Teaser intro to The Grip

The Grip

Big Bro’s eye stung from sweat after blinking due to light magnified by the eighty eight Durango’s front windshield, radiates his vascular fore arms causing them to excrete tiny beads that grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was noon and the hoods of every car on the block had to be hot enough to fry an egg and cook a steak. He felt like a cupcake coming to rise in an easy bake and everything inside the dark blue sedan was on low broil and Big Bro thought he could take another hour and they would have to find some form of shade.

Lil Bro breathes deeply and takes in the sweet syrup smell of evaporated diet soda spilt in the cup holder and collected pennies lining it. A drop of perspiration rolls down his adam’s apple and into the soft dip between his clavicle bones. He sinks deeper into the reclined grey leather chair with each shallow breathe. His older sibling, better known as Big Bro, cracks an eyelid and watches the mechanical sprinklers pop out of grass and shower perfidiously edged lush St. Augustine matted front yards. He was sure that they had made it to Arizona although this looked nothing like the desert he expected. It was a long drive across the Texas panhandle had taken longer than expected and each day spent in El Paso was one that took away from the ultimate destination.

It was a ticker tape rural Phoenix suburban neighborhood each house had two or more levels with a large green lawn. There was only one tree on the block and It was a palm. The tree reminds Big Bro of the beach and what he’d seen in the movies of California and the sunset strip. Babied flower beds stripe an inviting bright mess of colors geometrically patterned to lead up to each house surrounding the cul-de-sac. Big Bro forgot the street’s name and curiosity of the baring didn’t cross his mind. All he could think of was the heat. A closer than normal Sun was now hung completely overhead without a cloud in the sky. Even with the windows halfway down it was not cool enough to keep him in deep rim rather leaving him sweltering lucid thoughts.

Once again glancing at his little brother he cautiously avoids making any sudden sounds that would shake him from dreaming. Big Bro lets out a struggling yawn and watches the birds float from tree to tree. He hears there back and forth tweets and long whistles and watches them skip across a lawn looking for worms the mulch. A mocking bird is chirping back and forth with a scissor tail hanging on the side of a miniature Victorian house atop a ten foot pole in someone’s back yard. He thought to himself this had to be the place life swells.

This was the second night they had spent the night in this spot having run out of gas escaping a near arrest after pulling away without paying the tab. They sat on the last peg below the red dash meant to represent pencil fumes left in the tank. Big bro figured they had a mile and didn’t want to waste it until they could figure out a way to steal more. The rations were low and this extended road trip was near its end and they both knew it. Lil bro starts to nod his head and yawn. You awake bro? Lil bro asks from the lowest voice he could muster in the heat. You got a smoke? Big bro,”We’re out.” I feel like shit. I’m so hung over. I need a cigarette right now so bad me head if fucking pounding. Big Bro shared the same ringing in his head and didn’t want Lil bro that squares were on the list of things to lift from the last truck stop. They were both just glad as hell to have gotten the pigs off their trail after the last heist. He knew that now there ride had been compromised and there would be no major more frivolous spending if they any hope of reaching LA by the end of the week.

The two glanced up at the sun and realize the desert of America was the back drop to suburbia they found themselves in. Big Bro, “better find a place to get cool or they’ll cook for the rest of the day. Well we got about a few miles left in the tank. “Where the fucks are we?” “Phoenix but, I’m not sure what part.” The two decided to drink every beer in the two thirty packs they had boosted the night before. This was their belated reward for a night of instant gratification. “I can’t believe we didn’t get arrested last night. I don’t know how that cop did not spot us.” In truth big bro didn’t know the cop had to have passed right by them and make his way out of the dead end road.

the grip

Big Bro’s eye stung after blinking and light, magnified by the eighty eight Durango’s front windshield, radiates his vascular fore arms causing them to excrete tiny beads that grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was noon and the hoods of every car on the block had to be hot enough to fry an egg and cook a steak. He felt like a cupcake coming to rise in an easy bake everything inside the dark blue sedan was on a low broil and Big Bro thought he could take another hour and they would have to find some form of shade.

