Am I dead? No, I don’t think so. How can I be sure though? I can’t feel anything…

            Wait! My eyes are open! It’s dark wherever I am, but I can see the vague outline of someone. Rudy! That’s Rudy Stalloni! I used to play Rudy twice a year. He was a cornerback for New York. He was pretty good, but his height killed him whenever he played me. I’d just loft the ball over his head and my guys would catch ten balls a game on him, make him look like a scrub.

            Rudy, can you help me?

            No. No, he can’t. I didn’t say anything. He probably doesn’t even know that I’m alive. If I can’t talk, he can’t hear me. Rudy’s more aware of what’s going on than I am, apparently. He speaks.

            “Yeah, boss, da drug’s workin’. He can see me—his eyes is movin’—but dat’s all. How ya feelin’ down there, big guy? You feelin’ like a Hall of Fame quarterback now?” He smiles and waves his hand in front of my face.

            “Rudy, get out of his face. You don’t need to taunt him. His shit’s gonna get fucked up enough in a few minutes, anyway.” I’ve heard this guy’s voice, but I can’t seem to place it. And then, he steps into the light.

            Oh, shit. It’s Dennis Faranza. That guy’s a dick. He always hated me because his team was always the favorite to win the championship, but he always choked whenever it came down to playing me.

            “How do you feel down there, Jacob?” he says.

            How the hell do you think I feel?

            “You’re a Hall of Famer now, huh? Nice speech you gave today.” He scowls at me. “Too bad that should be my spot in the history books!” Dennis lifts me up by my collar, and my limp body swings back and forth like the limbs of a ragdoll. He draws his fist back to hit me, but then he just lets go of my collar, dropping me to the ground. I land with a dull THUD! and it hurts like a bitch.

            It hurt! I felt something! Maybe the drug they gave me wasn’t as potent as they thought. I just need to bide my time for a little longer, maybe it’ll wear off…

            Dennis paces around with his hands behind his back. He stops and kneels down beside me again. He lifts my right hand in the air, stares at it, and leans it back towards my face. “You see these?” he asks, referring to my four championship rings, “They’re why I’m not in the Hall and you are. These rings may have brought you pride in life, but now they’re going to bring death to you.” He breaks my index finger and I feel every bit of it.

            The drug is wearing off.

            “You kept me from winning a championship. Those rings should be mine, Jacob,” he says, staring at my rings with disgust. He draws back to strike me again, but Rudy runs over knocks him to the side.

            “You can’t be hittin’ ‘im, Boss. There’d be some o’ dat ev-o-dense if ya did.”

            “Ev-i-dence, Rudy,” Dennis says, stressing the “i.”

            So, death is coming to me, eh? Well, let him. I’ve faced plenty of blitzes in my time, and I’m pretty damn good at avoiding them. So, Death, come on.

            “Jacob, before I finish you off, I have a question for you. You realize that I was a better quarterback than you, don’t you? Without the Iron Veil, you wouldn’t have any of those rings.”

            Fuck you, buddy. The Iron Veil was a good defense, sure, but I get tired of all the sports analysts bringing it up. Fuck them, too. The defense never lead any fourth quarter comebacks. The defense never threw a Hail Mary pass into the end zone at the last second of the game for a win. The defense never scrambled for a thirty-seven yard touchdown to tie things up. And they sure as hell didn’t kick the game winning field goal in overtime.

            Okay, I’ll give credit to the kicker for that last one, but still, Dennis sure as hell knows how to push my buttons.

            “Oh, and by the way, Jacob. You aren’t getting out of this. I know you think you’re clever because you could read all of the defenses you ever played against, but that doesn’t do shit for you now. I’m not some cliché comic book villain who spills their guts to the protagonist and then ends up getting their plans foiled because of their own narcissism. No, I’m nothing like that. The drug that paralyzes your muscles doesn’t wear off, just the one that stops you from feeling pain. It’s a bi-product of crystal meth, by the way. I thought I’d be nice and let you have a little sleep before I tossed you in the river. Rudy, finish him.”

            Oh, shit. I feel Rudy Sanchez lift me up off the ground. He struggles a little with my weight—I’m not as light as I was during my quarterbacking days—and he drags me on the ground. Broken glass and litter from the highway shreds my legs.

            Oh, shit. I really am by the highway. I really am about to be thrown into a river. This isn’t a joke. Fuck me running. Hell, if I could run, I’d probably actually let you fuck me. I just wish I could get out of here.

            Rudy lifts me up and tosses me into the river as well as he can. I bob in the water and then float back to the top. The fat on my body I’ve developed as I’ve grown older has finally found a way to make itself useful.

            Rudy sees that I’m floating upright where I can breathe. Oh, no, he won’t have any of that. He hops in the water and swims over to me. Then, he flips me so that I’m facedown.

            Wow, I’m really going to die. I try to breathe, but I can’t. Water fills my lungs and I start to feel cold. All I want is to live, dammit. I try to catch the silvery, life-giving air bubbles that erupt from my mouth and nose, but they slip through my fingers.

            Maybe I should have learned how to played receiver instead of quarterback.

That's the end, guys.

It'd be a tremendous favor to me if you could read this part of the post now. Crossed Genres magazine has given those of us who are writers a wonderful opportunity. It's called "Post a Story for Haiti."

My story, "Too Late for a Position Change," is now on the website, which I'll post in a second. There are also a ton... of other stories by some good writers.

What "Post a Story for Haiti" is about is sort of self-explanatory. You send a story in. They post it. Readers read the stories, and if they like it, maybe they'll donate a few dollars to help Haiti out. A dollar. Five dollars. Anything would be a tremendous help.

If you guys would please at least take a look at this site, maybe you'll get something out of it. You're not locked into anything. Just consider it a favor to me to go look.

Thanks a bunch guys!

http://crossedgenres.com/haiti/

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