T.K. lets go with the long bomb.

Bumbo Johnson tags T.K. with a powerful blow to the helmet. Stunned, T.K. goes down. Bumbo falls on him, knees first, and proceeds to give T.K.’s kidneys a methodical working over with a short handled club.

All alone out in midstreet, Fred Gradington comes in under the ball for an easy grab.

As one, America jumps screaming to its feet.

Gradington, playing his first season, lifts his whole head skyward, instead of only his eyes as a more seasoned pro would have done, and reaches for the ball.

The Minutemen’s hidden safety, crouching on the fifteenth floor of the Fontana West apartments, puts cross hairs on Gradington’s Adam’s apple, now ever so slightly exposed just below the bottom of his bulletproof helmet and mask, just above the top of his body armor. The hidden safety squeezes his trigger.

Gradington and the football hit the street at almost the exact same instant.

A gunshot echoes through the street.

T.K. Mann loses consciousness.

Killerbowl XX is over.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

“Marda,” screams the man of the house, with great excitement. “Did you see that finish?”

His wife shambles forth from the kitchen, a bowl of pretzels in one hand, a half empty beer in the other. “Yeah, Dreddie, I saw it out on the portable. It sure was thrilling.”

“I should hope to tell you. Thrilling ain’t even the word.” He cocks his head pleadingly. “Want to watch it again?”

Creases turn her brow into a meaty washboard. “Gee, I dunno, Dreddie. Can we afford it? I mean, we’re way over our base replay time already. It’s all extra for the rest of the month.”

“So we go into hock a little. So what? I mean, my God, Marda, how often do you see a finish like that?”

“Well, I suppose we could both work some overtime. Maybe cut down on snacks or…”

Content to let Marda worry about the economics of it, Dreddie is already at the set. He adjusts a dial, punches a code into a matrix of buttons, pushes the replay switch, joins Marda on the sofa, and helps himself to a drink of her beer.

The set winks to life, spews out an animated deodorant commercial (this at no charge) and fades in Dreddie’s rerun selection.

Their eyes wide, their mouths full of pretzels, living color splashing death on their faces, Dreddie and Marda watch once again the last five minutes of Fred Gradington’s life.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

T.K. collapses onto a bench in front of his locker, involuntarily jerks halfway back up in an all-over spasm of pain. He lowers himself again, more slowly this time, consciously forcing his body to ignore the exploding nerve endings that would send him screaming back into space. Jesus but that Johnson can handle a short club.