The Hippo’s Soundbite

One day, a little while ago, there was a man. A nice man, with two long arms swinging to the beat of his bulging heart he bounded down the busy main road in his home town, on the way to somewhere. It was a busy road littered with houses, shops and ageing office buildings desperate for a facelift.

As he walked, the familiar chime of the town’s central, giant timepiece signalled 9 o’clock, in the am. The day was officially about to begin! He could find no reason for it to be a bad day: the sun was positively beaming and it seemed to he that the sky had welcomed a million new birds into its fold that morning, all singing the very same happy tune.

What a time to be alive.

This was a normal town, inhabited by normal people with normal expectations of an existence that fuels each and every body’s normality to the tee. Nothing unusual ever happened in this town, nor was it supposed to.

The man paced, he skipped, he almost danced along the busy road, on his way to where his journey was intended to end. But all of a sudden, something made this man stop in his tracks, grind to a screeching halt as if hit by a surprise red light (we’ve all had one of those before!) and turn, cautiously, to his left.

A… hippo?

One wasn’t supposed to see hippos in this town. It was on the outskirts of Birmingham. The man panicked for a moment. Had his housemate spiked his early morning English Breakfast tea with LSD again? Perhaps. All he could do was try and act normal. But then the hippo started talking.

At this point it’s probably important to note that hippopotomuses aren’t the cute cuddly buffoons that Walt Disney and his Fantasia world would have you believe. Hippos don’t wear tutus, or make friends with small chickens or jump around on trampolines with hilarious results. In reality, hippos are one of the most dangerous, formidable creatures on the planet Earth, with deadly jaws and running speeds of up to 35 kilometres an hour. In fact the hippo is behind only the mosquito when it comes to human deaths caused by animals in Africa every year. Ever the traditionalist, the hippo is much like a cockney matriarch in the sense that it’s ‘all about faaaaaamileeee’: if you fuck with her young then she fucks with you. It’s important to know these things before a hippo starts talking to you.

“Oi. Shit hair. You got a problem?”

This potentially beautiful day had taken a significant turn for the worse. Not only had one of the globe’s most murderous animals struck up a conversation with our man on a busy street, he was also accusing him of having shit hair. The man defensively tucked his strawberry blonde bob behind his ears. Sure it might be a little greasy but he didn’t really agree with ‘shit’. There were loads of people with shitter hair, like that girl currently standing over the other side of the busy road, with purple braids. The man was kind, a pacifist, but he was no pushover. He chose to defend himself as any sensible man should when being accused of having shit hair by a decidedly rude hippo from just outside of Birmingham. He cleared his throat.

“Ahem. It’s not… I don’t think… I’m sorry but I think that was a bit harsh. Sir.” The man’s voice trembled as he attempted to stand his ground. But who knew a hippo could be so intimidating? His hands were shaking as the hippo snarled in utter disrespect.

“Don’t give a fuck” returned the hippo. “You are what I say you are. And I say you’ve got shit hair. It’s GINGE.”

As well as being offended, our man was also somewhat confused. In all the geography books at school he’d learned that hippos could actually be quite passive. Calm herbivores that only reacted when threatened. In fact, according to the books, they spent most of the day sleeping, and it was only 10am.

“I don’t like you” grumbled the hippo, and narrowed his eyes as he gave the man a snarl. “Give me some cake. For my little boy.” The hippo nodded to a smaller hippo bouncing up and down on the pavement next to him. The man hadn’t noticed the little fucker at first, but now he was well aware of its yappy, hungry presence.

He rolled his eyes. This was becoming ridiculous. Not only had the hippo interupted an otherwise happy day, the hippo had openly mocked his appearance and was now asking for food. This was NOT ok. Plus he didn’t have any cake to share, he was actually on his way to the bakery before the hippo had started talking to him.

“Give me some fucking cake, bitch. The boy’s hungry.”

The man snapped.

“Excuse ME!” he replied. “NO! No I will NOT give you cake, I will not listen to you saying nasty things to me and thinking you’ll get away with it just because you’re bigger and more murderous than I am. I will not have it! I don’t care if I had all the cake in the world! If I had all the cake in the world it would be mine, and I would certainly not give it to that little cretin you call a son!”

Filled with pride, the man began to walk away. He wanted to beat the bakery queues.

But he had committed the cardinal sin, for everyone knows if you fuck with a hippo’s child you fuck with them, and they attack. No one calls a hippo’s child a cretin and gets away with it. So as the man started to step the hippo turned, opened his mouth in a rage to reveal a set of terrifying teeth, each one the same size as the man’s very own head. The hippo roared, the spit flying from its throat as it prepared for its next victim. In just a second the jaws chomped down, and the man’s left arm and shoulder were gone, only a stump in its place, with blood shooting from the hole where the start of a limb used to be.

