God…I’m so tired…so damned…weary.  I...used to…love this game.  I have such …vivid…memories of all the great nights...but even those thoughts...fade over…time.  The pain is…worse each day...that I’m above ground.  I want nothing more…than to….lie down…and never again…wake up. But…something won’t let me.   The curse…won’t allow for such…an easy…escape.

   Luther throws me a behind the back pass just as I cross into ...the lane.  I execute my...patented spin move and it sends…Reggie flying by me…one of  his teeth flies out and bounces off of my shoulder.   I throw up a fade-away and it kisses...off the glass.  The backboard is still…dripping where Jamaal rammed his head...against it back in quarter one.  One of Jamaal’s ears is hangin’ by a thin thread of skin. It looks like…fish bait danglin’ on a line. 

As I run back down court, hell, let’s face it, it’s more like shamble down court, I see Jamaal.  He’s a real trooper, my brother J.  The right… side of his face is mashed in…like somebody took a metal pipe to it…his remaining eye is hanging down… on the side of his nose…swingin’ back  and forth…like a marble on a…string. 
        

    Jamaal used to be a killer...with the ladies. That dude had one in every...port.   Probably...had…three....four, sometimes five in every port.  He is definitely losin’ his looks, though, and most of his skin...to boot.

    I front Willie, who is ….tryin’ to muscle me under...the boards.  Willie’s ribs are hangin’ out like flag poles, and every time he brushes..against me...I lose another chunk of flesh.  I bring back my elbow and it catches him....right under the chin.  I hear him...grunt and when I look back, I see his lower teeth have planted themselves… deep in the skin under...his nose  He looks like he ain’t got no top plate of choppers. Like an…old man…whose lost…his dentures.   He finally pulls…it loose and his tongue lands on my right…sneaker.  He gets…pissed and throws a short jab at me, which…I duck away from easily.  I hear a plopping… sound and see poor old Willie’s arm fly…away and land near mid-court, the …fist still clenched tight.  He looks down at the hole…at his shoulder and Willie does his best...to keep his dignity by...acting like nothing happened.  His…famous hook-shot will…never be the same. 

     I rebound a missed...jumper by, I believe.....Julius, and toss the ball up-court to Brent, who fires....up a thirty-foot jumper....and swishes it.  That white boy…was the best damn...shot in the league, I don’t give a rat’s behind what…anybody says.  Before things…went to shit a few years...back, Brent was on his way…to being one of the highest...paid shooting  guards in…the game.  He wasn’t…much of a…playmaker, but that boy could…nail those trays. 

     I stumble back down court just as.... Coach Griggs signals for an injury time out.  Seems…Mitch ‘The Enforcer’ Wiggins….has misplaced his left leg.  He’s laying....on the far foul...line stripe, pointing  at some slug in the crowd that is… gnawing on his shin...bone. 

   The referee jogs over…and blows the guys head into...the third row.  Crowd participation...ain’t what it used to....be.  The ref and a few…other of the working crew....drag the guy’s headless....body out into the far....tunnel.  Mitch is being....carried over to....the sidelines.  The doc and his med crew…are gonna try to....re-attach his leg.  Mitch’s eyes beg…for them to put the ref’s shotgun barrel to his throat and…end this farce.  I know the feelin’, Mitch old buddy.  But...they won’t do it.  They won’t let…sleeping dogs…or games die.  They have to..…hold onto....what they know.  What they..enjoyed We were....entertainment.  We were...a diversion in their…everyday lives.  It don’t matter that we’re all…fallin’ apart at the seams.  They want....to cheer.  They want to watch us jump and slam…dribble  and ‘showtime’ like the…old days.  Only problem is…when we jump, half the time we leave parts of ourselves.....on the court. 
  

    When we dunk, our....fingers and hands snap and crunch on....the rim. 

    When we ‘showtime’, we usually end up limbless. 

