Hoggish's Arc

Chapter 3 of 7

Hoggish stood alone with the dead blade. Then boots crunched behind him. Gill Waverly stepped back out of the cabin garage, smirking. He had grabbed the sword microphone in the last battle and drained its power. Now he circled Hoggish like the fight wasn't over. "Still holding that broken thing?" Gill flipped his bucket hat. "Face it. We were always equal. Neither of us is the best. That's why the mic went quiet." Hoggish's chihuahua growled from the grass, gold chain rattling. The words stung because Hoggish half believed them. He looked at the silent blade in his hand. He remembered the crowd across the water that laughed when he lost. Gill lunged and grabbed the microphone head again. Hoggish gripped the blade's handle. They pulled in opposite directions. The metal groaned. Then it snapped clean in two. The microphone head rolled into the dirt. Gill stumbled back holding the bare blade. "See?" Gill laughed. "Worth nothing. Just like your rhymes." Something broke loose in Hoggish. Not the mic. The fear. He didn't need the weapon. He tapped a beat on his thigh and started rapping. He rapped about the swamp he crossed alone. He rapped about the coward who steals instead of spitting bars. His voice climbed and climbed. The ancient trees shook. Leaves rained down. Hoggish rapped harder than he ever had. He didn't chase the mic anymore. He was the mic. His voice rolled through the hills like thunder. The broken microphone head lifted off the ground. It glowed. The dull silver burned away. Warm gold spread across the metal. The two pieces fused and grew. A giant letter H rose on its surface. The whole thing became a gleaming golden microphone, sturdy and bright. Hoggish kept rapping. The golden mic flew across the clearing and slapped into his open hand. It fit like it was made for him. A deep voice boomed through the woods, shaking the branches. "THE MIC HAS CHOSEN." Hoggish stared at the gold in his fist. This was the mythical microphone. The one he crossed the swamp to find. It had been the broken blade all along, waiting for someone who stopped fighting over it and just spit truth. Raccoons crept from the trees. One wore a green hoodie and dropped to its knees. The others bowed low in a ring around Hoggish. Even Gill's face fell. He looked at the bare blade in his hand, then dropped it. Slowly, teeth clenched, he lowered himself and bowed too. "Fine," Gill muttered. "You won this round." Hoggish lowered the golden mic. His chihuahua leapt onto his shoulder and licked his cheek. He had the legend now. But the deep voice still echoed in his skull, and he knew a mic like this drew every rival in the world. Winning it was easy. Keeping it would not be.