Lil Bro breathes deeply and takes in the sweet syrup smell of evaporated diet soda spilt in the cup holder and collected pennies lining it. A drop of perspiration rolls down his adam’s apple and into the soft dip between his clavicle bones. He sinks deeper into the reclined grey leather chair with each shallow breathe. His older sibling, better known as Big Bro, cracks an eyelid and watches the mechanical sprinklers pop out of grass and shower perfidiously edged lush St. Augustine matted front yards. He was sure that they had made it to Arizona although this looked nothing like the desert he expected. It was a long drive across the Texas panhandle had taken longer than expected and each day spent in El Paso was one that took away from the ultimate destination.

It was a ticker tape rural Phoenix suburban neighborhood each house had two or more levels with a large green lawn. There was only one tree on the block and It was a palm. The tree reminds Big Bro of the beach and what he’d seen in the movies of California and the sunset strip. Babied flower beds stripe an inviting bright mess of colors geometrically patterned to lead up to each house surrounding the cul-de-sac. Big Bro forgot the street’s name and curiosity of the baring didn’t cross his mind. All he could think of was the heat. A closer than normal Sun was now hung completely overhead without a cloud in the sky. Even with the windows halfway down it was not cool enough to keep him in deep rim rather leaving him sweltering lucid thoughts.

Once again glancing at his little brother and cautiously avoids making any sudden sounds that would shake him from dreaming. He lets out a struggling yawn and watches the birds float from tree to tree. He hears there back and forth tweets and long whistles and watches them skip across a lawn looking for worms the mulch. A mocking bird lets out the chirping sounds of a scissor tail hanging on the side of a miniature two stories house atop a ten foot pole in someone’s back yard. then recognizes one of them as a mockingbird. It was his state bird and remembers studying it in elementary school.

This was the second night they had spent the nbight in this spot having ran out of gas escaping a near arrest after pulling away without paying the tab. They sat on the last peg below the red dash ment to represent pencil fumes left in the tank. Big bro figured they had a mile and did’nt want to waste it until they could figure out a way to steal more. The rations were low and this extended road trip was near it’s end and they both knew it. Lil bro

preface to devils escort

Special thanks to Sam for punctual corrections, grammar modifications and diction enhancement.

It was an overpriced piece of “Modern Shit,” and the latest substantial gift from SWMU boosters somberly praying to evoke an undefeatable spirit. Desperate to hear that once familiar soothing victory chant, “Stallions are the champs,” replaying in their heads, alumni ardently attempted to cast monetary clout with a brand spanking new investment. As one player puts it, “It’s the most kick ass scoreboard ever,” towering over the Stallions’ end zone. This Booster Club raised enough funds to feed Africa but somehow only managed to conjure a state of the art 1992 scoreboard.

No wins in seven years would make a once spendthrift dominant collegiate football team sink so desperately low that money boosters would resort to brazen budget bubbles in order to gain respect. Have it flaunt it, right? Forgive me. I am not a good narrator. A little back story is due here so let me elaborate.

SWMU, South Western Masonic University, became the first and only recipient of the Collegiate Athletic Associations’ death penalty. The defining rule passed down by a committee made South Western Masonic University’s football team ineligible for competition. SWMU’s football team was banned from any form of competition in the league for four years and placed on probation two years preceding their re-entrance to conference play. The team would be subjected to a bureaucraticly imposed probation resulting in the loss of fifty five scholarship positions over the course of four years.

The Death Penalty was swiftly dealt out as a way to show what would happen to repeat offenders. They get the literal bureaucratic homicide. The NCAA condemned this, “Ivy of the South,” with their harshest blow. The board felt SWMU extensively shattered every rule to sway top ranked graduating high school seniors into their athletics program. Recruiting rumors jumped across campuses until amazingly cultivated tales of white nose-numbing devil powder and big city strippers clashed with the moralizing mentality of 1980 suburbia. Nothing was sacred in, potentially, the worst display of power by money hungry Institutional cowboys desperate to create a legacy. These men relied on signing major high-school athletes to join a universities’ athletics department for purely selfish reasons. The players were worth major bread and it was the first time they knew exactly how much.

