Death

Stop Being Greedy

“Niggas wanna shout, I’ma make noise…”

I was 11 years old when I first heard Earl Simmons in- retrospectively- possibly the most ill-fitting space possible. Ma$e, Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, and No Limit Records were the soundtrack of my childhood. And Tupac. Ostentation, melody, and the wonderfully nascent New Orleans bounce melody. And Tupac. It was what resonated and became the foundation of what I believed to be what rap music embodied. Tupac died and the ostentation and melody marched on triumphantly. It was so sumptuous and magnificent and excellent. It was goals and joyfulness and hope that I could dance in all white in a desert for no reason other than simply having the means to do something so absurd. Tupac meant a lot to me even then, but PUFFY AND MA$E WERE ON A HELICOPTER WITH MARIAH CAREY IN A SKINTIGHT SWIMSUIT IN GOD KNOWS WHERE. Young, malleable me imprinted that and correlated it with being successful. And happy. That was all rap needed to be at that point.

“Let my man and them stay pretty, but I’ma stay shitty/Cruddy, did it all for the money, is you with me?”

Mentioning Bad Boy Records is important to understand DMX’s impact as an artist certainly, but even more so as the beloved icon he became during his lifetime. His rise is inextricably linked to Bad Boy, but only in the context of what he was not. Puff worked with X and featured him twice on that Ma$e album, but only in the capacity to further Ma$e’s credibility with those that would never be carefree and rich and drunk on a body of water with Mariah Carey in a skintight swimsuit in God knows where, as was Bad Boy’s aesthetic at the time. When the opportunity came to sign DMX, Puffy knew he didn’t fit into that ethos and couldn’t be glossed up by the 1970s samples and opulent lifestyle that the late Notorious B.I.G. flawlessly (and inexplicably) pulled off. It wasn’t a mutual fit, and for all the questionable things Puffy/Diddy/P. Diddy/Papa/Papa Diddy Pop probably needs to answer for over the course of his career, this was not one of them.

“I wanna break bread with the cats I starve with/Wanna hit the malls with the same dogs I rob with”

X was quite literally a born loser. He said it himself. He talked about robbing people with the introspection of a person that hated the circumstance, but not necessarily the action itself. However, everything he did was in spite. In spite of the circumstance. In spite of chance. In spite of consequence. Rap is rooted in overcoming odds. But DMX overcame the Goddamned IMPOSSIBLE at a Goddamned impossible time. I could and would talk about his career objectively forever, and I really mean forever. But this is not about that. Not quite. This is why what he wasn’t meant so much to ME.

The spring of 1998 was a line of demarcation that defines me to this very day. The innocuous joy and blissful stupidity slipped out of my view from the window of a two-door Ford Explorer as my mother and I made our way from MY home in West Nashville to a place that somehow felt simultaneously relative and foreign in Washington, DC. Nothing was new to me, yet everything seemed novel. This wasn’t anything I was unfamiliar with, yet the status quo readjusted itself unbeknownst to my sensibilities. It was a shock, and I am ever so grateful for it.

It’s Dark and Hell is Hot brazenly pulled an entire group of rap fans that became comfortable with its’ luxurious bluster into the hungry, raw, and incredibly conflicted world that was Earl Simmons. It was an inflection point that essentially derided everything rap was, and became something that rap was allowed to be going forward. There was no bliss because in this world blissfulness and delusion were synonymous; here, reality trumped ecstasy. Everything seemed relatable, yet foreign in DMX’s world. You could have very well been the person X was, because that was the microcosm he drew you into. But most of us weren’t that at all, yet we stayed to not only root him on, but to love this man. DMX never scared me. If anything, I spent more time being scared that the lingering demons he spoke so often and candidly about would swallow him way too prematurely. I feared that maybe he wouldn’t get to see his impact during his lifetime. And in his death, it was very evident this was never the case.

