Well...

That was ugly. Nice job crapping all over the first quarter, Spurs. You let the Lakers have 21 points in the first five and a half minutes, after which I could only bear to watch the game at the highest fast forward speed my DVR would allow. Nice effort to get back in it, but it couldn't make up for the start. Better hope someone takes L.A. out of the play-offs before you have to see them (file under: extremely unlikely)!

MVP

Period. Yes, there are other guys that are qualified, but this is the league's most valuable player.

No Fucking Class

Hey Shithead. That was a seriously low-class move. Yes, it was a hard foul. Yes they happen all the time. It's part of the game. Yes, you can pretend you were going for the ball. Doesn't make you any less of a punk. To take a swing at a guy's head for the sole purpose of making some kind of tough-guy statement (because let's face it - you were not going to overcome a 30-point deficit at the end of the third quarter) just speaks volumes about your poor sportsmanship.

I remember another low-class tool making a move like that just to prove a point. His name was Jerry Stackhouse and he decided to wipe out Shaq during a game back in '06. I'm sure Jerry felt like a real bad-ass when the Heat were clutching the trophy in Dallas.

02-18-2009

It's my birthday. Last year I wrote a post on my birthday, so I decided to this year to make it a tradition. Though it has been an eventful year for me in many ways, I am particularly proud of the story I've been telling here since October. This blog has been a real challenge for me, and I am enjoying every post that I'm able to make. It's true that I thought I would be able to post more chapters, more often, but time management has been a serious struggle. I have had to make adjustments to both my approach and my personal expectations regarding NBA Dramatique, but learning those things through trial and error has been an essential part of the process. I think my story-telling will be greatly improved over the remainder of the season because I've worked on solving the issues that led to diminished posting.

I really want to thank all of you that have read my work here, and those of you that have taken the time to comment on the posts. I honestly smile every time I find a new comment on my blog, regardless of what you have to say. I greatly appreciate the feedback. I know there are some readers that have made requests and I haven't gotten around to delivering on those, but I haven't forgotten, and I will be looking for ways to work in your favorite team or player.

If anyone is wondering - yes, I do plan on doing this again next year, and I expect it to be even better. I'm not sure yet if it will be a continuation of this year's story, or if I'll find a completely different approach with the same underlying concept, but I've had a lot of fun and I want to keep doing it.

As far as the real-world NBA season goes, I have to admit that it really hasn't been what I expected. I thought a number of teams were going to be better than they have been, and despite being last year's finalists, I didn't think the Celtics or the Lakers were going to be as good as last year. I wanted to see better things from the Wizards, the Sixers, the Grizzlies, the Bucks. I thought the Heat would be better, and that they'd make more impressive personnel decisions than they have thus far. The Hornets are doing worse than I expected, but I'm glad. I am surprised at how Detroit has underperformed. I will say though that, in my opinion, the Pistons aren't losing because of Iverson. They're not losing because of Michael Curry. I feel that the Pistons are losing because Ben Wallace left. Doesn't seem to make sense, does it, considering how he's played since? But my feeling is that Ben and the other starters from the '04 champs and the '05 almosts were a crew, a gang, a brotherhood in the way that they were better as a group than they ever could be apart. The Cavs and the Trailblazers are both making me happy, winning about as much as I thought they were going to. At this stage, I'm expecting a Spurs/Lakers Conference Finals, and a Cavs/Celtics Conference Finals. I think that's pretty much what everyone is expecting now. Here's the order in which I'd prefer to see Finals combinations:

Celtics/Spurs - the match-up I hoped for but we didn't get to see last year.
Cavs/Spurs - An '07 rematch, but certainly no sweep this time.
Cavs/Lakers - LeBron's team and Kobe's team all in. That seems entertaining.
Celtics/Lakers - eh. Doesn't do much for me.

Tomorrow is the trade deadline. I'm going to hold off on any commentary on the trades that have already gone down until the deadline has passed, but I do have one request to make since it's my birthday. Please, please, please, Basketball gods, do not let the Spurs send Mason and Hill away in return for Vince Carter. Vince is not cool. Hill and Mason, cool. Oberto and Bowen are guys that I've liked, but they've seemingly reached the end of the road. I even thought Udoka was going to be a solid player, but his mojo appears to have defected. I don't care if Pop loses any of those three, but I think George Hill is going to be awesome, and Mason has earned his spot. The Spurs don't need Carter. Not for that price. Please don't let it happen. While I'm at it, Portland doesn't need you either, Vince. Stay away from my teams!

NBA Dramatique: I Am The Law

They were punks. No respect for authority. No common sense. No concern for anything or anyone outside of themselves. He was not impressed. Hadn't been for a long time. If you coaxed it out of him with the right combination of beer and conversational collusion, he'd probably admit to hating them.

He was one of the Overlord's Regulators. Had been since before most of the current soldiers had even been born. His job, his purpose in life, was to make sure war remained an honorable and noble method of power transfer. But that task grew harder every year, because these thugs today didn't know what honor was. Wouldn't know noble if it bit them on the ass.

He watched now as two armies fought against one another. The Legend's Legion defended their Fieldhouse from the attacking forces of King James and the Royal Battalion. Crawford blew air out of his mouth and shook his head in ridicule. This guy was no king, he thought. The Legion came from a land with a rich tradition of war. Their mentor and lord was true to his name - a legend. Crawford could respect that guy. This kid, though...