Stallion players participated in cultish orgies with thousand dollar drug tabs. Extravagant X-rated stories broke like fine china against ears of these prenatal NFL stars. Free exotic cars and all-expense paid trips to gentlemen’s clubs were given out to eighteen year old “Blue Chips” man-boys. These poor guys had the look of yearning for independence and big city lights with a woman that might be the one. Quickly they learn to accept people willing to give and do anything for a win. There is no compromise in winning, just a vending machine dumping out expensive and sometimes sinful goodies for your exemplarity talent. High school seniors suddenly realize how everything works and that it is time to earn their keep.

Four years prior to the obnoxious constructing of team facilities that left teachers asking, “Where is the school?” every building was dwarfed by the massive stadium taking up every inch of its available space. There was a barrage of complaints to the NCAA followed by a handful of anonymous tips. The best part were the leaked office budgets clearly documenting the amount of several thousands going to one players new Mercedes Benz. All of it was true. The rumors were not audaciously fabricated. The “We are God” Boosters spent more than a quarter of a million dollars on dumb, full of cum, eighteen year old star high school football players.

News paper accounts of the controversy spread extensively until testimonies of former players ratting out coaches and coaches ratting out their superiors bled through the national sports media. The only thing that had to be done was a revamping of the entire football coaching staff to save the schools image and appease the public. That is, almost all of them. The only person spared was Doc, the teams’ veteran sports therapist.

Recruits were forced to testify in court and be publicly acknowledged as eye witnesses to the carnal delights in which they partook. The presence of parents and press made these public acknowledgements compounded the humiliation. Parents and players sat in the witness stand spilling the beans and absolutely admitting to every charge they were accused of in an attempt to save their jobs and reputations. The standing evidence states that SWMU boosters and recruiting coaches went to great lengths to accommodate every star player’s financial needs to the ninth degree these man-boys found that their signature brought physical pleasures and financial stability for life. That alone is enough to convince a player considering multiple college offers to join SWMU’s Stallions.

When a team goes undefeated for several years running, people wonder how the winning machine was created. The answer is money; deceptively simple money that transforms anything into everything as the testimonies of former players and coaches proved. After all it was the evil eighties and America was well aware, “Greed is good.”

Esfcort novdlls teaser

Escort

Effects of Testosterone: Chapter 1- Urine Sample

It was both an overpriced piece of “Modern Shit,” and well, the last substantial gift given by SWMU boosters praying for a win. Desperate to hear that soothing sound of victory Alumni attempt to tridantly persuade an cast an overall monetary clout. Conjuring everything from Colorado Ski trips to boastfully not too cheap “state of the art” 1992 major booster club investment and a perfect metaphor for a season that had only have one win. Forgive me. I am not a good narrator. A little back story is due hear so, let me elaborate.

Four years prior to the obnoxious erection an obtuse move to tighten cash for eighteen year old pardon the pun, dumb, hung and full of cum, recruits, star. Do you think SWMU produces an extensive record of accommodating every listed star player’s financial needs to the inth degree? One stroke of the pen. It was all about the coke ted broadening its spectrum. Nothing else can be done or said other than the alligations where true. It was the evil eighties and as for the devil ever wonder how his nose got so red..

made SWMU the recipient of the Collegiate Athletic Associations’ first and so far only known death penalty. The defines of a ruling committee made law South Western Masonic University’s team ineligible for competition. Two years after that the football team would be part of a board imposed probation resulting in the loss of over 55 scholarship positions over the course of the team’s four year ordeal. This Death Penalty was a decision dealt out by the committee as a way to show what would happen to repeat violators. The NCAA condemned SMU with their harshest blow. They felt SWMU extensively shattered every rule to sway top ranked graduating high school seniors into their sports program. Recruiting rumors spread to other campuses until all over the south crazy rumors cultivated of to the point that the 1980 team participated in cultish orgies on mountains of thousand dollar bills. Extravagant tales spread. X rated tales like fine china dishes smashed on recruits ears as signs of what to expect in plebarganing teams their triumph toward gladioric manhood. Free cars, the exotic kind, and all expense paid trips to Gentlemen clubs poured out to young men not allowed to sip their first pint of alcohol.

