The smell of mildew and sadness permeated the long vacated premises of the Falcon Pub and Tub. The floor creaked and the wind rattled the windows with greater strength than the Brett Favre's unretirement rumors rocked the OK, that was a bad one. To call this lead in my investigation, at first glance, a dead end would be a terrible metaphor that simply wouldn't capture the vibrant sense of dread I felt as I stepped between the blackened baths and broken glasses and into the brewery stockrooms. Crates upon crates of ‘Signature Atlanta Barley' were empty, busted, and strewn about the floors like so many cockroaches in a similarly disused and untended facility. My trepidation stepping into this hellish wreck was equaled only by the sinking feeling in my gut as I stepped out the other side and saw what was waiting for me.
For me. Waiting. I had been played. My tormentors, the Panthers tormentors, were some sick people. If Ghandi had been into bondage, these people would have taken his advice into their hearts and loins: Be the chains you want to see in the world. They had me to tied up on their checkerboard of revenge and I was the pawn to their well-manicured, crunchy, west-coast superior fingers in a game that nobody would admit wanting to watch, yet which nobody would look away from either. We were a train wreck, and the San Francisco 49ers had been the eight year old in their parents' basement toying with us. Fighting enough to make us believe, then rolling over to make us believe even harder that their opossum* was well and truly cooked. And here was the evidence of our hubris, our willingness to plant radishes in our onion garden of hope. A note lay just out the back door of the Falcon Pub and Tub:
Terrible Metaphor DeYou'reBadAtYourJobtive,
We shall be seeing you soon. Last time was fun, it made us giggle like little school girls. Go tickle a school girl and listen to her giggle and you will know how we sounded after you left. On second thought, don't do that, because we don't want to play our game in your jail cell. Just imagine tickling a school girl and pretend it isn't creepy. While you are doing that, we are going to eat you alive, metaphorically, with our newly cleaned and spit-polished toys, Michael Crabtree and Vernon Davis. Yes, we said spit-polished. Polished with spit of Aaron Rodgers. Ha ha. Ha. Haha. Ha. Also, we sent a similar letter to your cheerleader friend/client/lust-object. Maybe you can help quiet her nightmares. Being a wingman is still a noble profession/hobby over here, so you're welcome. Also, fly out in the summer if you'd like to hang, it's real pretty and the food is amazeballs and stuff.
Jim and Colin
More like Colon. What an ass. I had to get back to that cheerleader's apartment, there is no telling who would be there to comfort her if I wasn't, and there is nothing left to be done now but wait for the next game. There was no more plot, no more intrigue. Simply a pull or be-pulled all out marionette-off, and I was itching to watch my Panthers pluck some overconfident and supremely talented and coached and oh God why do we have to play the 49ers somebody please make me feel better about this strings.
In the end, it is what we thought it was. A meeting of South and West. History has told us that South/West leads to burritos and eggs with salsa on them. Diarrhea, heart burn, and overpriced menu items are what we have been taught to expect.
With that in mind: Here we go, I guess. . .
*(You could insert any animal here, but I really wanted to type opossum. Seriously, try it in the comment section. Try to type opossum and not smile at the same time. I dare you. It's crack, but legal and not from Columbia)