- It is the story of Flawless and Hannibal: two talented young rappers of
different molds and paths, but both hungry with the same dream: to be the best, to take
over the world, to see the big picture. We follow them and their intense rivalry as they
go from battling each other from the world of the underground to the business of
mainstream hip-hop, creating a rift that pulls the entire city into their seeming hatred
and obsession.
Here is what Hip Hop artist M-One (Dead Prez) says about Heru's book:
“Everywhere hip-hop is demanding answers; A Hip Hop Story is AN
INTELLIGIENT EXPLANATION TO THE MADNESS. It shows the delicate balance between our art and
creativity and the science and the business that must be perfected.”
M-one (Dead Prez)
Rapper/freedom fighter
Here is what award winning, best selling author Omar Tyree says about Heru's book:
“Heru has hit the book scene with a thoughtful, thought provoking and
moving assessment of the hip-hop world, of street dreams, determination, competition and
love.”
--Omar Tyree
CHAPTER 1
I ain’t gotta spit
‘Cause ma farts
Flow better than you
Smell better than you
I’m bantam–weight nigga
But I’ll knock a fat fuck
Back to Bellevue
‘Cause you must be crazy
Comin’ here with that weak shit
Over weight motherfucker
Cough one line
An’ you outta breath
The words are sharp, pungent and cut through shells with a razor’s
edge. It takes a thick shell to bear it, to hear it, to stand still, all the while
crafting an ever more denigrating comeback. As such, this pudgy prodigy waited his turn,
engulfed in the melee of his peers, pretending not to be fazed by his skinny
opponent’s stinging aspersions. He waited for his retort, meditated on his course of
action and how to turn the affections of the ever-growing-goading crowd to his favor. It
was coming, he could feel it now, skinny-man had come to the climax of his tirade; the
beat was turning to his favor.
No time to be tired, think fast, the beat is on me now, here I go . . .
and then nothing. What the hell! Oh shit . . . I just went blank. Shit, niggas is looking
at me. What the hell was I gonna say again? It was something about what he said. But what
the fuck did he say? I don’t remember. Shit, how the hell I don’t remember what
to say? If I don’t say something, this kid’s gon’ eat me. I won’t be
able to open my mouth on the street again. C’mon God, you can’t let that shit
happen. Think, think. What the hell was I gon’ say? Alright I’ll just keep
sayin’ ‘yeah yeah’ until something comes to me. Alright, that did it. Cats
stop staring for a second. But I gotta have something by the next time the beat turns
over. God, don’t do this to me. Here comes the beat. I gotta say something, but what
to say? ‘Yeah, yeah’. Think, think . . . aahhhhhhhhh . . . there it goes.
Nigga you fart
‘Cause you all gas
You just garbage
So you talk trash
But I’m the trash collector
An’ I ain’t overweight
I’m heavyweight, motherfucker
An’ I’m dirty wit’ mine
I belch below the belt line
I battle fools just to pass time
This is my career nigga
You just do this shit part-time.
He felt his stride and rode the rhythm. The obligatory ‘Oh
Shits’ began to turn his way. He held nothing back, doing the dozens with precision.
It all ate into skinny-man. He was not as good at concealing his feelings as his robust
counterpart. Seeing this, Fat-man edged in for the kill, close enough to kiss. He held the
deathblow upon his tongue . . . and unleashed it: along with an inadvertent wad of spit.
The ‘Oh Shit’ of the crowd came through clenched teeth. Skinny-man did not wait
for an apology. He threw up a fist and connected quickly. Fat-man replied and the entire
crowd exploded.
The fight ensued outside of the club Rampage. It was one of the more
popular hip-hop nightclubs in lower Manhattan. At seeing the progressing affray, two very
big, well-dressed bouncers, parted their way through and quickly put an end to it. They
pulled the two young men apart: who in truth did not want to be fighting, but were merely
caught up in the adrenaline of the movement.
There were SUVs and all manner of expensive cars parked outside, from
the Lexus to the Benz. The bouncers dressed in black suits stood at the door. There was a
railing that kept the people lined against the wall. The dense procession extended the
stretch of the block and around the corner. The line was a dichotomy of gender and style.
The women were dressed from head to toe in the most revealing, tight-fitting thing they
could have squeezed their frames into. While the men wore loose-fitting denim,
complemented by work boots or sneakers, with a T-shirt or some form of sports jersey. The
pounding music from inside was well heard. The beat beckoned the people in with baited
anticipation.
A young man at the front made his way past the bouncers and was handed
a flyer as he proceeded. Upon the flyer it read: Hip-hop speak out for justice, Speak out
for truth, Free all Political Prisoners, Fight against the war on terrorism. And on the
cover it showed a man with profound eyes, dreadlocks, and handcuffs. There was more to be
read, but the young man paid it no mind and quickly folded it into his pocket. His mind
was already well engaged with the beautiful young girl walking in front of him, keen to
the manufactured faded area about her rear. They arrived at the security check where they
were frisked. While the muscled guard grabbed at all parts of his body he was far more
concerned with the aggressive gropes that the stout female security guard addressed to the
girl. When they were finished the girl walked away and the young man approached the female
guard.