Conquered athletes bumble pass the coaches with noodle legs doing everything possible to take in the horizon’s left over fumes. This particular day was the hottest august day the city has seen on record. They look up at a hypnotizing cocktail of revelry staring Verdun, the miniature pony and teams’ official gimpy excuse for a mascot, plays out above the Mustang end zone. The touchdown montage ends with the explosion of an atomic hog bladder spheroid. One hundred and eight degrees slides by on the LED as the expanding horizon squelches and radiates into a mirage of fumes rippling under the brutal sun. Mustang football players heave over synthetic fibers that make up the stadium’s new turf field. Hot sun sets colors glistening and vibrating surrounding air. Young and willful men do everything they can to suck and sip in natural air. The new arena was surrounded by metal stands that could sit about one hundred thousand people. They wouldn’t be caught dead sitting in those stands at this time of day and year. It would be enough to set a person’s rear end on fire and fry any bare skin that so much as grazes into a shriveled pork rind on those steel bolted down blood red folding chairs.

Paul, a man’s body slapped with the brain of an adolescent, looks at the digital thermometer hanging from the omnisciently looming scoreboard. The team’s mascot, a white mustang, was painted under the temperature on a score board acquired through the school’s most prevalent donor. Somehow, a mustang on the score board looks more like a retarded mule then the majestic wild horse it’s meant to portray. The Ponies have the worst record in the league for the past three years and one could draw the conclusion a less then authentic cartoony horse has something to do with it.

Whistles belt out short loud chirps. “Alright, stop for a fifteen second break!” Paul puts his hands over his head and slowly controls a deep breath. Players struggle to encourage other teammates hunched down huffing and puffing. Paul “come on get up let’s go guys! Two more then we’re done!” Short, rigid and hairy Coach Benet blows his whistle. “Sprint you pussies!” Spit flies out his mouth as he biting down on the whistle and speaking simultaneously, “Move your asses or everyone is getting two more laps.” Benet’s face glows bright red and blood vessels swell on his throat. “I want to see you winning this year.” Players drag their feet and attempt to stay focused as heat waves ripple off the stadiums metallic chairs like over spilt gas. “Oh, ya baby I’m cold!” Sidney shivers then transforms into a wild dog. “Ruff, Sidney snarls and barks at the teams’ slowest and chubbiest tackle. A Former Cowboy’s linebacker and it’s easy to see he’s the biggest man on the field. He’s got weird style but wears it well. A tall afro connected to the back by a small rat tail braided and sticking out like a post above three separate sized shiny necklaces that match his gold ear rings. He claps his hands chest muscles bounce and stretch the pink tank top with black tiger paws on it. “Push it! Let’s go!” Sidney runs up to the fattest lineman and slaps the linemen’s slow plump sweaty ass. The whistle gives out one long last chirp.“Alright good job, get in here.”

The team runs to circle up on Coach Benet. “Take a knee.” They snap off helmets then shoulder pads and Benet twirls a whistle around his pointer finger. He brushes down a Tom Selleck mustache resting his chin and thinking as a copper bracelet slides down his arm. The sweat and skin alchemized a visible green stain around his wrist. “All the losers and tit suckers get off my fucking field. “ The team struggles to catch wind. He points up to the thermometer. “I know it’s hot, you can take it. Right?” The team responds with a massive “yes sir.” He takes off his ten gallon straw hat. “If you caint’, go play tennis or soccer because this is a man’s sport.” Sweat drips in his eye and he doesn’t blink. “If you want to play for me, you better bust your ass!” He spits the wipes down his mustache. “Don’t cramp up. I’m tired of players having to get I.V.’s.” Paul squirts cold water on his face. “Get hydrated before practice. Drink a Gatorade right when you wake up.” He looks over at Coach Sidney who is shuffling through his fanny pack. “Coach Sidney, anything to add?” Coach Sidney steps forward cracks open a quick whiff of ammonia meant to give power lifters a head rush before throwing weight in the air. Sidney snorts in the strong scented break stick then snarling he growls at the players around him. “I’m going to bench five hundred pounds twice then hit the showers, I got swamp ass.” The team laughs. “Alright, everybody up on me let’s get in here and get a loud as fucking break.” The players enclose on Benet shoving each other as the bounce around with pure testosterone. “Break it out three. One, two, three, the team joins in Mustangs!” As the players disperse Paul picks up his helmet and shoulder pads. “Paul, come here a minute I want to talk to you.” Paul runs to the sideline where his coach stands now accompanied by Sidney and three other assistant coaches.

