Hoggish's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

Hoggish held the golden mic up to the light. His chihuahua sniffed it and whined. Hoggish tried a verse. The gold flared too bright, then died. His words came out flat, useless. He gripped the mic tighter and tried again. Nothing. He had the legend in his hand, but he didn't know how to use it. Wasting it felt worse than never finding it at all. Then the air turned warm. An orange glow spread across the clearing. A huge man stepped out from the trees. He wore a sideways cap and a track jacket left open over his belly. He moved slow, like the ground belonged to him. Hoggish had never seen this man, but the raccoons scattered the moment he arrived. "Put it down before you burn it out," the man said. His voice was calm and low. "That mic's older than you know. Older than me." He tapped the pendant on his chain. "Name's Buddha Banks. I spit my first verse in the oldverse before your grandfather was born. Died holding a mic just like that one." Hoggish stared. "Died?" "Came back to find the one it chose." Buddha Banks looked him up and down. "That's you, kid. Always was. Your bloodline and that gold been circling each other for years. You think you crossed that swamp by luck?" Hoggish's chest went tight. "I don't know how to make it work. It keeps dying on me." "Because you're aiming it." Buddha Banks stepped close. He smelled like smoke and old vinyl. "A pretender pushes the mic. A king lets it pull. Stop performing. Breathe. Say the truest thing you got, quiet." Hoggish closed his eyes. He didn't reach for a big rhyme. He thought about the crowd that laughed. He thought about crossing the water alone with only his dog. He spoke low, almost a whisper. The gold woke. It didn't flare and die this time. It hummed steady, warm against his palm. His words rolled out clean and full. The trees swayed with the rhythm instead of shaking. Buddha Banks nodded, slow, and cracked a grin. "There it is," he said. "That's the Rap God waking up." Hoggish opened his eyes. He knew how to wield it now. Not by force. By truth. The mic felt like part of his arm. Buddha Banks turned toward the trees. "But knowing ain't enough. Word already spread. The gold sings loud, and the wrong ears heard it." He pointed past the hills. A dark figure watched from a ridge, a green cape snapping behind him, an emerald glowing on his chest. "That one's been hunting relics like yours for years. He's coming for it. You ready to defend what chose you?" Hoggish gripped the mic. It stayed lit. "Yeah," he said. "I'm ready."