Maybe "King" James wasn't really so bad on his own. If he had come up through the ranks under the watchful eye of the Legend, the kid might really be something. If he had come up on 7th Avenue, or if he had been trained within the stone walls of the Bastion, maybe he'd be alright. But armies these days didn't make soldiers the right way anymore. There were ways to do things right and ways to do things wrong, but somewhere when he wasn't looking, people started to confuse the two. Even the Overlord and some of the other Regulators got it wrong a lot of times.

See, armies are supposed to be human. They're supposed to live by the blood pumping in their veins and the hunger eating at their guts. They're supposed to have instincts. The blood and the hunger and the instincts are the things that should drive men to the Prize, not Machines. But things changed. They let the brainiacs come in and start screwing with things. Now it's planning and strategy. It's calculating. It's not war - it's math and head games. It's damn cyborgs.

(Crawford knew an old story, and he had every reason to believe it was true. He had heard that there was a young fighter, a real smart and powerful kid. That kid was in the hopes of a lot of armies, but every indication was that he was going to the Bastion. Then the kid vanished. Disappeared. But what was really funny about the whole thing, was that right after that, some tycoons started to spread the news that they had developed the perfect warrior. They said that they had trained a young athlete and wired him up, made him both more and less than a man. The Machine was born. The whispered part of the story though was that the Machine's prototype cyborg fighter was in fact the Bastion-destined young warrior, kidnapped and made a guinea pig for science. It made Crawford sick.)

Well, the more the Machine won, the more armies tried to be like the Machine. Now they had little mathematicians and robot-wanna-be advisers spread throughout the warring nations. The One Who Wished He Was King had a few characters in his court that Crawford suspected might be a little too mechanical, if you catch the drift.

Crawford knew that his job was to maintain order and fairness. He also believed that his job was to uphold the honor of the War, and that sometimes meant giving order and fairness a nudge in the right direction. This battle was close. Too close.

*****

It was a dive, and Crawford drank alone. He sat in a dark corner where he would not be recognized and listened to the broadcast tell of the war he had affected last night. A few other people were in the bar, drinking and smoking and shooting pool. The cell phone in his pocket began to buzz. He answered with the push of a button.

"Yeah?"

"Joey, you made a lot of noise last night. King James is not what I'd call 'low-profile.'"

"So, what's the fall-out this time?"

"You got lucky. No fall-out. Vizier Brown was so incensed that he was arrested for inciting a riot. His temper-tantrum effectively took the heat off of you. But you're not always going to be that lucky, and picking such high profile targets is a bad idea."

"Did you make the Vizier pay?"

"Twenty-five K."

"Good." Crawford pressed a button to hang up.

He drank his beer and thought about the War, and felt like a hero.

Kobe Bryant

Bill Simmons recently wrote a column for ESPN in which he explained why he did not think it was correct to classify him as a "Kobe Hater". I was a little aggravated to see he had written it because I had been thinking about my own attitude towards Kobe, and wanted to get it on my blog, but didn't want it to appear that I was following any kind of trend. I guess that's what I get for not posting frequently enough.

Because of his incredible skill and abilities, Bryant is more famous than basketball. Like Michael Jordan and Shaquille O'Neal and Larry Bird and Magic Johnson before him. Like Tiger Woods and the game of golf. Like Wayne Gretzky and hockey. People who know nothing about basketball know that Kobe Bryant is good at basketball, not because they've seen it, but because they've been told enough times. I think this creates a negative stigma towards Bryant for true fans of the sport. They take praise of Kobe as a slight, because they've put in the hours and the study and the effort to know the game, which in sum might tell them that Kobe Bryant is the best active player in the NBA, but someone who does none of those things can reach the same conclusion. This creates the impression that Kobe is the ideal of the non-basketball fan, or the fair-weather fan, who has not the necessary education to levy such judgement. Kobe is thus derided for the wide recognition of his talent.

Many seem to take issue with Kobe Bryant: The Person Off the Court. Essentially this is a judgment on how the man conducts his personal life when he's not wearing a Lakers jersey, or a team USA jersey, or a Western All-Star Jersey. Though often unstated, I get the sense that criticisms of Kobe the Human are rooted largely in the accusation of rape and the subsequent trial that occurred a few years ago. When his highly-publicized trial was underway, I had not yet become a follower of professional basketball. I don't really care what happened in Denver on the night in question. I wasn't there. The trial ended. Bryant was not convicted. But because so many people in this country love the rise and fall of the rich and famous, Kobe will never stop being on trial for the things that did or didn't happen in Denver that night.

When I was able to get past the fame and move beyond the reputation, I started to see the basketball player. Kobe Bryant is an incredible basketball player. For the first phase of his career he was burdened with the "Next Jordan" tag. He didn't shy away from it, and made more than one move to deliberately paint his name over Mike's. After Shaq split from the Lakers, and the team began its spin out of playoff contention, the criticisms began to come with a more frequent accusation: Kobe will never be Jordan. I think it may have been the best thing that could have happened to him. Kobe looked at his feet, and the road beneath them, and looked back at the history of the game and where he had been in that history. Then I believe he came to a realization. He realized that those were his feet. He was standing on his own road. His place in the history of the game was his and his alone, just as Jordan's place was only Jordan's and Shaq's place was only Shaq's. He accepted that Kobe Bryant wasn't going to be the next anything, but that he was going to be the only Kobe Bryant. He transcended the burdens of being himself that had been placed on him by everyone up to that point, and began being himself for himself only. I loved that.

