10) Sunday, January 19th
– “Time Runs Out!”
At Feargal’s Tavern the patrons jumped
up to holler. General Westmoreland Soames
sat back with a broad grin and Eric Hopper, on the next stool, shook his head.
“Hoo ah! Be collectin’ on the job tomorrow…”
“Still a fool’s
bet. Givin’
that, that… what’s his name…”
“Possum,” Westy smiled. ‘Cause he looks like one, greedy bastard,
with that pointy face an’ hairs growin’ all over an’
how he handles that old cash like a little girl’s titties, thought he was gonna
clean up on Dallas…”
“Well, he was
right. I’da
done so, too, ‘cept that I never bet against the
Skins. He shoulda
given you at least ten points… what was the line?”
“Fifteen. More, maybe… don’t matter. You gotta have
faith, man…”
“You just lucky. Maybe…”
Eric mused, “…maybe there’s still time to blow that lead an’ Dallas got two
timeouts. But if they hold, you gonna
run down to the mall an’ cop one of those Ultra Moonwalk Hi Def models before
they done with all your walkin’ round money?
“Nah… Rina and Jeff got birthdays next week… Leo, hit me again.”
The manager nodded at the other end of the bar, filling glasses
as quickly as he could while the Skins’ foreign placekicker converted the extra
point to go ahead, 20-19, evoking toasts to multiculturalism all over the
house.
“So? They ain’t yours…
Jeff, that’s Raoul’s kid, right? So buy
a set for the house, say it’s his but it’s really yours, of course, or let that
ol’ crunk buy his boy a bike, rollin’
in that sweet money as he is…”
“Doin’ that well?” Westy
perked up.
Eric raised his glass, nodding.
“Got suckas linin’
up roun’ the block for them so-called con-verters he’s sellin’ out of that
raggedy ol’ truck. When they find out
they been hustled, gonna beat his ass…”
“They good!” Wes disagreed.
“Have to be… gave one to Miz Lottie, instead of rent. Wouldn’t vic his
own auntie; she whomp him with that big ol’ cane…”
Eric looked away,
exasperated and rather intimidated by the picture Soames had conjured up, and
Leo’s barmaid Syria brought two tequila screwdrivers, grinning ear to ear as
the Cowboys marched downfield and the commentators chattered…
“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Syria pointed.
Westy looked up as Dallas converted on third down, Prescott
to Elliott, crossing midfield and hustling up to spike the ball. “Ain’t over, yet…”
“Not the game, countryboy, that Zeke.
He can get into my end zone anytime he want…”
“How old is he, under all that broomstick hair… twenty-one? Eighteen?
That’s fraternizin’ with the enemy, by the
way” said Leo, creeping up behind his barmaid to give her the goose. “I
thought you were talkin’ ‘bout my set. It’s High Def. Tungway forty-four,
an’ it’s all plasma like a genuine Dominator, not none of that projection
crap. Practically see the shreds of
Friday’s porkchop hangin’ off between Lassiter’s
teeth.”
“High Def – not monodulated hi def…well, each to his own,” Eric allowed,
swishing a healthy belt between his own teeth, just in case there was something
clinging that might show up on TV.
“Vilma on my behind, so I’m getting’ the cable back. Might as well, all this overtime,” Hopper was
a sanitation worker, and the winter had kept him very, very busy. “No play havin’
some expensive Mongolian box wit’ nothin’ on but
those folks eatin’ bugs on the reality show…”
“Don’t forget the
Wizards,” Wes reminded him. “What are
they… three an’ sixteen now?”
And then faces
fell faster than the hapless Wizards.
Elliott pulled
down a high one on the sidelines at the Washington twenty-seven, well within
range of the impossibly-named Ethiopian kicker, and also stopping the clock
with forty-five seconds left, deflating the crowd at Feargal’s
except for one squealing barmaid. Westy’s formidable jowls shook in a fatalistic nod as he
sipped his drink, silently cursing Fate and Possum… then erupted with every
other lost soul in the dive as a Washington defenseman broke through the Cowboy
line and hauled their beleaguered quarterback down for a twelve-yard loss. The network cut to commercials as trainers
rushed out onto the field to attend to the writhing Prescott and an aged and
aching Tony Romo rose from the bench.
“Shoulda done one running play, then
kicked it,” Biff opined on the tube once action resumed. “You’re looking at fifty-six, fifty-seven
yards and twenty seconds to go and the Cowboys with no timeouts after
Prescott’s sack and the injury timeout, spikes the
ball, bringing up third and twenty two…
“It’s the clock, as much as the downs,” Snead replied. “Too far for a Hail Mary… with Elliott’s back
still sore, Dallas has to work the sidelines, get into range…”
“Or a quick completion
downfield, ten yards, although twenty would be better,” Biff suggested. “Then spike it and save maybe five
seconds for Ouleyoumeneses... man, I feel kinda dirty
every time I say it, oolie-you-men-in-sneeze…”
“Don’t say it
that way,” Puson warned. “Children watching.”
The General
looked about. “What children?”
“Mentally…”
“Maybe… field goal kicker won’t do it at this range, though,
need at least ten and out of bounds…”
Westy clasped
his hands in prayer…
“The snap, Romo drops back, looking… Elliott covered…”
“Lassiter just
missing, coulda called it in the grasp…” Snead
exclaimed.