Oh dear God, thought the man, as the hippo and its cretinous son sped away into the leafy suburbs at no more but no less than 35 kilometres per hour. That hippo has just bitten off my arm.

He fell to the floor, his whole body in shock and stiff with pain. The floor where he lay was now covered in blood, which was very quickly turning from a puddle into a river. This was not the day that the man was expecting. To be lying on the floor, in immeasurable agony, close to dying, after being attacked by a hippo. But the man had faith in humankind, and waited for somebody to run over and help him. He still had time. Any…second…now.

But three seconds, four seconds, five seconds passed, and no one came. People were walking by and over him, as he lay on the floor of the busy road, armless and in the kind of pain that is so all-encompassing that it cannot even be described. Did his injuries appear too brutal? Is that why no one would help? Because they were worried that they might make things worse?

Five minutes, six minutes, seven minutes passed, and still no one came to save him, or even ask him how he was, as he lay on the floor with only one arm and a mound of bloody flesh in place of the other. This was turning out to be a horrible day, all things considered.

However. After ten minutes, another man approached. There’s some things you should know about this man — let’s call him man number two. Man number two had a light blue rucksck with him, and inside the light blue rucksack was some plasters and some bandages and perhaps even a prosthetic arm, we can’t be sure. Man number two also had the local ambulance on speeddial on his phone — it was a special number that gets the ambulance to you in less than half a minute.

‘Thank fuck’, thought man number one. Things are looking up. This man has come to save me!

But as man number two approached, he stopped short, and dropped his light blue rucksack onto the floor, approximately two metres away. What good is it helping a soul in need if there is no other soul to see you do it? He looked around him. And started to shout.

“WON’T SOMEBODY HELP THIS MAN! WE HAVE A HIPPO ATTACK HERE!”

People started to look. A woman screamed. Man number two shouted again.

“LOOK AT THE INJUSTICE! SOMETHING MUST BE DONE TO SAVE THIS MAN!”

A crowd was starting to gather. Our first man was filled with hope, as he lay, curled in a ball, convulsing.

“But… but you can help me?” he whispered, as his body became numb. “You have plasters and bandages and perhaps even a protesthic arm in your rucksack! I’d love you to help me, if you don’t mind, because if you helped me you might just save my life!”

Man number two seemed not to hear. There was an even bigger crowd forming. People were taking selfies. “This, my friends, is enough. I am sick of these hippos, walking along our streets and biting off the arms of innocent men. We must come together and fight the hippos. NO MORE HIPPOS BITING OFF PEOPLE’S ARMS! THIS IS IT! IT’S OVER!”

Man number two was being surrounded by journalists, desperate for a soundbite. “I’ll give you a soundbite!” exclaimed the man. “Stop biting innocent people! How does that sound? Something simply must be done. Who will join me in doing something to stop all these hippo-related accidents on our streets, just outside of Birmingham?”

Some children had started to cry. Man number two hugged them, in consolation. “There there,” he said. Somehow, a TV crew had appeared, and man number two was being interviewed about the terrible thing that had happened that day — the hippo attack.

The man on the floor, the victim of the hippo attack, tried to get some attention from the journalists and the children and the TV crew. “Could you… could you help… me? Please? I’m in awful pain and I need a bandage.” But the clicks of the cameras and the on-air babble of a hundred news anchors was drowning out the poor man’s pleas.

As the rabble lifted man number two in the air, primed for a crowd-surf, he began to hum a tune. A brisk, jaunty tune with a catchy chorus. “No more hipooooooos” he sang. “They are our Fooooooes.” “NO MORE HIPOOOOOOOS!” repeated the crowd “NO MORE HIPPOOOOOOOOOS!” Passers-by started to Shazam the song. It was going to be a hit! David Guetta announced a remix. The Queen arrived, and delivered man number two an OBE, just there on the spot.

While all this was happening the man — the first man, that is — slowly died. As he died, he wondered maybe whether this was all his fault. He’d been silly, probably, even stopping to talk to the hippo in the first place. In hindsight he’d overreacted, when the hippo had said his hair was shit. It WAS a little bit shit, or greasy at least. And all anybody wants to do is feed their child, he should have sympathised. The man cursed himself as he thought back at all the things he should have done, to prevent this untimely end.

This was a sad situation though because the man hadn’t wanted to die. He’d wanted to go to the bakery. What a weird day, he thought. To wake up positive and bounce along to your destination, not knowing that this destination would be your final. It’s so very, very sad! And unfair, I suppose.

But for man number two of course, that hippo’s bite was the greatest thing that had ever, ever happened, and he thanked his lucky stars.