Like so many of the prevailing themes in his music, I was conflicted about the possibility DMX would not make it through. When it became more evident that this fight was not one he would find a way to win, my thoughts went to his family and the people close to him that helped assuage our collective grief by their beautiful and illuminating insights, stories, and anecdotes about Dark Man X. They made me feel good about the life the man lived and the happiness that he was able to enjoy while he had the opportunity to do so. It made his passing a celebration. And what immediately hit me afterward were two things: the man’s life became an extension of our own simply from his existence; and I feel shitty for being so entitled to that access.

“Y’all been eatin’ long enough, dawg, stop being greedy”

There’s a platitude commonly used in sports that just kept reverberating in my mind after his passing: he left it all on the floor. That everything a person had to give was exhausted for the sake of competition, and the adoration of his or her fans and detractors alike. The notion that when an athlete walks away, we the fans are placated with the idea that it was all done FOR US. That somehow the object of our affection, scorn, and criticism could somehow sleep easier knowing that the people that shouldn’t matter thought he or she did a good job. And I hate applying this to DMX, but the parallels are unmistakably present in a way that many other artists are lucky to never be beholden to. DMX gave us his heart; he allowed us to celebrate with him, while being vulnerable enough to introduce and accept his weaknesses. It was the hope that he would always find a way to rise above, to be better than we could ever hope to be in light of our OWN circumstances, much less his own. It was the self-deprecation that he invoked in his misgivings. It was the light that shone off of his genuine amazement that he became what he became. It was so much. Too much for us, really. And it’s why I feel such joy for having this person in our collective lives. Because we never deserved him. And at the same time, I feel very comfortable expounding on his meaning to ME. DMX reveled in intimacy in so many ways that it became selfishly hard to let him go. HE BELONGS TO US GOD, PLEASE DON’T TAKE HIM FROM US became, in so many iterations, how every single one of us felt. It became the moment when we realized the champion and fighter needed to win one more incredibly overmatched battle, very much in the ways cancer, ALS, and the like, compel us to urge our loved ones to fight tirelessly for our own sake. It’s out of a love forged from the uncertainty of life without their contributions, somehow well-intentioned and centered around our own adherence to someone else’s strength being our own when it was never ours to begin with.

The scariest thing about letting him go is admitting that his incredible resilience bolstered my own. That his 50 years on this earth were not wrought by struggle so much as an otherworldly ability to overcome it. That this nigga was simply not human, and maybe he could be as fallible as humans tend to be. The beauty of DMX for me laid within the idea that the soul he bared to us was one so flawed that his unbelievable talent on a microphone both superseded and served to reinforce the notion maybe there is greatness in all of us, when that is a wholly fictional and nonexistent concept in large. What he was…IS…is a beacon. An ideal. The image of the good inside of us in spite of. None of us will ever be him, but IN HIM we felt less haunted by what our imperfections can obfuscate. He was strong because he was exceptional, and I am me because of the belief that I could be exceptional too. I thank you, DMX, for that. I thank you for showing me strength doesn’t reside solely in apathy or indifference. I thank you for showing me that being true to self is not weakness. I thank you for…just being. And I thank your family so much for understanding his willingness to give so much to us, entirely aware of how much people such as myself needed that validation to turn pain into light.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Still

Baby, you can lay there.

Baby, you don’t have to go out. Your friends seem to want you too, though.

I want to be forgotten, yet remembered. I want to be the one to poison my ego, not them. Why aren’t they sad about me being sad? Hell, is she? But really, how are they so happy when I can’t seem to be? What don’t I understand?

Baby, you dragged me to that used CD shop and your face lit up and you picked up this Terence Trent D’Arby album. I don’t know how you came to know about him, but you put this in my hands and…your face; baby your mouth curved up at one end. It wasn’t a smile but…but I have to take what I can get. You handed this to me and held your hands out. You weren’t begging, but you darted your eyes back and forth between the CD case and the counter, just hoping. And I didn’t think twice about it; anything to give you happiness is a small price to pay…

Music has dictated my mood for as long as I can remember. It’s emboldened me enough to throw eggs through your windshields. It’s infused me with enough confidence to saunter up behind your girlfriend at a pre-dawn. It’s blared through my headphones on the train, helping me forget that where I arrive is a stop, and not a destination. It’s helped me to believe, to dream, to cry, to pontificate, to seduce…to fucking smile. Knowing that, why can’t it get me off this couch?

