Matision takes the snap and drops back, right arm cocked, shoulder down.

T.K. is on him like a madman, sailing over the backs of two blockers to get there. Even while still in the air, T.K. has his knife out and gripped in the infighting position, forefinger closest to the blade for maximum reach, thumb hooked over the upper portion of the guard for stabilization.

T.K. comes in at an awkward angle, catching Matision around the neck with his left hand, unable to get in a clear shot with his knife wielding right. Matision cagily drops to one knee and shakes him off.

T.K. does a sideways recovery roll, and grabs on again. The two fall to the ground in a mass of flailing arms and legs. Matision’s referee blows his whistle.

T.K. doesn’t get up. Instead, he bends back Matision’s head and slips his knife in under Matision’s helmet. Matision’s eyes widen, not out of fear, but wonder. Knifing after the whistle is his trick, not T.K.’s. “The whistle,” he croaks, his chin strap digging into his larynx. “The whistle blew, you son of a bitch.”

“Do tell,” whispers T.K. straight into his ear. “I suppose you picked it up in stereo. One channel out here on the field, another through that gadget you’ve got in your head. The one that helped you kill Eddie.”

Matision’s eyes fill with terror. “I… I don’t…

“Mann,” shouts Matision’s referee, “you’ve got two seconds to disengage. One…”

“I’ll be seeing you,” whispers T.K. Guiding the blade with his fingertips, he flips his knife up, scoring a thin line under Matision’s throat. Not enough to draw blood and a penalty, just enough to aggravate, to give Matision a reminder he’s vulnerable, that there’s someone who wants him. Badly. For good reason.

T.K. hops to his feet.

On the next play, inexplicably, Matision fumbles.

The Prospectors recover and press off on a long down street drive.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Corporate vice-presidents for finance, personnel, marketing, advertising and public relations each, in turn, stand and recapitulate their last week’s contribution to the health and welfare of the International Broadcasting Company. Such reports, no matter how glowing, are invariably subjected to extensive dismemberment in Pierce Spencer’s mangling hands. Today Spencer listens to them in unresponsive silence. He appears disjoined from his staff meeting, somehow indifferent and removed, as if he has other matters, more important than last week’s status of his empire, to consider.

One after another, his vice-presidents report, await their traditional grueling cross-examination. When it’s not forthcoming, they sink blankly to their chairs, their expressions, every one, a mixture of surprise and relief. The condemned jerked at the last moment from in front of the firing squad and presented with a one week reprieve.