About two weeks ago when the Lakers played in Boston, there was a moment that solidified my appreciation for Kobe. The first quarter was about to expire, and Kobe had the ball. He was dribbling, standing still, in front of his defender. The shot clock was winding down. With less than two seconds remaining on the clock, Kobe whipped the ball to the far side of the court where Trevor Ariza stood, just outside the three-point line. Ariza should have shot the ball as soon as it hit his hands. Instead, Ariza caught the ball, put it on the floor and took a step inside the line, then picked it up to shoot. Guess what? Time expired before the shot was off and the quarter ended. Kobe looked at Ariza like he was the dumbest ass hole ever born, and that was the moment that I realized why I like Kobe.

I make that face.

I'm guilty. Sometimes, I'm kind of a dick. I don't mean to be. I don't want to be. But sometimes I am, and I am in the same kind of situation that Kobe was at the end of that quarter. He expected someone else to do exactly what he would have done in a given situation, and to do it just as well as he would have. That didn't happen, and he was pissed about it. The circumstances didn't matter to Bryant, only the end result, which was failure by someone he trusted to get the job done. In Kobe's head, if hadn't given that shot to Ariza, he would have made the shot himself. If the roles had been reversed, he would have caught the ball and shot it, scoring three points on nothing but net at the buzzer. It makes no difference that he might have missed it too. In Kobe's head, he knew what needed to be done, asked someone to do it, and they couldn't. They let him down. Kobe knows how hard he works, how much time he puts in, and how much sweat he has poured into becoming one of the game's greatest players. As far as he's concerned, everyone else who plays basketball could be that good if they just tried hard enough, but they don't. They're lazy. They don't care as much. So when do I do that? All the time, over stupid things. Washing the dishes. Cooking food. Putting things in the refrigerator in an orderly fashion. Driving. Talking to women. Writing. Any job that I get paid for. It's absurd. And when I take a step back I recognize that I'm being a conceited ass. But in the moment, if something didn't work right, or if it broke, or the result was not as expected, it's because it wasn't done the way I would have done it. More accurately, it wasn't done the way I like to believe I would have done it. It is because of this trait in Kobe (that I recognize now in myself) that I feel I can appreciate him as a player a little bit more.

So, Kobe, I feel you man.

To everyone who knows me - sorry for making that face sometimes.

NBA Dramatique: Scar, Scar, Can You Feel My Power?

It just hadn't worked. There were mistakes, maybe. Missteps. But now what to do?

The pale necromancer walked alone through his private quarters, reflecting on his past decisions. He thought back on the steps that had brought him to this point in time. He remembered his youth as a soldier, fighting along side the Super Hero. He felt the weight of rings upon his hand, reminding him of his once deadly sharp-shooting. He remembered being assimilated by the Machine when he was a little bit older, and he had foggy, dream-like memories of his cyborg life within that construct. When the Machine eventually purged him, he knew that there was not enough humanity left within him to fight as a soldier, but perhaps he could fight another way. Winning wars had lined his pockets well, and he could use that wealth to affect the war from beyond the battlefield. The once young sharp-shooter invested his money in an army, and began to study the ways of war as a scholar, not as a soldier.

Over the course of the next few years, the man watched as his investment paid off. The army had developed into a surprisingly potent force, and as their skills and abilities made them well-known, their fortunes increased. They were the People of the Sun, and their brilliance in action was matched only by the break-neck speed at which they executed those actions.

But there was one problem. The Machine.

Slow and plodding and mechanical, the Machine was the opposite of the People's army. The People of the Sun were free-flowing and creative and quick. They had an offensive efficiency that rained long-range bombs on their enemies with overwhelming frequency. There seemed no logic in the fact that they could not defeat the cyborgs, but in the final stretches of the war, some twist of luck would go against them, and the Machine would gleam triumphantly.

This was very troubling to the investor. It seemed to him as if the Machine continued to take from him, even after it had taken the last of his physical ability. The Machine had used him to help win a war then cast him aside, but would not allow him to enjoy post-purge success. The pale man was determined to change this, and went to the People of the Sun to leverage his investment.

In the course of his studies, the man had ventured into knowledge of the dark arts. He made it known to the other investors of the army that he knew unspeakable things and that he could use that knowledge to overcome the Machine. They were uncertain, but accepted, because they feared there was no other solution.

They were wrong. Tragically so.

The first act the necromancer performed once he was given the keys to the keep was a magical mass murder. He poisoned the soldiers to put them into a coma, using their sleeping bodies as a staging ritual. While they slept and dreamed, he sacrificed one of them to conjure a demon from Hell. The demon was monstrous and powerful, and his arrival sent such a psychic shockwave through the assembled men that they died instantly without ever again opening their living eyes. The demon then revived the army into undeath, and christened himself the Big Resurrection.

The People of the Sun were at once changed forever, and renamed themselves the Followers of the Sun, for the light of day was something they were never going to see again. The arms dealer, D'Antoni, who had previously been the facilitator of their quick and deadly attack style, was uncomfortable with the dark conversion of these soldiers who had been his friends, and soon packed his bags and headed east. His departure came just days after the undead Followers had been put out of another war by the cyborgs of the Machine.

The necromancer had continued making changes to the army that dismantled the old, fast, rapid-attack force that had been so promising. They were slower. They were attacking less. They were not winning as much. He had been so certain that the changes he had made were going to be the right ones, but it was becoming clearer and clearer that he had been wrong.