Baby, I want to see you smiling. I-I just don’t know what to do and I can’t lie to you; I wish that I could, because seeing you like this makes me sad.

I remember when you would run around my office building, selling your paintings and writings to my coworkers for fifty cents. They couldn’t believe anybody so young had the confidence you had, baby…

I remember how much Christmas meant to you; baby, I would hang your stocking up over the TV and watch your face when you reached in it for our 12 days of Christmas. I used to cringe when you would go up that ladder to hang lights on our gutters, but you smiled the entire time and I just, I..uh…I don’t know where that kid went. 

Maybe I’ve been insensitive. Maybe I just don’t understand. I don’t know. I just miss my baby. 

The television illuminated the room, as it was the only light that flowed in, even in the midday. The shades were completely drawn closed. The sight of barren lawns and naked shrubbery only served as conduits and understandable excuses. That TV failed to brighten anything other than my complete disinterest.

Baby, what happened?

Baby…please, PLEASE tell me how I can help you. 

…I ju…I just don’t know what to do, Joan. He won’t move. No…he hasn’t said much of anything. My baby is hurting and I don’t know…I-I don’t know, Joan…

The sun’s sudden intensity shone directly on my face, making my lower eyelids flinch painfully upward, as they barely had to shield my bloodshot eyes over the past week. Why was she still here? And- for the love of everything holy- why did she open these curtains??

My back yelled at me as I adjusted myself. My legs seemed to exhale as I straightened them out onto the arm of the couch. My neck resigned itself to an uncomfortable state of commiseration and had completely gone numb; it had no plans of returning during my sudden readjustment. My stomach growled, awakened at the idea that its’ host may not be dead after all. My shoulder, completely defying my brain’s wishes, relaxed at her touch.

Baby, I tried; I made an appointment for you. This isn’t you. Not this time of year. You aren’t yourself. I can’t force you to do shit but- for my health- please see this specialist I found. Happy birthday.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World Of Oddities

Maxwell’s Silver Hammer

“Joan was quizzical; studied pataphysical

Science in the home.

Late nights all alone with a test tube.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Maxwell Edison, majoring in medicine,

Calls her on the phone.

“Can I take you out to the pictures,

Joa, oa, oa, oan?”

But as she’s getting ready to go,

A knock comes on the door…”

Do you know the story of Victor? Did you empathize with his heartache? Could you fault him for delving into his experiments as an escape from his sorrow? Seriously…have you heard this story? The one about the young scientist chipping away at human limitation, one oversized limb at a time? Can you imagine yourself as the engineer of such a destructive force? Do you know the story of Victor and the creature that destroyed things that did not understand him? Do you know the story of the creature that came to be known as Frankenstein? Surely you know how this creature evokes fear and revulsion amongst the “civil” world? Do you know the story of Victor Frankenstein, the creator of a savage that has taken the brunt of the burden for his own indiscretion?

They’re hopeless, and want what you have. They want your opportunity, your privilege, your resources; hell, they’ll settle for your general right to exist. What they have is a set of very limited options and detrimental influences. They’re hopeless, and will TAKE what you have, right? If that were even possible. If they weren’t confined to the South Side of Chicago, tucked conveniently away and left to prey on each other, that is. The savages- by design- have their habitat, and you have yours.

Has history painted Victor in nearly the same light as his creation? Or has the iniquity fallen solely on a creature that struggled to come to terms with such a dismal reality? Why is there no outcry for the lack of opportunity by those with the ability to provide such? Why is one viewed as a sympathetic figure, while the other has been labeled a savage nuisance? Furthermore, why is their so-called “barbarity” met with a convenient obliviousness? Why is their existence condemned?