“Yo Ma, tell me how can I get yo’ job?”
She curled the corner of her lips in sarcasm and prodded him along. He
tried to catch up to the girl. He, however, entered the main floor to complete confusion.
The club was packed, the crowd thick and the music loud. He looked about without
discretion but it was all for naught. He had lost her in the shuffle of flesh and the
psychedelic pattern of lights. But within a minute he didn’t seem to mind as another
beautiful girl squeezed her way across his brow and his thoughts followed the sway of
hips.
The crowd was dense being anywhere from 1500-2000 people. While bopping
their heads to the beat and dancing as much as the space would allow they focused their
attentions toward the stage at the DJ. He was well known and by the smoothness in his
scratches, well deserving of his accolades. He was RA, the hottest DJ in the city. Above
him, an all-encompassing banner for BIN LADEN hung. Bin Laden was the most popular hip-hop
act at the time. He was the premier artist in the Crown Records roster; as such, the name
of the ubiquitous music juggernaut was imprinted alongside his. And just below Bin
Laden’s banner was another for BET Freestyle Championship; again the symbol for Crown
Records was imprinted, as Crown was the sponsor of both events.
The music began to fade as a man and a woman entered the stage. She was
a cute, medium-tanned, stocky build; well-fitted in her mix of bohemian and hip-hop. He
was a lean, tall, dark, handsome; attired in a mix of thug and preppy. They were Free and
AJ, the hosts of BET’s 106 and Park. He was the first to address the crowd, “Hey
what’s up New York, how are ya’ll doing tonight!” And Free followed,
“Yo how’s everybody doing out there? Alla ya’ll lookin’ so beautiful.
Ain’t I right AJ? Isn’t everybody just looking so good tonight?”
“You are definitely right about that, Free. Especially the sistas;
damn sistas you look good! Ya’ll making a brother have thoughts to . . .” He
then looked over to Free, who playfully slapped him on his shoulder.
“Boy, you better stop, before you get yourself beat down looking
at some other man’s woman.”
“What you talking about Free? I can handle my own now. But
you’re right, you’re right, you’re right. But I’m just sayin’
though, that the sistas look good. And ya’ll need to give yourselves a round of
applause for that.”
“Alright now everybody, do we all know why we are here?”
Reacting to Free’s question the crowd shouted out, “BIN
LADEN!”
“Yes, we are definitely here in support of our Terror boy, Bin
Laden,” Free responded. “Doing his thing, dropping the bomb shit as always. But
what else are we here for?”
The crowd again shouted out, “Freestyle Championship!”
“That’s right ya’ll, this is it,” AJ remarked.
“This is the grand championship of our Freestyle Battles, where two local unsigned
talents are going to come up on this stage and do their thing. And when it is all over,
one of them won’t be unsigned anymore, ‘cause he’s gonna walk away with a
fat-ass record deal from Crown Records, home of Bin Laden, Stalin, and Lil’ Hitler.
Not to mention also being the sponsors of our event tonight.”
The crowd cheered again as if playing a round of call and response.
“Now AJ, let’s tell the people how these two guys got here.”
“To get to this point both of them had to win an almost impossible
nine weeks in a row on our televised Freestyle Battles. It was hard work but they both did
it. And they are both here tonight to determine who is the best of the best.”
“Now, do ya’ll know who we are talking about?” Free
asked.
The crowd began to shout out, “FLAWLESS” and
“BULL”. The mob was all but evenly split between supporters of Flawless and
those of Hannibal. “Damn AJ, it looks like it’s gon’ be a war
tonight.”
“That’s right, Free; so let’s not keep the crowd waiting
anymore. Let’s get this war started. Let’s bring out my main man, Flawless the
word shifter; and the undeniable, I tell you I’m scared of this guy, Hannibal the
Cannibal.”
Flawless entered the stage from the left, and Hannibal did so from the
right. They were both attractive black men in their early 20s, of an average height and a
slim build. Flawless however was the pretty boy. He was more neatly dressed; with his
white shell-top sneakers, his light blue jeans, his black loose fitting t-shirt and his
hair: a well-cut blow-out. In his timberland boots Hannibal appeared more rugged. His
clothes were darker and baggier, his demeanor sterner and his head was bald. The crowd
reacted to the difference in their styles. The women screamed and swooned for Flawless,
while the men barked and howled for Hannibal. Through the noise they remained silent; Free
broke through the barking. “Now gentlemen, let’s get the rules straight.
Basically there are no rules. This isn’t like our televised show, so there are no
censors. Only rule is: you keep it verbal.”
“Yeah brothers, there is no need for any physicalities here. And
that goes for the audience as well. I know we all like to keep it gangsta’. But
let’s keep it peaceful as well. Keep it on the mic.”
“Without further ado, let’s get started. Flawless lost the
toss backstage, so he will be going first. There will be three rounds, one minute each.
The audience will judge the winner of each round and the best two out of three wins.”
She then looked over at both men. “Brothers are you ready? This is it. DJ turn up the
beat.”
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