A decision must be made. The necromancer was standing in the chamber that the Followers revelled in after the sun set. At the moment, they were corpses, scattered about the room in repose during the daylight hours. The Big Resurrection was a hulking mass of decay in the center of the room. Amare was gently decomposing at his piano, waiting for the moonlight to restore his un-life. Nash was flat on his back on the floor, arms behind his head, looking like he would come to life and start doing sit-ups.

In the necromancer's left hand was the nozzle of a spray gun, the hose of which ran to a tank on his back. The tank was filled with gasoline. Highly flammable gasoline. In the necromancer's right hand was a revolver, loaded with a single bullet. He slumped down onto a plush chair and looked around at his dead men. He looked at his left hand, then at his right. His left again, then his right.

Something had to be done. But he could not decide which trigger to pull.

H-O-R-S-E

They're going to play HORSE during All-Star Weekend.

Awesome.

Something Completely Different

Hello, everyone! I know I have left you in a murky silence for over a month. I'm not abandoning this blog, and I assure you things are coming around again that will carry the story steadily from All-Star break to the play-offs.

I have been busy with many other things. My girlfriend is now my fiance, and I'm no longer a temp. I've been very fortunate to find myself working with people that value a person's ability to form thoughts and put them in writing, so I wanted to offer you the opportunity to read the first public piece I've created for their website. Fair warning: the piece and the site are very political with a distinctive lean to the left. If that's not your cup of tea, that's just fine. I'm not interested in making NBA on the Brain a political forum and I won't cross-pollinate, but I wanted to extend the invitation to find me elsewhere if you're so inclined.

Please click here, and jump around over there for more thought-provoking material.

Hell Yeah

If you didn't get to watch the Boston/Portland game last night, I feel very sorry for you. It was incredible to see the Blazers work so effectively without Roy in uniform. I think a lot of things happened last night that will contribute greatly to the maturation of the Blazers as a team and the younger guys as NBA-caliber players. Even the six-guys-on-the-court debacle seemed to be a tension-reliever for Portland (not so much for Boston). I'm not going to break the game down because plenty of other places are going to be on that already. Check ESPN (from which I stole the photo) or Blazer's Edge or the Rip City Project for some good stuff.

NBA Dramatique: If at First

"Twice already."

"Yeah, I know. But I think we can do it."

"Why? What's different this time?"

"We're better. We're more experienced. We've fought them before."

O.J. and Rudy looked again upon the bright and shining exterior of the Machine. In their heads were visions of conquest. They could visualize the flying sparks and oil slicks upon the ground as the Bear Tribesmen laid waste to cybernetic terminators. It was pure imagination fueling these visions, though. The Bear Tribe had been repeatedly beaten by the forces of the Machine.

"We still have that guy from the Sky Fortress. Can we use him for anything?"

Rudy shook his head. "Nah. I don't know if he's ever gonna be any use to us. Maybe we'll eat him."

*****

The Bear-men had encircled their enemy's headquarters, and had been pelting it with stones in an attempt to provoke. The repeated noise of rocks bouncing off steel activated defense programs, bringing the cyborg killers on-line. In the low red light of the staging bay, eye-like ocular sensors glowed green. Relays and motors began to click and whir. Lubricating oil and hydraulic fluid began to warm and the robotic killers began to move at the command of the Great Machine. Their movements were deliberate and calculated. Efficiency dictated every motion. The bay doors opened and the bright sun threw its rays into the barely-lit interior of the Machine. Not one of the cyborgs was still human enough to throw up an arm to block the sun from their eyes, nor even to squint. The sun's light was brilliant on the chrome skin of each fighter, and made their bodies appear wrapped in mercury or molten silver. They began to take heavy but calm steps out into the light to face their opponent. The chants of the Bear Tribe fell silent. Those in fur watched those in metal form their own circle around their fortress. The cyborgs were expressionless, emotionless, and their electric "eyes" gazed at the tribesmen with cold indifference. The enormous spiked cog destroyed the pregnant pause by spinning into action, making a terrible mechanical growl as it drove downward, and just missed a number of tribesmen who were fortunate enough to dodge the surprise attack.

Rudy's assessment before the battle had not been completely incorrect. The fighters of the Bear Tribe had learned. They had faced this opponent and they had faced others, and now they were using their experience to wage a smarter war. O.J. especially was becoming a more fierce fighter with every day that passed. Rudy had moments in which he wondered if O.J would surpass him, and wondered if his friend would eventually usurp his leadership. When he thought about it, he found that to be the most likely outcome. He also thought at times that they might be too competitive to remain friends and that one of them would have to go. For now though, they were tribesmen. They were strong with the spirit of the Great Bear. Rudy was happy that O.J. was his friend, and he was happy to have a fellow hero to fight and bleed beside him.

*****

O.J. was determined. He was no loser, and these cyborgs had tried to convince him otherwise already on two separate occasions. He gave no quarter, and attacked with the strength the Bear had granted him. He accepted blows against him and repaid in kind. He dented and broke solid parts of machine-men and tore or ripped the softer pieces of his enemies. He grew tired, and felt beaten, then would feel the Bear roar in his gut and have new energy to keep fighting. He refused to quit in his head or heart. That would have served him against other opponents, but this was, after all, the Machine. Where his emotions would have been a poison against lesser armies, the Machine was immune. They countered attacks. They defended mightily. They felt no fear of loss even when ebbing. They showed resolve and patience, because they had not been programmed to show anything else. So in the end, they won. Again.