Paul, “Yes sir?” The assistant coaches silently stare at him judging the “Boy-Man” from head to toe. Sidney looks at Benet. “Doc needs to see you.” Paul, ok, just give me a few minutes. I got to take a shower.” Benet sighs. “Why don’t you just go ahead and hustle straight to Doc’s.” Hesitantly Paul replies, “Sure.” As instantaneous as Paul turns and jogs to the exit assistant coaches snivel spitting out chew and relentlessly shooting fast glances back and forth. An assistant coach looks at Benet.” It’s a damn shame on that’s boy family, him Losing everything on account of stupidity. I’d be mad as hell at my boy if I was his Paw…” Another assistant coach spits out a slab of chewing tobacco. “Coming home with his tail tucked between his legs.” Benet, “Come on now guys, he’s going have to get a job pumping gas somewhere.” All the coaches’ share in an elongated laugh but, Sidney slows his chuckle sooner than the rest.

He enters Doc’ Junior’s office. Three football players and a metro sexual tennis player get the total body ice down in a whirlpool room towards the back of the complex. Paul opens the door after taking off his shoes then starts a slow walk in before being immediately greeted by Doc. Doc, Hey Paul let’s go into my office. Paul stops, looks around and notices everyone is fixated on his actions. Doc’s eyes shift avoiding everyone around to the point he is looking directly at the ground. Doc’s office door opens and a vacuumed sealed room suddenly exhales its’ hidden sixty seven degree room. Doc holds the door open for Paul disturbing the temperature in the training facility its enclosed in by glass walls. Doc’s office sits in a class a training and rehab center banked in like a fish tank.

The inside of Docs office is pristine. Like a commercial set for some cleaning agent. Certain books in his shelf glisten making it surreal and almost fake clean or just impeccably kept. It’s got a motif the seemingly suggests that a professional cleaner comes every hour on the hour and signs their name after having thoroughly sanitizing everything on spot. It had a verifying the comforting feeling one would come to naturally love, believe and feel safe in. Scholarly looking papers hang framed and certified on the wall behind Doc.

(Foot note 1) Doc makes up an entire lineage of trainers working in sports medicine. His father was a trainer for the Bears and his father before him a trainer for the Packers. They were all dapper men claiming wives as mere puppets to lead on straight coaches who have always hired them on their remarkably inviting personalities. Doc senior did not receive any special training nor did he go through any specific course to obtain his job. He simply gave Vince Lombardy a blow job. That brings up the question of whether mere circumstance played into a lineage of bisexual football coaches bread into the business by men that couldn’t face society’s rejection of their homosexuality. At least one could arrive at the conclusion that these coaches felt comfortable around a particular breed of men so much so they provided jobs of rank to them for three generations. Their names are Doc, Doc sr. and Doc. Jr. (back to text)