    Mitch is reachin’ for the ref’s gun while the doc is trying to sew  on his leg.  He almost...reaches the stock and the ref walks away.  The doc is droolin’ as he leans over Mitch’s leg.  I think old doc is day-dreamin’ about a well-done rib-eye or maybe grilled pork chops.  The nurse…her hair a bloody bird’s nest, holds the …instruments and stares …straight ahead.  She’s droolin’ too.  Jesus, what…is  this bullshit?  Wouldn’t hell…itself be better?  Or...maybe that’s...that’s where we are......already.

This is...like were being…tortured for the…good fortune we had before Armageddon day, or ‘A-day’ as the media...labeled it.
  

   I sit on the bench…and snap my right wrist...back into place. The wrist bone had been...shattered like dry cordwood....when I elbowed Willie.

     I hack..and spit up something solid...something dark brown like....chili sauce...only chunkier...... I think it may....be my…liver.  Crapped a kidney last…week.  Won’t be too…damn long and I’ll be...the Hollow Man.

    'Cool Dog' Converse is leaning…over beside me.  One of the  great…power forwards the …game ever saw.  Dog once had fourteen straight double-doubles.  He had…thirty-one rebounds in one game.  Averaged…over twenty points a game...for eight or nine straight years.  The man…could flat out....play.  He glances....over at me....with his one good eye, the other socket being all empty and hollowed out like a…Halloween Jack ‘O Lantern, and flashes his best…..smile.  Not an easy…task…bein’ that Dog has no lower  jaw.  The skin.....on his face stretches out and splits from his upper jaw.....to his neck.  Yellow pus sprays out and splatters my…jersey.  Hell, I try but…just can’t manage......to get…pissed at Dog.  We shared too many…beers, joints, and......groupies before… A-day.

     I had been…in my....seventh year...in the league.  I had made the…All-Star team.....as a reserve....for the second time.   Was totallin’ seventeen points and nine boards a game…we had a chance to make the playoffs for....the first time in…four years.  I was…in my prime. Things  were....lookin’ up. Then suddenly they were lookin’ straight down into.....the pits...of hell itself.  Hell.....right smack dab here on...planet earth.
  

    Things....get more…foggy as…dead time…drags on, but…I can still.....remember....the day things…went completely to....shit.  We were...in Cleveland and noticed the crowd…only a couple of thousand, which.....was kinda....weird to begin with, started exiting the gym....in a panic.    We were in...the middle of ....lay-up drills when…the coach…called us over…and told us to get back....in the dressing room, that we....were all headed  to…the airport.  Kenny had his boom-box on in the....locker room and we…all sat there with open mouths and....listened to the news.  I mean…we all thought we....were dreamin’ or something.  To hear them talk...about dead folks....comin’ back to life and attackin’ the  living made....us think we were all sharing the same bad dream. 
 

    By the time.....our flight landed in…Charlotte…the airport was mostly…deserted.  The folks that were.....still there....had this crazy-ass look…like they just went through…some serious shock...therapy.

     It took me....half an hour....to flag down a cab, when.....usually the.....airport lots are…overloaded with ‘em. 

    I wish...I could somehow....erase the memory of....what I found when I walked…into the townhouse my wife and I had shared for...over three years.  

   She had...already murdered our son....and was....had....e-eaten part...of him..by the time…I took the…kitchen knife…and.....and…oh lord, let me die with no memory of…that.   My son.....had been only…three.  Yvonne and I.....had.....been together for…damn near five years .  She....had…truly been my.....soul mate. Helped me kick…the dope…and…the groupie scene.

    I’m not…sure if....the other guys....are going through the same mental torture.    My memories are…pretty damn.....clear, but…I can’t act…on anything…I want.  Don’t matter how…hard...I.....try.  The only thing.....my body answers to.....is this...damn..hunger.  Man, I’m starvin’ all...the.....time.  I never....used....to be that much of a …meat eater.....when I was…alive.   Now all I think about, day…and night…is blood red meat, all juicy and wet, ....smellin’ all .....pink and raw. 

    Dog just spit out.....what looks like his spleen. I ain’t no sawbones...but that can’t....be good for one’s overall...health.  Don’t really matter, though…we’re all dead as..…a hammer anyhow. 

    The coach comes over…and screams at  Luther for the constant…walkin’ calls he’s getting.  Luther looks…kinda pathetic and….points down at...his left leg.   Fragmented bone sticks out from just under.....the knee cap.  I can.....see some fat, throbbin’ maggots fall from the bone as Luther leans up, almost.....stickin’ the leg bone in coach’s face.  Coach shrugs if off…‘no excuses' he screams.
 

   I guess...usin’ injuries....as an.....excuse just don’t  cut it.....in this league anymore.

    We hobble out…onto…mid-court and we win the…jump.  Pervis 'The Traveling Highlight Reel'  Wilkerson , as he was....known in....his healthier days…fast breaks down and….thunder slams one.   Even with his ribs half-stickin’ out his back like a broken bird cage…that man.....can still bring it.

    I shoot him…a wink as we come down court.....together and he tries to....return it, then recalls he ain’t go no eye lids.  Hey....we’re all playin’ with....handicaps these....days. 

    We can...see....the ‘shirts’ sitting in the dark up in the third level...of the arena.  They...never show their...…faces.  They are....some....sick mo-fo’s to…force us to endure this…bullshit.  I hear…the...warm bodies that....survived....pay big....bucks to watch the....games.  Even have…their own…form of cable TV.  Pay…per view…all the way.  Only, ain’t no…cash passin’ hands these days…ain’t about the fame, the women…the mountains of blow.  Just the necessities, baby….shit paper, burnin’ oil and fresh meats and…vegetables. 

    But as ...look around…at mostly empty seats…why the…hell even bother? I guess times change......needs change.  Greed will....never....go away....as long....as one warm....body still....walks upright. 

    I toss up a one....handed jumper that banks in.....and I hear ‘em cheer.   I  want so bad.....to turn around and shoot the dirty.....bastards a double-barreled bird, but…again....my body won’t....respond…it wants only one thing.  I see the large....blue coolers sitting at the far end...of the court.  Our…reward awaits.  Don’t know....where they…get the fresh meat.  Don’t care.  Just....wanna chow....down.  We will  put on…their sick sideshow....of what…used to be a …great sport.  We will run, stumble, crawl if we have to, down court…as long....as the reward is callin’ to us.  As long as we can…curb this damn craving…even if…for only a few minutes. 

   I block Jerome 'The Postman' Jefferson’s lay up attempt, which was....kinda weak on my part....since Jerome has this…problem of.....telegraphin’ his shot since he lost an arm…a month or so back. 

    Brent nails a couple of twenty-five foot….trays and we’re up thirteen at the half. Scores are kinda low these days.  Lack of body parts means….lack of.....offensive weapons.  The less fingers...and arms....ya have, the less....effective your shot....is gonna be, period. 

   At half-time, the coach throws us all a slab.  I suck mine.....down as quick as ..it hits my lips.  I tell....myself...I’m gonna slow down and savior it, but....it never works that way.   I spotted some hairs on it.....just  before...I startin’ chewin’.  Most likely a…leg.  Might be some hairy.....guy’s back meat.  Not that.....we’re picky.  Mitch left…his leg in the middle.....of the locker room floor.   I....pick it up....and hand it to him.  His eyes meet mine....and the sticky drool pours off....his chin.....like spilled…molasses.  He nods....and tries to stick the leg back into …place.  The Doc slurps down....his snack and wobbles over...to assist Mitch.  I think Mitch is damn near…done as far as being…on ‘active duty’.  I think a permanent....trip....to injured  reserve might be....in his near future.  None ..of the....messy paperwork of the....old days.  Just a shotgun to the....temple and your playin’  ‘Zone Defense on The Clouds’ while blowin’ on a harp.   We all....dream of that day.  At least I know I...do.  Funny, we all used…to dread retirement. Now…we pray for it. 

   My body…is a pulpy mess....but seems to be holdin’ it’s own,  at least for now.  The suits are....havin’ a hard time....replacin’ all the bodies, though.   Most of the big names…the endorsement kings of old, are…already rotting away  in the....bone yard.  I…will personally....invite Mr. Grim Reaper in…with open arms and.....a big,  broad smile. 

    Horn  sounds....third quarter kicks in.  I feel newly....energized and hit my...first three shots right....out of the gate.  There are times....the feelin’  I used to get when I was in the ‘Zone’ sweeps over me.  It don’t last....but....a second, but damn, it still.....feels good.

     Ref  calls time before…quarter ends to…clean up the court.  I lost  part of my…right pinkie.  Mitch is comin’ apart like…a ripped up rag doll out …there.  Both his....legs keep comin’ unhinged and he looks like…a puppet with half its …strings cut.  He keeps grinnin’ though. Grinnin’ and glarin’ at those coolers.   After all, the feast is less than…thirteen minutes away. 

    Fourth quarter and I hear Coach Griggs screamin’ at…Luther again.  He had thrown....up an…air  ball that cleared...the backboard by half a dozen feet.  I think....Luther is doin’ it on purpose....to grab some pine.   The poor dude’s head is....hanging on by a few...ragged tendons.  He looks kinda.....like those plastic dolls with ....the bobbin’ heads you used to see hangin’ from rear view mirrors. 

   Midway through the fourth, we’re up eighteen, and we all…pause and wait at half court as…Coach Martin brings out.....his ‘secret weapon’.     I can hear.....the sparse crowd.....and the suits sittin’ in the dark whoopin’ and hollerin’. 

This.....shit....never fails to nauseate me,   and that’s damn hard....to do….these days.

   He comes....joggin’ out of the visitor’s locker room like…..the conquerin’ hero.  His fists are pumpin’ in the air, and his toothless grin is......as wide as....the hole suckin’ wind at my lower gut.

   I never personally...liked....the asshole when....we were warm bodies.  Bein’  dead hasn’t…exactly cured his.....ego problem.  At the time...of…A- day, he…was supposedly bringin’ in forty mil a year…just in endorsements.  When people....talked about the....league....his name came first.....always.  Every shot the.....ball hoggin’ Jackass hit seemed to be simulcast on…worldwide TV.  ESPN licked his…monogrammed shoes…at every…opportunity.

   They....never....seemed to dwell on the …twenty-five shots…he missed every night, or.....the fact that his D was beyond weak and he…just about.....led the league in…turnovers every year.  The players, even some of his…teammates, called him ‘ML’, which......stood…for  'Media Leech', and…he lived up to.....it every night in the locker...room with the mikes shoved in...his face. 

    Now they call…him out…in the fourth quarter of every game....like some miracle worker.  They don’t want…him…fallin’ apart like......the rest of us…before his time, so his.....playin’ time is seriously limited.

     Yeah, the arrogant shit…won four straight…MVP’s and…three straight championships, but…everybody around the game.....knows.....that without the surroundin’ cast he had…mostly to rebound his missed shots…he was just.....another glorified show-boater.

    I was....on the All-Star squad with him....two years back.....and the asshole never…said word one to me.   I did my best…to keep the brick away…from him whenever I was in there.  Of course, he hit…eight out of twenty-three from …the floor and won game MVP.  When your own…teammates can’t stand your ass…which I heard…was the case with him, you are one hurtin’ dude, ego-wise, cause the man.....in this league that had the......biggest ego.....is like the billionaire with the most…ships in his personal fleet.  You are King Prick… amongst very stiff ….competition. 

    Mr. MVP …practically steals the damn.....ball from…Julius and fires up a twenty-five footer that clangs off the top of.....the backboard…and nails…the ref in the side.....of the noggin, then strolls on…down court with  a shit-eatin’ grin on his....face, like he swished it or.....something.   I pass the ball to Dog and he rips a…beautiful one-handed, not much choice in his case......fade-away from…about fifteen feet.   I high...five him at mid-court and…he smiles, his tongue hangin’ out the side of his mouth like the fattest… slug you ever saw.

     MVP  double-dribbles at least…three times but the ref......doesn’t  whistle.  I think......they’ve been....instructed not to.  He...banks  in a lay up and starts.....dancin’ and muggin’ like he’s preppin’ for SportsCenter.  I see....out of the....corner of my one good eye....that Brent is lookin’ mighty pissed.  MVP elbowed Brent...in our last game with ‘em.....and Brent has had a hard time....keepin’ his intestines from floppin’ loose ever since. 

    I’m still eye-ballin’ those bright blue coolers every…second or two.  I try…to control my slobberin’ and droolin’, but it’s one of those......things completely outta my control these days.

    I miss laughin’.  I miss sleepin’.  I miss real…emotions not driven by…hunger. I miss sex.  I miss drivin’ my Porsche at one-twenty on the…. interstate at midnight….. with a lit joint hangin’ from my lip and a cold Malt liquor between…my legs.  Lord, I miss…my family.

     I miss the crowd when…you go on a run, or when....you’re in the zone and....everything you throw up there finds....the mark.  I miss it all, but I…don’t …crave it.  I only crave....the meat.  It’s all about.....the meat.

    Coach Griggs calls a TO.  He’s yellin’ at Luther again, something about ‘puttin’ some D on MVP’.  Luther puts his finger in  his nostril…and begins to dig and…grind away like he’s tryin’ to pull out…a boulder made outta solid…gold.  

    The coaches…must be getting hot meals…clean water…gas allowances for their…cars, somethin’ like that, for puttin’ up  with this crap.  Every now and then I see…the frustration on Grigg’s face.  He knows this…ain’t right.  It ain’t what...God intended to…come from A- day.   None....of us....are…supposed to…even try...to make things....the way they were in the old world.  They all...see in our...eyes that…we only do what they...want…because of the meat.  It’s like…those dogs...at the track...racin’ and chasin’ the meal that hangs…only a few feet in front ..of ‘em. 

    Doc and his crew are…lookin’ over Dog.  His collar…bone is…stickin’ up into  the....side of his neck....like a spear.   Every  time.....he tries to...yank it loose…it rips a bigger hole….in his throat.   The nurse is leanin’ over lickin’ up whatever falls out of the…wound.   Sounds sick, I know...but watchin’ her...is makin’  my cravin’ worse.  I’m smackin’ my lips….like a man…lookin’ at prime burgers …grill  over an open flame. 

   Brent…is wavin’ his arms and gruntin’…like he’s rabid.  We don’t…understand the....words, but…he’s pointin’ at MVP across the court.....and we all get his meanin’.  This is…liable to get real….ugly.

    MVP gets the ball and…starts his.....one man show......routine.  He gets...just over...half court and Brent meets him there…his right arm stuck…straight out from his....body like a limbo-line batterin’ ram. 

    He clothes-lines …MVP just.....under the chin as he runs by. I hear two loud cracks…go off like grenades.  Next.....thing I see is Julius.....leaning down over.....MVP and…giggling like a three year old who just heard his...first fart joke.  I swear....it was....the closest thing....to....a genuine laugh...I’ve seen or heard since before A- day.  We all…make a circle around MVP laid out on….the court and begin carefully...analyzing him.  He’s…lying on.....his back, his…long skinny arms reachin’ up and wavin’ like…crazy.  It....takes me....a second or  two to realize...the man’s head is gone.  Well, not really...gone, just kinda ‘tucked' underneath his body.  Brent’s shot had…broken the asshole's neck…and his head.....was lodged between....his own shoulder blades. 

    Non-contact sport....my black ass. 

   Brent’s busted arm is…swingin’ free by his side, only a…couple’a strands of skin holdin’ it on, but I swear....he’s so full of pride that…he don’t mind losin’ an appendage. 
 

   Coach  Martin is....freakin’...rantin’ and ravin’....he shoves us out of the way and rolls MVP… over on his side, pullin’.....his head…. free.  MVP’s mouth is movin’, although I see....he’s lost a gold tooth or.....two, and his eyes…are wipe  open. 