Accountability rarely falls onto those in position to create change. That responsibility somehow falls onto those trapped in an environment of someone else’s creation. Savages created and placed in less than ideal conditions…

Victor eventually came to understand the error in his judgment. His recklessness afforded him a place as the victim. Hindsight has deemed him the tragic genius. He was unfortunate enough to create something that should not have been and a system in place that he himself would object to. He is pitied, while the true victims are admonished. But pointing out that dichotomy is frowned upon…

The protests and discussions are all well and fine. Town halls to address Black on Black violence open a very important dialogue, but where do YOU go after you leave these conventions? Home, away from the turmoil that surrounds the very people you claim to “educate” and “help”. Weird how quickly hollow intelligence dissolves into an obtuse, sheltered, wiggity-wack bunch of fuckboys, huh?

Yet you come and tell them they’re all a bunch of insensible animals…

Trapped. Isolated. Far-removed. But THEY’RE the ones lacking self-awareness…

Do you remember when the savage murdered Frankenstein’s family? You don’t, because that literary device just may make you face your guilt. And who wants that when deflecting is simpler, right? Right??

You remember the monster. You remember the damage, disruption, and disorder. The unabashed anger and brazen savagery from this beast. But do you remember how he was created? South Side wasn’t made by Us; it was created.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Transcendent

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but they ain’t never gon’ forget how they made a muhfucka feel.”

-Maya Angelou, loosely quoted

We tend to qualify greatness. Outside factors and variables matter to us almost as much as inherent talent. ‘He or she was great, BUT…’; ‘(insert generational talent) would never be as great in (insert timespan of most reverence), etc. So much is contingent on the hypothetical, we can overlook what’s happening before our very eyes. Nostalgia also skews the way we view things. At best, we’re subjective and fair. At our most typical, we hold some dearly simply because their art is representative of something special in our lives. We rarely ever produce a fair assessment of an artist OR their work, but judging from the reaction of Prince’s death, it’s fair to use his art only as a background to how the man HIMSELF made us all feel.

Even in death, there are very few entertainers held in universal reverence. It’s usually through a combination of death and eventual change in societal consciousness that we retroactively applaud our luminaries. Admiration is a minefield most of our heroes and idols fail to successfully navigate. Hindsight often serves to capture our stars at their brightest and encapsulate them at their finest and most virtuous, despite how polarizing their careers may have been. The immediacy of death tends to bring forth a collective- and selective- stroll through our memories. While we’re all mining our sadness for the nuggets of joy Prince provided us throughout the years, it’s in the varied arrivals to our solace that make him uniquely great.

So why do you love him?

Of course, the tangible reasons are all there, the music being the most obvious and, perhaps, the least important of all. We loved the music then, and we’ll cherish it even more now. His SOUND has become so ubiquitous and (poorly) imitated, the fact his own catalog remains so exclusive and inaccessible is brilliantly ironic. Few artists can ooze eroticism while largely eschewing misogyny. Fewer still can seamlessly reappear every few years with the exact same aplomb with which he captivated us all. Even fewer can do this (look at Tom Petty’s face; he’s out here hating sooooooo hard).

But why do We love him?

THEY say he transcended race. OTHERS say he succeeded in spite of it. OUR arms were wrapped tightly around him because We knew how content he was in them, to hell with who demanded anything different. He won Their awards, and still let Us know how much pride he felt to still win his own. He knew Our lives mattered, and We cherished his in earnest.

Why does she love him?

“Heeeeeeey Valentina, tell yo mama she should give me a call…”

…Because of shit like that.

Why does she AND he love him?