The “Doc” takes in a deep breath, “Paul something came up in your urine. Son, do you know the damage that steroids do to the human condition?” Doc watches for Paul’s’ reaction. The chemicals found in your specimen have been linked to some serious side effects. Paul, these drugs can take their toll mentally physically and emotionally.” Paul thought about each needle that went through his skin and began to swallow down the bad thought with another one more random. He thought of the monster that gave him nightmares as a kid. Although now a tall green faced Frankenstein would hardly scare him yet then, as a child, the sight of a man with stitches across his forehead terrified the living daylights out of Paul. He imagined a body turning green and mutating larger with each word leaving Doc’s thin pink lips. “Your gains were not real Paul. You cheated and for that we are going to have to kick you off the team. Your scholarship has been suspended until further review. I’m going to be honest with you since this school got the death penalty it rarely makes exceptions to any of the NCAA’s guidelines, let alone those pertaining to urine analysis.” I’m sure you know what was in your system but, in case you didn’t here is a copy of the test results and here is your letter from the Board. Your levels of testosterone were exceedingly high. Paul’s head hangs in his hands. They found traces of four types of anabolic steroids along with a high level of winstrol the same drug they shoot in racehorses before they went to the track. What were you thinking? Still his thought lept back to a this time any even more distracting thoughts of his parents looking at him with discontent as he carried his belonging back into their home. Finally he breaks silence. “Paul, does this mean I’m getting kicked off the team?” His eyes look right up at Doc’s. You think I didn’t know what I was doing well your right I feel stupid now. I wish I hadn’t done them. Hell I quit taking them before the season started that should count for something. Well they are still in your system Paul. I’m sorry really sorry You don’t understand Paul starts to cry You can’t take my scholarship away. Now Paul this doesn’t mean you are getting kick out of school this just mean you can’t participate with the team

Paul suddenly has a flash back his entire athletic career. He laughed. Is something funny doc asked. It was funny because to him all the memories were wrapped in sweat and sacrifice yet to them he was going to be known as a cheater and an outcast. There is nothing funny about your situation doc repeated. It’s funny yeah its funny. Funny isn’t it? That a coach gave me those steroids. Paul looks past doc and at Sidney who was helping a female tennis player of the examining table and across the white lenolium floor. He picks up his shoe. Paul are saying a coach provided you these steroids. If you want to give me a name the board might look at that in your favor. Sidney peers at Paul from the outside room and shakes his head a stern fashion. Do you want to give me a name Paul? Pual looks back at Doc. Nothing I say will change situation here. We could fill out a form of misconduct. They might side with giving you back your scholarship. Just give me a name. Doc pleads with Paul as Sidney Paced by the office. Why’d you do it son. Paul, I wanted start, be a player part of the team not somebody riding the pine. Doc, Im going to recommend you to a Psychiatrist I know. I’m sorry Paul but you made the decision maybe if you bring out some names the board will give your scholarship another review. Until you provide a viable explanation your off the team. Doc shuffles uneasily afraid of Paul’s response and uncertain of his own next move. He finally pulls out a card and slides it across the table to paul. His name is Shoeburger he’s a good friend and you can tell him anything in complete confidence. I’ve cried over his shoulder before. Doc Pauses and adjusts his chair. This was over my former wife of course. Always get prenuptial son. You’re saving money in the long run trust me. Especially if you marry a trophy wife whore.

(trophy wife- foot note)A trophy wife as defined is always disputed. Some say blonde with particular height and weight requirements. Typically the name is defined under American History. Only this term could be used as a byproduct of the United Nations. Doc refers to is something a older more established man acquires as a pretext or sometimes carrying after the Purchase of an expensive automobile. A trophy wife is often referred to as a bi product of a man’s mid life crisis. Many odd facsimiles follow that fall of hair and testosterone now prematurely awarded to Paul who would trade his dysfunction depressive thoughts for anything. He was trained like a pup to look at pretty things and appreciate the beauty without taking into account the roses many thorns.

“ If there is a…” Doc pauses, “some random person a coach perhaps that supplies steroids here it’s going to be your word against his.” It would help if you had as many people as you can that could attest to your character and upbringing. You know like former coaches, relatives, teach and even preach if that should apply. You need people you know at this juncture in your life son. Take the card and contact this man. You have to go now son, get your belonging and don’t try to keep a helmet. Paul stands and looks down on Doc for the first time in the entire conversation. I don’t want your fucking helmet even though I feel I have already earned it. Don’t let the steroids go to your head son. “I’m not your son don’t you want this card. He’s probably your last chance. Paul, “keep it.” The word son condescendingly rung in the back of Paul’s’ ear like banging drums he felt that the sound did quite settle with his building animosity towards authority.