*****

On the trail away from the Machine, with bodies aching and bruised, Rudy and O.J. remained silent. Both had the same thought in their heads:

"Three times already."

Both also followed that thought with another:

"Next time."

Christmas Post

The Lakers, Magic, Spurs, Cavaliers, and Mavericks all got Christmas presents on Thursday.  I saw all of the games except the Magic/Hornets, but I can say for all of the rest that not one of those winners had the game locked up until the final moments.  The Lakers won at home, with a really unusual lack of free throws for the Celtics, so, you know, make of that what you will.  I like it when the Hornets lose.  The Spurs win was yet another classic instance of them breaking the spirit of the Suns.  I know Amare probably left the arena looking for stray cats to punt (I'm sure Amare is not actually cruel to animals.  I was making a joke about his intense frustration.  Please, no angry letters).  The Cavs...man, that was a close one.  Antawn and Caron should get together with Amare for a few drinks.  Drown their sorrows.  I'm pretty disappointed about the Mavericks win over the Blazers.  They earned it.  There was nothing shady about it.  The Blazers played the game and stayed in it.  But Howard got tossed early, and Portland should have capitalized.  Maybe, though, the win sans Josh is further evidence that the Mavs are better off without him.  I stuck up for that guy back in September, but it has always seemed to me like he has a pretty terrible attitude, and I really believe that Dallas has been unable to make the championship leap over the past few years because of poor team chemistry.  I think they have more than one locker room poison.  Dirk deserves better.

Anyway, no Dramatique post on the Christmas games.  I was planning on doing the Lakers/Celtics game, but it was so over-hyped that it feels stale to me.  Sorry to let you down, Lakers fans.  I know you're out there.  But I have no doubt that the Western Banner will continue to play a major role in this tale of mine as the season progresses.

NBA Dramatique: No Good-bye

"I did not know I would never see them again, but I could tell at the beginning that the night would end badly. I watched Yao looking out of the observation window at the palace below us. He could see the soldiers of the Royal Battalion move into position and our own troops as they rappelled onto the field of battle. His face read disgust and impatience. As he turned away from the glass bubble I knew before I looked what he was not wanting to see. The One Who Would Be King stood atop the parapet on the southwest end of his palace, hands stretched towards the sky. A cloud of dust encircled his form."

"Yao was already in combat fatigues, and I watched him pull the goggles down over his eyes and walk to the jump door, then grab one of the rappelling lines and descend. 'Good luck out there!' I shouted after him. I don't think he heard me."

"We were on the attack right away. Well, when I say 'we' I mean the troops. I wasn't fighting. I haven't fought in a long time. But I was ready, and I would have fought, if they had called upon me."

"Maybe we were over-confident. Maybe we were under-confident. It's hard for me to say now. We knew that no one had bested the Royal Battalion on their own land in this war, but we could have. As an observer, maybe it was too easy for me to see where mistakes were made. We let Big Ben get away with far too much at the outset. The notion that his interest only lies in protecting the King and the castle was proven wrong. The other knights would not relent, despite our superior weaponry, and they continued to fire and fight as if this was a battle to end the war."

"Our troops are not slouches. They're not scrubs. The Commander himself led the attack. Scola and Battier fought as hard as they could. I watched Brooks and Bones launch devastating shots as they were meant to do. I think what really beat us was not the King or his knights. It wasn't our lack of ability. It was the Overlord's secret police."

"Yao's demeanor before leaving the mothership was such that I fully expected him to come back on board with a blood-soaked uniform and human remains under his fingernails. He was going out to spread death. He never got the chance though, because the regulators kept stopping him from attacking. It is a bizarre notion to think of rules being enforced in the midst of war, but it happens. The idea is that all of the armies agreed to this supervision as a means of preventing any other army from developing overly inhumane forms of attack. We follow the Overlord's rules so that everyone else does too. But Yao creates weapons and likes to test them. Sometimes the rules let him. Sometimes they don't."

"Without Yao, we couldn't overcome. The Battalion is strong and fast, and their King fights with nothing in his line of vision but the Prize. Major Artest stepped up to fight the King toe to toe, and Major Artest is not only strong but crazy to the brink of fatality. The One Who Would Be King prevailed. He finished his evening by sneaking behind Yao and crushing Yao's last usable rifle with his bare hands. It was impressive and sickening to me simultaneously."

"As I said before, I expected to see Yao return to the mothership looking like a weary killer. In fact, I never saw him return to the ship at all. As combat decayed, I received a summons to the aft bay. I began walking alone, and at some point, an unseen assailant struck a blow to my head and rendered me unconscious. I write this note now, unsure of what occurred and how exactly I arrived in my current predicament. My clothes have been stolen and I am dressed only in fur. I believe that I have been captured by the Tribe of the Bear, but I have not yet been addressed, and do not know what these tribalists intend to do with me. Perhaps I will fight with them or perhaps they will make me a sacrifice. I write this in a hurry, to you, unknown reader, hoping that you will find it and in turn find me before anything unfortunate befalls me."

"Please send help."

No More Excuses

Excuses. I don't want to write them anymore. You don't want to read them again. Agreed? I'll write some stories. You read them, enjoy, comment. No more excuses from me on why they aren't getting done. Thank you for being here.