There was an intangible, yet definitive aura about him. Our indoctrinated concepts of masculinity got shattered underneath a pair of purple high heels. Here a man stood at 5’7”- 5’2” without those heels- both resonating with men about his Broken Heart (Again) and usurping the hearts of their women, one chord at a time. Here this man stood, clad in purple velvet pants and a white blouse, the envy of all that became enamored in his dimples and curly hair and brazen sexuality. Here stood a man so comfortable in his masculinity that he could both reassure and disappoint us all in a mere six lines. His sexuality was unarguably concrete, yet incredibly fluid. How could we ever object either way?

To hear Prince speak and act was a pleasure in itself. To see him perform was otherworldly. The man gave us everything: intrigue, insightfulness, mystery, passion, ambiguity, comedy, and utter pettiness whenever we so desired. We love him for so many reasons; we’re all hurt because of one.

Why do I mourn?

Because the one man I thought to be immortal fell. Because someone so supernatural is susceptible to the same vices, diseases, and misfortune as I. Because his death makes me acutely aware of my own mortality. I’ve always thought I could die at any time; the death of Prince only serves to force me to KNOW I could. Because someone so unaffected by the constraints of space and time as Prince could suddenly succumb to them. Because Prince never showed up to your event, he materialized. Because Prince never walked onto a stage, he floated. Because Prince never spoke, he summoned the words from the air left vacant by our bated breath. Because Prince never began, he just was. The man is magical, so there will never be an end. And because of that, he will always be.

“Everybody’s going Uptown; that’s where I wanna be…”

From my Uptown to yours in the sky, I wish you peace. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

The 13th Floor

“Something’s gotta change

Sounds of laughter and happiness turn my teardrops to rain

Been bearing this burden for too many of my days

Looks like breezes of Autumn done finally blew my way

Like memories of yesterday…”

-“13th Floor/Growing Old”

Play this song- and nothing else- at my funeral. Please and thank you.

When I think about death, the first thing that comes to mind is that creepy ass song the choir was singing at the beginning of “Tha Crossroads” video. I don’t know what age normal, well-adjusted people come to terms with their own mortality- I would guess sometime after you wake up and realize your body doesn’t work and your face looks like a soggy pork chop- but I remember becoming very aware of my own death right after that video. Like IMMEDIATELY after seeing that video. Since that point, I oftentimes think about how and when I may die. And it freaks people the HELL out.

We’re not talking about my actual death today, though (January 1, 2026. Shot. Vegas Strip. Preferably over something asinine as hell). It’s just crazy to have discussions with other people and they, in large part, tend to deflect any talk regarding their deaths. It’s like the ‘I Don’t See Color’ argument for your inevitable reaaaaally long nap, but whatever.

Death is one thing; what you’re leaving behind is another. And all too often, we see people leaving behind children that aren’t even old enough to fully understand the concept of death, much less process it. It’s also stealing away a significant piece of their innocence long before the world, and life in general, gets its chance. And when I compare that to my life as a 29 year-old man with no kids, I get so disheartened by my next thought: I’m going to have to try so much harder to not die if I have a child.

Don’t misinterpret “not trying my hardest to not die” as “I’m determined to end it all” because that is simply not true. Being alive is great; I just don’t want to have to try insanely hard to do it, though. As long as I can play video games and laugh at people calling Internet strangers ‘fatherless’ on Twitter, I’m good. I might start to lose that lust for life the day my body gives out and I can’t play basketball or hit the batting cages, but hopefully I have time. If I start shitting on myself and have to be wheeled around with a weak ass shawl covering my bony legs, then I’ll know I never truly had any friends because somebody should have locked me in their garage and turned the car on like ten years prior. I heard getting old is glorious or whatever, buuuuuut…that’s really not my thing. I’ll be cool if I accidentally break my whole neck in a freak accident involving a belt, two Brazilian hand models, four candles and a cheese grater at like 55. I was going somewhere with this at one point…

Oh, yeah. Kids force you to try harder to stay alive. That’s a lot of responsibility and pressure, dude. That means I’d have to start watching my sodium intake, start going to doctors that actually speak English, and stop dressing like an approachable drug dealer. No more using Old Bay like a dipping sauce. No more Slim Jims and orange soda for breakfast. No more raw shrimp and chicken seasoning for snacks. No more going to bars where there’s a very real possibility I might get hit over the head with an empty Scotch tumbler (I’m from D.C.; even the thugs are bourgeois now). So basically I have to give up everything I love. So yeah, I might not die as soon, but damnit I apparently won’t be dying happy, either.