Paul walks out of Doc’s office wanting badly to break anything in his path. His shoulder bumps into Sidney rounding the corner. Hey what’s good brother. Hey fuck you. I hope you didn’t try and spread any lies. You said it would be out of my system. lets not talk about this here. Why not you said that you could guarantee I would play. Now I’m kicked off the team. You got results if it wasn’t for me coaches wouldn’t even remember your name. Little pip squeak bitch! I made you a man. You was nothing a nobody, just a number on the sideline. Now I’m not even a number You owe me. If you’re thinking about saying my name Paul, screw you. Get off your pitty pot. You fucking baby. I didn’t make you do anything. You fed the shit to me like candy. You knew what you were doing you’re a man. Start acting like it. Paul swings at Sidney missing his face and slamming into the wall behind him. Sidney grabs Paul by the throat and holds him still with a massive grip. Keep my name out your mouth bitch or I’’l make you regret it.’ His eyes were red with fore.

Pushing open the “Bo” facility doors that kept out the hot august sun Paul’s stomach turned as he looked at the tall statue of Bo Walter shining as the largest human figure near the stadium’s entrance. The statue frowned at him but what the fuck did he care. Bo is living the high life off his alumni connections. Paul thought to himself maybe if he hadn’t of listened to Sidney his career as a mustang would not be over. He’s always done stupid shit like that he thought to himself over his lifetime how many times has he been a gullible bastard A weight was lifted off Paul’s shoulders and he stood tall after thinking that for once he would be able to sleep late in the morning. It was something he used to do before starting the 5 am workouts. "Who was he kidding? He didn’t love the sport and the more he thought about Benne face the more he was ok with the thought of not being on the team. What he didn’t want to do was go home or appear to his parents that in any way things were not normal. He knew he was going to have to tell them he was not on the team. The question that boggled his mid was how he would present the information to them that would keep them on his side. He’s dead deader than the losers that stick around and stock at the grocery store. Without his scholarship he could no longer afford his home. Job the word brought a ton of memories Paul had of doing hard work to earn a buck. A dollar stands out now in Paul mind. Money was it. It is the only thing he needs.

(Bo Walter foot note)- Bo was the most athletic of three sons. He was born to a single parent home in Hill Park Texas. In set on the suburbs of Dallas and was known publicly to be the wealthiest community in Texas. Despite the fact that his father left the family when he was only three at such a young age Bo was an over achiever. First round second pick by the 1957 Cincinnati Bengals picked him. and playing so well he was accepted into the hall of fame.

There is a saying that Bo waltz was as golden as golden gets. His knees can’t really say the same thing. He can barely walk and his buddy Jimmy Dale Frayne is dead. Paul thought at least he didn’t have to deal with the pains and ales the game takes on a man. Some say one year in the NFL can take off as many as five years off a young man’s life. Still he felt fucked and something about the whole deal smelt rotten to him. He felt he had been stabbed in the back when literally he had been.

Foot note Sidney and paul

Chapter 2 – How to play at 100 percent

Sidney’s apartment was something like a dude pad. Nothing in the apartment was his except for a print of a painting on the wall wich Sidney went to great leanghts to describe as art mainly as an excuse to remind his guest that was his. Yet he was in Sidneys house and felt surrounded by a fortress of trust.

He had been body building since thirteen and that fist adolescent pubic hair sprouted out the surface of his bare virgin skin. (foot note- Body building) I am behind you .

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$for sequel$ Transhumanism. They save Pual secretly taking his brain vital oragan’s and skeletal frame to a government lab underground in Arizona. Using secret technology to transform Pual to mostly machine the doctors have prolonged his life 500 years to where he is now part of whats known as the hive one super computer controls the limited through wargames a population decreaser. Pual is a government asset that travels through time with a large black trunk known as

Its time fellows wrestling champ runs camp with barn

The trueth is there is always some extent to which