines, the water he could never cross back. His voice climbed and locked into rhythm. The blade lit up. Blue and red streaks raced along the metal. The microphone soaked in every word and threw it back louder, ringing off the hills. Hoggish felt the weapon settle in his hand like it belonged there. The buzzing turned to a low, satisfied hum. Then another voice cut across his. "Weak. My grandma spits harder." Hoggish stopped cold. A green figure stepped from behind a mossy cabin, its garage door half open. Gills fluttered on the sides of his face. Fins ran down his cheeks. He wore a red tracksuit and a bucket hat, and his shell-toe sneakers stayed clean in the mud. Gill Waverly. Hoggish knew that smirk. He had lost to it before, on a stage across the water, in front of a crowd that laughed. "You followed me," Hoggish said. "I heard the mic wake up." Gill spread his arms. "That blade only answers the best. So hand it over." The chihuahua growled and pressed against Hoggish's leg. Hoggish held the blade tight. "It already chose me. It lit up for my verse." "Then let's settle it," Gill said. "You and me. Best bars keep the mic." Hoggish should have walked away. Instead he set his feet. He went first. He rapped fast, chained his rhymes, and the blade blazed with each line. The hills threw his voice back at him. When he finished, the microphone glowed hot. Gill only laughed. He pulled a coin from a nearby vine and flipped it. "You care about the mic. That's your weakness." He snatched at the blade mid-flip. His fingers closed on the grip beside Hoggish's. The microphone shrieked. It could not choose. The light drained out of the metal and went dark. Hoggish felt the hum die under his hand. Gill stumbled back with a torn strip of the grip in his fist. "You broke it," Hoggish said. Gill spat in the dirt. "Then it's worth nothing." He turned and vanished into the cabin's garage. Hoggish held the silent blade. It had chosen him, then gone cold the moment two hands fought for it. He looked at the dead microphone. To wake it again, he had to learn what a fight had just switched off.