Ginobilli vs. Dracula, Chapter 12

The thin presence in black casual wear rose from his seat. A Laker girl rushed to drape a cape over his shoulders. He motioned with a left hand as if conducting a choir and boos rained down from the stands. In his absence, foam fingers and water bottles littered the Staples Center court.

Lakers 87, Cleveland 102

Dracula hated Christmas. He suppressed a smile when he saw the small box on the seat of his black Mercedes SUV, wrapped in black with red bats and inverted pentagrams. A gift from Phil Jackson. "Ooooh a present!" squealed the Laker Girl as she bounced onto the passenger seat. He would unwrap everything later.

Laker's Executive Team Vice-President and Coach Jackson's girlfriend, Jeanie Buss noticed that Phil left his plate mostly untouched. A few of the grasshoppers regained consciousness and hopped off the china, to be snared by the mantis waiting in the salad bowl. "That was not a very nice way to spend Christmas Day," Phil said.

Was his master asking too much from the players? Pau could barely stand from the lack of blood. Jackson was coy when asked how Gasol was injured. 'It happened before the game in a very unusual way."

* * * * *

The Dark Prince opened the gift from Jackson after finishing his meal, an iPhone 6GS cased in black gold. Very considerate, but the loss was still inexcusable. The princely shade reclined on the divan as he flicked on the screen and immediately started browsing, when he came across a tidbit from the Cleveland Plain Dealer:

Worshiping at temple of Kobe: Ron Artest has plenty of history battling Kobe Bryant, but now that they are teammates, Artest is showing some awe.

The dark prince raised an eyebrows and read on ..

I asked him a long time ago, 'Do you speak to God, do you speak to Jesus?' Some people are just on another level. Somebody asked me, 'Does Kobe Bryant tweet?' And I said, 'Does God tweet?' Because God is unbelievable.'"

The evil one bolted upright, eyes burning. The iPhone melted in his hand then shattered like ice. Dracula picked up his trusted Blackberry and ran his clawed thumbs over the keys in a malevolent blur.

* * * * *
Ron Artest reached for his beeping iPhone just before stepping into his home. A text from the front office flashed on the screen. Ron-Ron read it aloud, confused. "I tweet." Artest punched himself in the face. He kept punching his own face for nearly an hour, even after he had lost consciousness.

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