“Why don’t you take that offer, stuff it into your gob, and chew on it, you jackhead?” you say.
Duckett, smugly smiling until then whirls around. He’s not smiling now. “You can’t possibly mean that.”
“I don’t like being pushed around, not on the field by all-American central bloviators and not by the NCAA,” you say.
“Yeah, dude, chew on it!” Moods chimes in.
“I was serious when I said I don’t want to suspend you. And I’m sorry if I drive a hard bargain, but this Wump Magnassasson is bad news for contact squabbling. I am no longer threatening you. I am asking you to please reconsider.”
“Why is this guy so bad?” you ask. “He just wants to give us pants.”
“That’s just the beginning,” Duckett says.
“Hey bro, I’ve reconsidered,” Moods says. “Chew it.”
“Well, it’s a shame,” Duckett says. “A shame.”
Events move quickly. You and Moods are quickly found guilty of receiving pants by an NCAA tribunal and removed from the team. There is an outcry. A woman writes to the paper calling you a “pants-demon.” The team, without you and Moods, does not even make it to the quarterfinals and Coach Mansz gets fired for “a lack of institutional control.” You try to tough it out through the semester, but it’s impossible. Professors call on you as “Mr. Pants.” You quietly withdraw.
You and Moods end up joining his uncle’s stage fighting and theatrical spitting studio, dejectedly teaching people how to karate chop near each other and grab their stomachs, bend over, and yell HRRRMMMFFFF to show they’ve been hit in the belly. You appeal the suspension and, after years of expensive litigation, the NCAA rescinds the penalty. Buck Duckett acted in violation of the NCAA’s policies against entrapment. You and Moods were not the only ones. There was a pattern. But it’s too late for you and Moods. Duckett disappears.
Five years later, you and Moods are finishing your evening advanced head-butts class when a man with a clipboard comes in. He is selling fake heads that can look believably kicked. Your jaw drops when you see him. It’s Duckett. He’s startled too.
“Get out,” you say. “Get the heck out of here, Duckett.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know. I’m making a circuit of all of the kicking establishments. I’ll just leave a catalog. But you know…”
“Duckett, leave,” you say.
“You know, we could have had him. He set me up too. He set us both up. Wump. Used you to get to me, the way I tried to use you to get to him. You know, it was never about the pants. I see that now.”
You look out from the window and see him getting into his trash-strewn car. He drives off into the distance and as he does you think about the number of lives shattered by a single cache of pants buried in the woods.
The End
Duckett, smugly smiling until then whirls around. He’s not smiling now. “You can’t possibly mean that.”
“I don’t like being pushed around, not on the field by all-American central bloviators and not by the NCAA,” you say.
“Yeah, dude, chew on it!” Moods chimes in.
“I was serious when I said I don’t want to suspend you. And I’m sorry if I drive a hard bargain, but this Wump Magnassasson is bad news for contact squabbling. I am no longer threatening you. I am asking you to please reconsider.”
“Why is this guy so bad?” you ask. “He just wants to give us pants.”
“That’s just the beginning,” Duckett says.
“Hey bro, I’ve reconsidered,” Moods says. “Chew it.”
“Well, it’s a shame,” Duckett says. “A shame.”
Events move quickly. You and Moods are quickly found guilty of receiving pants by an NCAA tribunal and removed from the team. There is an outcry. A woman writes to the paper calling you a “pants-demon.” The team, without you and Moods, does not even make it to the quarterfinals and Coach Mansz gets fired for “a lack of institutional control.” You try to tough it out through the semester, but it’s impossible. Professors call on you as “Mr. Pants.” You quietly withdraw.
You and Moods end up joining his uncle’s stage fighting and theatrical spitting studio, dejectedly teaching people how to karate chop near each other and grab their stomachs, bend over, and yell HRRRMMMFFFF to show they’ve been hit in the belly. You appeal the suspension and, after years of expensive litigation, the NCAA rescinds the penalty. Buck Duckett acted in violation of the NCAA’s policies against entrapment. You and Moods were not the only ones. There was a pattern. But it’s too late for you and Moods. Duckett disappears.
Five years later, you and Moods are finishing your evening advanced head-butts class when a man with a clipboard comes in. He is selling fake heads that can look believably kicked. Your jaw drops when you see him. It’s Duckett. He’s startled too.
“Get out,” you say. “Get the heck out of here, Duckett.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know. I’m making a circuit of all of the kicking establishments. I’ll just leave a catalog. But you know…”
“Duckett, leave,” you say.
“You know, we could have had him. He set me up too. He set us both up. Wump. Used you to get to me, the way I tried to use you to get to him. You know, it was never about the pants. I see that now.”
You look out from the window and see him getting into his trash-strewn car. He drives off into the distance and as he does you think about the number of lives shattered by a single cache of pants buried in the woods.
The End
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