***edited for the sake of clarity***

NBA Dramatique: Check Yourself Prior to Wrecking Yourself

The Legend's Legion traveled through the countryside away from their loss at the Bastion and back towards the land of abundant cornfields they called home. They used high-speed motorcars to move across the land, but the bodies in control of those vehicles slumped in their seats, looking anything but speedy and quick. More than one driver let drowsiness overtake them for a moment, swerving off of the road and rumbling along the shoulder before being startled awake and righting the vehicle. A small castle appeared on the horizon, and Danny made a decision to help his fellow soldiers. He activated the radio within his driving helmet.

"Alright, guys. You're looking very sloppy. If we keep driving tonight, at least one of you is going to wreck. You might get hurt, you might hurt someone else, worst of all me. So let's head to that castle and see if we can get some rest."

There was radio silence for about twenty seconds before T.J. came back across.

"Danny, you know who's castle that is right?"

"Yes, I know, damn it! Are you afraid to go there? You're afraid of the big bad King?"

T.J.'s sigh came across as a static crackle. The roll of his eyes and shake of his head did not transmit. "No. No, man. I'm not afraid. I'm just saying, King James hasn't been showing a great deal of hospitality. But you're the boss. I'm moving in that direction, just like everyone else."

"That's right." said Danny. "I'm the boss."

*****

The ear-splitting growl of combustion engines gave the castle residents ample warning of their approach. A party of knights waited outside of the gates as the Legion brought their vehicles to a screeching halt. Danny stepped out and greeted the knights.

"The Royal Battalion laying out the welcome for me! How kind. I don't see the face of King James, though. Is he not well?"

One of the larger knights stepped forward to reply. "The King is well. He wonders about the purpose of your visit, as do his knights."

"We have been traveling from the Bastion. It was our intention to return home, but my men are perilously fatigued. We would like to sleep here for the night." Danny answered.

The knight turned and walked back towards the castle gate. A small unarmed boy was there, and the knight bent forward to whisper something to him. The boy looked over at the fast cars of the Legion, then turned and entered the gate, running. In just a moment he had returned and nodded affirmatively at the knight. The knight turned back to Danny and removed his helmet. Now recognizable as the King's master-at-arms, Z, he spoke loudly.

"King James welcomes your visit. He hopes that all of you will join us this evening for a meal in the banquet hall."

"Haha!" laughed Danny, and clapped his hands. "I knew it! And the King is gonna cook for us! How 'bout that?" The Legion troops stepped away from their vehicles and followed Danny into the castle as he continued to talk loudly, and the knights closed ranks behind them and followed through the gate.

*****

The clock struck nine as the knights of the Royal Battalion and the soldiers in the Legend's Legion took seats at a grand table in King James' banquet hall. The King himself was the last to arrive. He approached the head of the table where a servant awaited him holding a bowl of flour. King James took a handful of the flour and rubbed his hands together, then threw the flour into the air.

"Let us eat!" he shouted. The King began by carving a large slice of ham and placing it on his plate. The servant who held the flour then lifted the ham and began moving to his left, serving a portion to each diner in turn. A procession of servants did the same for each dish, allowing King James to take what he desired before entering the rotation for the other diners. As the ham reached Danny, he cast a curiously disapproving glare at the King. The King was quick to notice.

"Is there something about this meal that you find unsatisfactory, legionnairre?"

Most of the other members of the Legion looked quickly to Danny then back down at their own plates in anticipatory embarrassment.

"I find it curious that you serve yourself before your guests, 'King' James. I also find it odd that you pretend to not know my name. It's Danny."

King James laughed as he chewed his food and looked at several of his knights, who joined him in laughing. "Danny. Are you suggesting that you should have been the first to dine? Is that my understanding?"

Danny did not smile as he said "Where I grew up, they teach us something called manners. I was raised to know that a guest is to be treated better than the residents of a home."

"Well, Danny, I'll tell you what. When you've got a castle, you treat your guests just as you'd like. In my castle I'll do likewise. And the manners I learned growing up taught me to be a gracious guest when in someone else's home, and to be grateful for anything I was offered." The King gave the young man a steady stare to help drive his point, then joined his knights in eating and laughing. Danny continued his meal in silence.

After dinner the King took his guests to a room of the castle in which he screened films. The King positioned himself in the best seat and allowed his knights to fill the seats surrounding him. The Legion was left to fill the seats on the perimeter, which were positioned less advantageously for viewing the film. The film itself was about the early life of the King. Danny sat in the back of the theater, fuming. With his arms tightly crossed over his chest, he spat words at Rasho sitting next to him.

"He's acting like I'm a nobody! As if I'm entertained sitting in this dark room, barely able to see the self-aggrandizing movie he subjects us to. Surely he's seen my name on the Ballot!"

Rasho simply shrugged and tried to nap. As the film progressed, Danny allowed his sense of slight to fester and grow. He muttered disrespectful comments under his breath, hoping someone else would join him in discontent. There were no takers. At the end of the film, King James and his knights stood and filed out of the theater. Danny, in anger, pushed and shoved his way through the crowd and reached the King.

"I demand to know why you have treated me with such disrespect and low regard from the moment I walked through your gate! You did not come to greet my Legion upon our arrival. The quarters you provided us were more poor than those likely used by your servants! Your meal was heavy and your hospitality lacking! And you 'entertain' us with this tale of your own accomplishments?! Don't you know that my prowess on the field has come to rival that of Miller, the last great Legionnairre?" King James had not broken stride nor even given the appearance that he heard Danny speaking up to this point. Danny reached his hand out and grabbed the King's arm roughly, shouting "Show me your respect!"