I know at this point it sounds like I’m complaining, which is convenient because that is EXACTLY WHAT I’M DOING. I fear the day I no longer have the option to take a bunch of Ketamine and drive down sidewalks at 3am with no headlights on. Not something I’ve done before but hey…never know what I’ll be interested in in my 30s. Never say never, amiright? But for all my complaining, I say that to say this: I, and most of you, will gladly make that sacrifice each and every time. It would be a very nominal thing to do, in fact. It’s not about us living for others; it’s about staying alive for others. I live for me; I’m selfish that way. But to want to be around just to see pieces of you grow and experience life is so instinctive and innate, it kind of makes me believe that despite so, so, SO many acts of hatred we have witnessed as of late, most people are intrinsically good and just. I just want to be able to look in my child’s eyes and tell him or her that I’m trying my hardest to stay alive. I also want to look a woman in the eye and promise her I’ll never die right before we have sex like that scene in Team America so…I mean…take my words with the grain of salt I guess I might have to stop eating one day.

I only hope my friends aren’t assholes; they better wait until I’m dead to start dying themselves. How selfish would it be to make me feel bad for missing your funerals, man? Have some class. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

TAOTFH: Heaven’s Boogie

“Jesus, this guy is good.”

“I know, my son,” a booming voice acknowledged from somewhere behind those tall, glittering gates…

Well shit…how the hell am I getting into Heaven if I can’t even beat the first person? A slight breeze whipped by my neck and caused my shoulders to tremble a little.

Three days ago

It had only been about 30 minutes since waking up in this place, on a cot in a cabin made of finished oak. There were rows of beds stretched endlessly in either direction. On my left, a man gyrated to whatever was playing in his earbuds. He didn’t seem old at all- I would have guessed 24 at the most- and sweat flew from his long, brown hair as he moved. Another young man on my right swatted at the air wildly. A bright red pair of Beats By Dre slid about which each gesture. After looking around, I realized everybody had some sort of headphone on. Most moved frantically, some danced, and others lay on their beds quietly. Confused, I searched around for some sort of clue as to why I was here with these people. Finally I found a small box sealed shut with masking tape. I ripped it open and found my own pair of Beats By Dre connected to a black iPod Touch. As I placed the headphones over my head, the iPod magically turned on and a deep, soothing voice began to explain everything I desperately wanted to know.

“On the evening of January 12, 2015, you were shot 3 times; twice in your chest and once in your head. You were unresponsive and left your Earthly life almost immediately. Although you were young in age- 29- you have left quite a polarizing impression on Heaven’s Acceptance Committee. This committee, comprised of the 12 Apostles of Nazareth, was not able to come to a unanimous decision regarding your acceptance or denial into The Kingdom of The Lord. Because of their conflict, you were sent here, to the Purgatory Appeals Program. As such, you and everyone you see here will be forced to win your way into Heaven via a dance-off competition against Heaven’s elite. You will face three opponents that will be chosen at random and will dance to the song of your choice. Defeating all three will result in your acceptance into God’s Kingdom. However, should you lose to the first, you will be sentenced to an eternity in Hellfire. Should you lose to the second, you will be sent back to Purgatory where you will have the opportunity to win your way into Heaven again in five years. Should you defeat both but lose to your final opponent, you will be sent back to Earth to resume your life. This iPod will allow you to play any song of your choosing. Your dance-off will be held in three days in The Golden Gates-Courtyard Marriott Center in East Cloud, Outer Heaven. Good luck, my son…”

Well shit…

Round 1: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Silas of Macedonia

 “D.J. Taz! That’s riiiiiiiiiiight! That’s riiiiiiiiiiie-i-e-iiiiiiight!!!”