“Hawkins has it at the nineteen,” Biff shot back, “making for
the sidelines, Sam Bucca has him by the ankles,
Hawkins is short of the chalk, he
didn’t make it…and he’s down. Trainers
on the field…”
“Cowboys lookin’ for a penalty,
arguing, coaches screaming… Prescott is back on the field, trying to make it
downfield… with five seconds…
“They’re all over the place,” Biff hollered, “can’t line up…
three, two, one… Romo spikes but the flags are flying, referees are signaling
game over. Time has run out! Ten second injury runoff means the Skins
win!... uh the team whose name we can’t say on the air wins! Washington has upset the Cowboys…”
Westy raised
his glass, toasting the man upstairs.
“Thank you, Jesus!”
“…an’ fuck you, Possum, right!” Eric
cackled.
Puson
Snead rocketed into his recap, “Washington scores late, then holds off a
patented Dallas comeback to win 20-19 and advance into the Divisional finals
against the winner of tomorrow’s Seattle-Green Bay showdown…”
“Hoping for a
Seahawks upset, because it ain’t no fun taking on
Aaron Rodgers and the Pack at Lambeau during January. Weather people say it’s already down to five
above, headed to ten below and a mean ol’ blizzard boiling up from
Chicago. Let’s break away for this
breaking news brief…”
And Ted Fraser dutifully manifested onscreen, a curvaceous anchorhottie, Dru Capehart opposite.
“Welcome to the evening
news… brought to you by Honda, by Betford and Walstrop, Accident Attorneys, by Giga-Plex and your
friendly, neighborhood Third-Fifth Bank… and what an assortment of news it
is! Homeland Security refuses to confirm
or deny that Flight #239 was brought down by an Iranian missile, as newly
selected House Speaker Thaddeus Beauregard Burke … whose appointment Monday
seems to be holding up legally despite Congressional opposition due to the
chaos in the Supreme Court (itself down to six justices plus the trio appointed
by a President (now facing impeachment)
but with confirmation deadlocked in Congress holding the matter over… sounds
the clarion call for war as his Congress and attorneys for their respective
Judiciary Committees and Senate leader Newt Gingrich argue whether the 25th
Amendment as well as whether the Congress
will allow the confirmation of the President’s three appointees…
outgoing Justice Department leader Merrick Garland, Senator Elizabeth Warren
and former First Lady Michelle Obama... before a potential removal through
either impeachment or the 25th Amendment transpires.
“While a diminished Court
wrangled with multiple and bipartisan charges of election theft...” Fraser
continued. “the embattled President took a call of consolation
from Pope Francis...”
At that, the former
President motioned the network camera to go dark, picking up and munching on a
fried chicken leg, and scanning new polling data that the man who opponents
call his Dark Eminence had casually slipped upon the table where a butcher’s
dozen of Adisors fidgeted and fretted. The latest
Rasmussen polling remained close as to removal of the incumbent, but showed
seventy-one percent of Americans still favored imposition of martial law as a
response to the outrage over the Christmas Eve downing of Flight #239… although appending the caution
that this number was down from eighty-four on the day after the attack.
“We might even say that these are the
sort of numbers that might… I only say might… justify, well, hasten the
impeachment process…” the Dark Eminence insinuated. “Americans,” he shrugged, “have a short attention
span. But the elderly once (and,
presumably, future) President disappointed him, again. “Maybe not. Just tell me how many of these Executive
Orders…” (and he slapped the foot-high stack of paper
on his desk, awaiting his restoration to authority and signature) “…will survive those crooks on Capitol Hill. At least until my tax cuts take effect on
April 15th. And the NFL… Glenn hasn’t gotten off on a good foot, might be that the owners will be looking for a
replacement. You know I’ve always really wanted to be the Commissioner of
Baseball next, but football… that would be alright. I could buy into the Chargers and move them
to Vegas; it’s still America’s game, after all…”
“Understandably,” the Dark, yet
deferential, Eminence agreed, but with a sour smile at his wayward
father-in-law. “Not that it is likely to
become an issue… given the Cowboys’ nine point spread, but now that the ongoing
Native American furor over the Red… the Comm... the Washington team,” he smirked. In the event of an upset, you’ll be rooting
for Dallas… America’s team… to go all the way?”
“Rootin’?” the President blinked. “Rootin’ tootin’ right, I’ll root… goin’
to need a lot of Texas money when twenty-twenty eight comes round.”
“Given we now
have round-the-calendar election seasons,” the Eminence smiled.
“But I have
supporters here, too,” the forty fifth and, like a superannuated Grover Cleveland,
prospective forty ninth POTUS reminded him.
“We shall see what shall happen.”
“This guy makes Trump look like Alexander fuckin Hamilton,” one
of the Advisers downtable whispered to another, unaware
that he was being recorded by the newsteam which, of
court, had not cut their cameras. believing himself
safe and his remark inaudible under the noise of paper shuffling and chicken
chomping while, back at Feargal’s. business
was also being conducted.
“That fool Possum offer you double or nothing, straight-up on
Washington, you gonna bite? No points…
when the spread’ll be what, eighteen? Twenty?”
“Hell yeah! Got destiny workin’
overtime here, I say… guidance from above…”
Westy pointed up again, to God or to Feargal’s
new Tungwa Hi-Def… Eric glanced at Leo, and the
bartender shook his head…
“Can’t fix
stupid…”
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