The King looked down at the hand upon his arm and stopped walking. Quickly, he spun and drove both of his fists into Danny's chest. The young man collapsed to the floor in a heap. With fast efficiency the Royal Battalion separated the rest of the Legion from Danny, and held them at bay as the King payed his respects. The legionnairre Troy protested "Stop pushing me! Stop pushing me!", but he was no threat and was summarily ignored. Without a word, all of them witnessed King James lift his right fist into the air and mightily drive it downward into Danny's face, then watched him lift his left fist into the air and mightily drive it downward into Danny's face. He repeated this see-saw motion of powerful punches at least a dozen times until Danny was unconscious and his face looked like roadkill. He stopped punching and lifted Danny by the shirt, then dragged him over to the waiting Legion.

"Go home now." he said.

They did.

NBA Dramatique: Ubuntu

He thought he had certainly lost some teeth. It would make for strange symmetry with this enemy. Rajon checked for gaps with his tongue and was surprised to find everything still in place. His opponent's skull had struck Rajon's mouth hard and caused enough pain for tiny stars to blink about his vision. Rajon stumbled away from the fight and found a place to collect himself.

*****

The Legend's Legion had attacked the Bastion. The Legion was hopeful and haughty after an unexpected victory against the Western Banner, and had brought war with them all the way back east. Rajon and Old Man Sam watched the approaching army earlier in the day from the upper turrets of the fortress.

"Should we worry?" Rajon asked.

"Never." said Sam. "Never worry. They bested us on their ground at the beginning of this war. It doesn't mean anything. They're coming to this fight very proud because of beating the Banner and because we couldn't beat them last time. But it's empty pride."

"You think they're weak?"

Sam waited a moment then answered. "No. They're not weak." He turned his eyes to the young saboteur. "But they're not us."

Rajon smiled and nodded at the old guy. "Yeah. Yeah, they're not us."

*****

Rajon's elbows rested on his knees and his head hung low. He spit, and made a red splatter on the ground between his feet. The shouts of his friend House broke through the rest of the noise and flew to his ears. Rajon shook his head to dismiss the pain, returned to his feet, and stepped back into the thick of the battle. Kevin, seeing Rajon's return, yelled and tossed a large staff to the young fighter. Rajon swung the staff viciously as he caught it and knocked a Legion trooper unconscious. From a distance, the man who had driven his head into Rondo's mouth fired a shot which missed Rondo but hit the wall behind him. Concrete fragments sprayed the back of his head, causing him to find cover. He pulled a grenade from his belt and tossed it back towards his attacker, but also missed the mark. He darted across the field of battle, ducking fire, to get closer to the rest of the Bastion fighters.

"We lost you for a few minutes there." Ray's rifle was still strapped to his back, but Rajon knew that would soon change. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah." Rajon answered, "Everything's cool. I was seeing stars, but I hid away for a minute."

"Alright, guys." said Kevin as he reloaded an Uzi. "We need to take it to 'em. They are running off of ego and adrenaline, so let's humiliate them."

The gathered Bastion troops nodded in unison and spoke a single word in chorus.

"Ubuntu."

*****

Rajon put his stealth to use right away, sneaking behind the enemy and stealing weapons. Ray fired at will as Legion troops moved across the field and wounded a few instantly. Kevin caught a buzz bomb that Rajon tossed at him and didn't let it rest in his hands for a second before sending it in a high arc back at the enemy. Next, when Kevin threw a knife at one of the Legend's troops, it missed and bounced harmlessly to the ground. Rajon used his speed to race out and grab that knife, picking it up and sending it back through the air in one fluid motion. The knife sank deep into the throat of the target soldier, who bled, fell, and died. He then spotted an opponent trying to take cover, and shouted the hider's location to Ray. Ray sighted the soldier and sniped, ending the soldier's attempts of self-preservation.

Rajon was with the spirit of war, and felt the blessing of the Prize was within him as well. The Bastion knew when luck was with them, and saw Rajon's surging offensive as a strong indicator that they had it in droves. Kevin and Ray continued to shred the Legion mercilessly, and Perk, Leon, and House fed off of the blood thirst of their brothers. The Bastion was not going to allow this upstart insurgency to gain any more confidence. Rajon would send them home, their confidence broken, their delusions of grandeur erased.

*****

Tired and battle-weary, Rajon stood at the top of the Bastion's west turret and watched the Legend's Legion retreat. Old Man Sam stood beside him again, and Kevin climbed the stairs to join them.

"You showed your heart today, Rajon. You were everywhere. That was awesome." said Kevin.

"I told him early today that those guys weren't his equal." said Sam. "He's faster than they can manage."

Rajon was happy to hear the praise of these fighters that he respected so much. "Thanks a lot guys. I did all I could. I'm not your hero, though. I am who I am because of those around me."

NBA Dramatique: Street-Fighting Man

Life with the 7th Second Chance was maddening. War was hard enough with your enemies out to get you; having to fight on a second front within your own ranks was a disheartening struggle. Things had started out so well when D'Antoni rolled up 7th with his jet packs and sales pitch. They won a few battles, then they lost a few. Then they lost a few more. Unexpectedly, the 7th Avenue landlords decided to issue some evictions - to make room for future improvements, they said - and some good guys were forced to move away. Those guys had been helping them win fights, and the only change that the landlords were likely to get was that a few bums would have a new home. The jet packs had suffered some casualties of their own and were not fully functional at the moment. On top of everything else, the Clown had let his feud with D'Antoni escalate to a miserable degree and everyone in the gang was feeling the stress.