Silas’ shoulders bobbed up and down as he worked his pelvis into the most unimaginable positions. He was nearly through his three-minute set and didn’t seem to tire at all. There was a one-legged Butterfly, then a Sprinkler. His transitions were seamless and his brown robe flapped around his bare feet for added effect. At this point, getting into Heaven wasn’t even my goal; I wanted those five years of practice to work on serving this fool something fierce. I didn’t think my routine was going to cut it. My only hope was to surprise the judges with my song selection…

“And we began to Rock…Steady! Steeeady rockin’ all night long! Rock…Steady! Rockin’ to the break of dawn!!!”

It was over after those first horns played over the Cloud’s iCloud storage and speaker system. The committee ate it up. John’s eyebrows arched all the way to the top of his forehead. Philip jumped up from his seat and yelled “YOOOOOOO” at the top of his lungs. Even Simon, the most reserved of the 12, ran from the table, covering his mouth the whole time. I had them.

A couple aggressive two-steps and stop-and-go heartbeat pantomimes sent that bum Silas to the sidelines with his rosary beads clenched firmly in his fist. I doubled over in laughter when David ran up to him screaming ‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH’ while extending a finger at Silas’ neck. If they’re all going to be this easy, then maybe I’ll get to see what these Golden Strippers working with, after all…

Round 2: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Rachel of Paddan Aram

“Drop it down on it! Made me get a couple bands drop it down on it! Make you get a couple friends drop it down on it! Turn around drop it down, drop it down on it! Do it for a real nigga, do it for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’ for a real nigga! Go and do somethin’ for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’!”

This shit was so unfair for so many reasons. First, Rachel wasn’t even dancing; she sat there and twerked for three minutes! The committee was all male, what could I possibly do to top this? Jacob ran over and started throwing gold coins at her as she took it low. Even I had a hard time not throwing these Earth dollars at her; this broad was going OFF! At that moment, I knew my Dougie wasn’t going to do ANYTHING. I had to change things up on the fly…

“MITCH CAUGHT A BODY BOUT A WEEK AGO!!!!”

I grabbed Jacob’s halo and threw that shit seven rows deep into the crowd of angels. My only hope was to do something so shocking that everyone would forget about Rachel throwing that thang around the arena floor. Until that point, I stayed pretty calm, doing some Bankhead Bounces and soft finger snaps. I hoped that made the halo toss seem even more disrespectful. I think it worked, too. Jacob stood by Rachel furious, but didn’t move because any disqualification would result in an automatic win for me. The committee was full of wide eyes and disbelief, so I jumped on their table and did my most violent Elmo Shmoney Dance; scrolls and cloaks flew everywhere. They had no choice but to advance me. I pointed two fingers at James and told him I’d get to tweakin’ on him if he didn’t…

Final Round: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Jesus of Nazareth

Jesus walked slowly to the dance area in a black robe and red and black Converses. Mickey Mantle and Wish Bone’s Uncle Charles flanked him as Steve Jobs held a Beats Pill over his head. “No Problem” by Lil’ Scrappy filled the air and Jobs twirled around like one of those girls at boxing matches with the big ass cards waving about. I knew I didn’t want it with this guy, but I had come too far to not get in to see these strippers. Jesus threw his robe into the overzealous audience and Jobs dropped the beat…

*The results of this battle are undisclosed. However, it can be assumed The Fly Hobo lost, as he was resuscitated at 1:37AM in Grady Memorial Hospital*

I can remember everything but that last battle. I will go to my (next) death convinced I was robbed, though. Oh yeah, Jesus is 4’11” with a thick Cajun drawl. Just so, you know, you’re not surprised when you meet him…

Silas and Rachel ain’t want this work. The Fly Hobo: The 2015 New TestaMOVE runner-up. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of the Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities