The Dark Prince chuckled as Kobe limped to the lockerroom. A clawed hand languidly flipped up the volume on the remote. Kobe's back really was hurting this time, was it -- Dracula chuckled. He cracked his knuckles and Kobe winced in unison. Satisfied, the Dark Prince, finessed the brightness of the flat screen until the telecast was but a shadow on black, Spurs 105 Lakers 85.
Dracula carressed the downy hair of his drink as she nestled, half-undressed on his lap. Manu Ginobili would come to him, like Derek Anderson, and all the rest. The dark lord settled his own accounts.
On the practice court adjoining the Count's chambers, Pau Gasol struggled to open his sleep-encrusted eyes. They burst open, and felt hot in the sockets. Was it the same black gym? How was it that Pau could now see?
* * * *
The lithe figure snuggled down underneath the desecrated altar. Her brown hair cascaded over her glowing white shoulders. She gathered the altar cloth around her as a child a blanket. She held the iPhone, scratched but still working.
Just seconds remained in overtime and the Spurs were behind a point to a young, tenacious Thunder team. An errant pass sent the ball shooting out of bounds. Ginobili dived for it. Miraculously, the Argentine willed and gravity reprieved him for the slightest moment. Suspended horizontal to the ground, to quick for even his own eyes to follow, he shot the ball to George Hill. George found Richard Jefferson for a jumper and the winning basket: Spurs 109, Thunder 108.
The sylph tapped the screen with her manicured talon to play the replay once more. She imagined herself right there on the sidelines ... Ginbilli falls into her lap, neck bared.
She slaps him and he shivers. She grabs at the fine black hair behind his ears he submits. She feels him tense then relax and drains him, at first with feverish gulps. But later, tender, savoring the last drips on her wet lips. His will seeps and he rests his head on her bosom.
She lets him live long enough to forsake everyone in supplicant whispers: first his team, then his fans, his friends, his country, his wife ...
He will rise again in three days hers and hers alone.
The figure with the face of woman drew the altar clothe closer and with a shiver of fantasy, replayed the highlight once more.
* * * *
Roger Mason carefully removed the bundled towels from his duffel. He assured himself once more the locker room was empty, then unwrapped the gun Gil left with him. A solid gold 6.5" Smith & Wesson .500 Revolver -- huge like something from Halo or one of Timmy's glossy comic books. At least it's out of Gil's hands, Roger rationalized, but he did not suppress his smile. Roger knew how to shoot.
What exactly did Gilbert Arenas fear? Arenas was never dangerous crazy, just funny crazy. He pulled a gun on Jarvis Crittendon in the locker-room. Jarvis was Gilbert's backup at guard. Gilbert kept going on about he once played for the Lakers, and that Jarvis is "one of them."
One of who? What did Gil keep mumbling: Sand Pyres? Lamp Criers?