    The coach is…practically....cryin’ as he yells.....for the Doc to get out there and.....re-attach MVP’s head.  I don’t think....Mr. MVP is gonna.....be givin’ anybody his famous… ‘head fake’ anytime....soon. 

     Game....finally ends.  We win ….by sixteen. I end up with…twelve points and eight boards.  My usual…solid performance.  None of  us…give a rat’s ass…about our stats anymore. That was.....a different era.  A totally different…dimension, in fact.  Stats meant....status.   Stats meant…contract leverage.  Now…stats mean shit.  We....all eat....the same meal for reward of…performance or....non-performance.   We all....get what’s....comin’ to us. 

    As they lead.....us towards the coolers…I hear a shotgun blast in the...background  I look around and notice......I don’t see Mitch…stumbling around....anywhere.  I guess he…got his walkin’ papers.  Lucky…son of a bitch.  

   We dive into the moist, fresh meat like…men dyin’ of…thirst  jumpin’ into a…cool lake.  The…hunger will not.....go away…not completely, no…matter how much......I feed.  At least......this…slows it down a little.   Not sure if…I even…taste it anymore, or.....if I ever did.  Like everything else....that was......the old way of life….it don’t seem to matter one way or …another…anymore.

     One  of the ….suits has come down…from his…hiding place.....in the dark and is…yellin’ at Coach Griggs.  Coach Martin is standin’ there......too. 

  Martin  even ...takes a swing at Griggs.  Next thing we.....see......is all three of ‘em…wrestling on the floor just…a few feet away from…where we…feast. 

    A few more.....well-dressed and…very tasty.....looking suits jump down.....from the stands....and try to.....break up.....the fight.  I truly realize....how damned......I am.....when a man is......attractive to me......in any way, much ..less as......a possible meal.

    Coach Martin rolls…a little too close into the designated feeding area…and Lord does he…pay the price for......such carelessness.

     They…know…how dangerous we...become when we…are feedin’.  I guess…seein’ his MVP get…handed his head, so to speak….allowed the coach to forget this…little fact.    Before any of us…know what is happenin’, Luther and Dog have…Martin pinned between ‘em.  One is munchin’ on his scalp,  while the other….pulls his chest…apart with three or four quick ..tugs.  One of....Coach Martin’s shirt buttons…hits me in the  forehead, then sails off onto …the court, along with a portion of his…spine.

     Within seconds....it was like one of those.....damn food fights we used…to have…in college.  Coach Griggs…was shown no mercy…either.   He had....rolled into the fray with those two suits…punchin’ and gougin’ at him. 

     Willie, Brent, and….Kenyon Miller are takin’ turns bitin’ chunks out of both the suits, while Dog and Juluis are now…in the middle of Coach Grigg’s midsection, both....their heads buried…neck deep inside....his tubby....gut. 

     Before I know it, and as it always does, my appetite overwhelms my initial…nausea and …my own mouth gets busy.

      We  hear the sirens comin’ outside.  We know the ref’s called in…the marksmen.  He blew away…a few…but must have....ran outta ammo.

      Everybody is havin’ such…a good time, we…are beyond carin’. 

     They’ll bring in....the guns in a few and….scatter the insides of  our rotted, decayed brains all…over the court.  We invite it.  Looks.....like the league is…gonna have a …personnel shortage.  Two less…teams to count on for…attendance and…revenue.  On well, life’s a bitch…and then you die…and resurrect…and die again…

*

     I bounce the object….once or twice before passing it......up court to Dog, who…dunks it happily through the now…crimson stained net.  We…all stop and begin clapping.  For just a moment…we feel like…Pro’s again.  Role models….millionaires fortunate enough…to play a kid’s game for.....a living. Brent scoops up the ball….Coach Grigg’s badly…mutilated head…and throws it up court to me.

    I only pause to take a quick bite, then I sail a tray from ..the top of the key.

    The net swishes just as the …first shotgun blast is heard. 

    I raise my hands in....final victory.  I spit out….part of an earlobe. 

    I turn to the crowd… and wait for that final buzzer to sound….