A Funeral Fit for a Bootstrap Hustler
The room smelled of stale incense and old ambition. A beat-up wooden podium stood at the front, flanked by two plastic folding chairs that had seen too many church basements and PTA meetings. The coffin was closed—of course, it was. No one could afford the embalming fees. This was a bootstrap funeral, the kind where respect for the dead had to fit within the constraints of a meager budget. And as far as bootstrap funerals go, this one was fit for a hustler.
The faded fluorescent lights flickered as if mourning in their own dim way. A few folks shuffled in, some with curious expressions, others dragging their feet as though guilt had guided them here. The guest list was as patchwork as the life being memorialized—industry players who’d felt the sting of betrayal, artists who never got their royalties, and a couple of lawyers who probably came to make sure no one opened their mouths too wide.
A lone trumpet player stood in the corner, his instrument duct-taped at the bell. He played an off-key rendition of “Victory” that somehow felt poetic. There were no lavish floral arrangements, just a half-dead bouquet someone grabbed last-minute from the clearance bin at the grocery store. A wilted “RIP GILMORE” banner hung crookedly across the room, barely clinging to the peeling paint.
The program was short. No eulogies, no heartfelt speeches. Just a slideshow projected on a makeshift screen—a cracked wall with some duct tape holding it together. The images flickered between grainy photos of lavish parties, extravagant performances, and behind-the-scenes interviews; just the best parts of the many public access shows the deceased produced and hosted. But the captions, read aloud by a voice trembling with disillusionment, told a darker story: “Artist exploited,” “Contract manipulated,” “Legacy tarnished” “Serial Entrepreneur erased.”
Then came the closing act. The lights dimmed, and a grainy, black-and-white video began to play. It was a bootleg from another public access show circa 1996, the era when hustlers like me operated with nothing but dreams and duct tape. The footage showed me, younger, hungrier, standing behind the same kind of rickety podium, pitching my magazine, my public access show, and my live events to anyone who would listen.
“This is how you start with nothing,” I had said, waving a hand toward my minimal setup. “And if you play your cards right, you won’t end with nothing.”
The room faded, and the cheap funeral dissolved into nothing more than a dreamscape—a surreal warning, a reflection of what happens when you lose sight of your roots and succumb to greed.
Back to Reality
“The Fall of Diddy” premieres in two days on Investigation Discovery, but this isn’t just a documentary about one man’s misdeeds. It’s a cautionary tale about what happens when ambition turns predatory, when the hustle morphs into harm.
It’s been years since my bootstrap days, but I’ve never forgotten what it means to build something from the ground up. I didn’t have big budgets or shiny promises. I had grit, integrity, and a respect for the people who supported my vision. That’s the difference between a legacy built on lies and one built on truth.
So, as the world tunes in to The Fall of Diddy, remember this: a bootstrap hustler’s funeral doesn’t have to be a cheap one—not if you build something real. And not if you stay relentless.
Two days to go. Let’s hold people accountable, even in their absence.