David had tolerated the madness for a couple of years. He tried to tune it out. He would go to the weights and sweat out his frustration. He practiced his marksmanship, and his draw time, and his protections, and did so alone when the rest of the guys wanted to fight one another like school children.

David decided to go for a run through the city streets. Though he might be surrounded by people as he ran, he knew that none of those people would be the other Second-Chancers, and that relieved him. He put on some earphones, broke into a running pace as soon as he was on the sidewalk, and had cleared several blocks before the first song had finished playing. The air was cold. The sky was gray. David's breath formed clouds in the air as he exhaled, which gave him the appearance of a steam locomotive powering down the street. The longer he ran, the further he moved from the public congestion. He passed by a constantly diminishing number of people until he found himself running in a network of empty alleys and loading areas. There was a way, he knew, to use these alleys exclusively to make his way back to 7th Avenue and avoid people all together, so once he exhausted his energy, he slowed to a walk and went in that direction. Besides, it had started raining.

David gazed down at his shoes and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. Puddles were forming, and David noticed by the reflection of lights in their surface that the sky had grown dark. Though he was a large man, and certainly not one to back down from a fight, the realization that he was isolated put David on edge.

His instincts were correct.

Metal scraped against metal and cement. A large steel plate was flipped over and created a harsh echo against the tall buildings. David watched a large arm rise out of the hole once covered by the steel plate and then pull its enormous owner onto the street. The figure was impossibly large. The rain bounced off of his skin and created an artificial aura against the street lights. He stood tall and wide, and David watched a dozen other figures emerge from the hole. Then he knew.

The Underground.

David momentarily lunged forward, then, realizing how badly he was outnumbered, stepped back. He was not one to run, but unarmed and alone he would not defeat this foe. He quickly cut to his left and ran top speed down the alley, mentally mapping the twisting route back home. He heard the fast and heavy feet of the Underground fighters slapping the concrete as they gave chase. Although his earphones were still in, the sound of blood pumping hard in his ears drowned out the music. David ran until he thought his lungs were going to tear open. He was within four blocks of home when he began shouting out the names of the other Second-Chancers, hoping to draw them out. He was out of breath. A hand grasped at his head and pulled the hood back. David braced for the blows that he was sure were going to begin landing on his face and body. An explosive roar. A blast of heat. A flash of fire. All of these things at once as something flew just above his head and collided with his assailant. Then, a chorus of like roars erupting behind him as the 7th Second Chance entered the battle against the Underground to protect 7th Avenue.

David saw Duhon standing and brushing himself off. He was the one who flew over David's head, and he stood now over the hulking beast that initially crawled out of the street. David thought that the big guy might have done him some damage if he had gotten the chance, but thankfully he was taken out of the fight before he got the chance.

"I damaged this pack, too!" Duhon shouted over to David. "It's not going to be any use at this point."

"Drop it." said David. "Let's do what we can on the ground."

The two fashioned weapons out of broken pieces of jet pack and joined the fray.

David noticed that the roar of jet packs had fast fallen silent. He and Duhon stepped into the crowd of Underground fighters and hit them with hunks of metal. David swung and landed punches. At times he was back-to-back with Duhon as they swung fists and connected with chins. More of the Second-Chancers were entering the battle, which had rapidly devolved to a low-tech street rumble. He took elbows in the mouth and across the top of his head. His stomach was compressed by Underground slugs. The feet that he had earlier heard chasing him now made their impression in his back. David never gave up. He still was beaten.

The Underground stole any equipment they could from the unconscious bodies on 7th Avenue, then retreated through the manhole covers. Dazzlin' D'Antoni watched them go and paced the Avenue, softly kicking his troops in the ribs to re-awaken them.

The Clown sat on the curb on the far side of the street, watching, laughing loudly and with malice at the defeated salesman.

NBA Dramatique: Turn the Page

With the pages of the open book lit by a flickering candle, Arenas read and reread the words of the spell, trying to commit it to memory. He had taken Grand Mage Edd at his word, and had been taking as much time as he felt necessary to prepare for the war. He knew it had already started and he knew that his fellow Sorcerers were not faring well, but he was not overly concerned. The war was young. Sorcery was a deliberate process. The Sorcerers never made a ferocious statement to open a war because the spells became more potent and impressive as they became cumulative. All would turn out well in the end, Arenas thought. When he was ready, all would be well.

Arenas was rarely alone in the Chamber library any more. In the past several weeks he had seen more and more of Brendan and Daniels. He took this to mean that his own desire to fully prepare himself was not only being encouraged, but emulated. Arenas looked over the top of his book at the other two Sorcerers and felt proud of the example he was setting as their leader. With that feeling of satisfaction signalling a good reason to end the day, Arenas closed his book and returned it to the library shelf.

"I'm calling it a day, guys."

Brendan and Daniels barely looked up from their own studies to acknowledge his departure, but grunted in understanding. Arenas picked up his candle and left the library in the hands of his fellow Sorcerers. He stepped out of the door, closing it behind him.

Arenas began to daydream as he walked along the corridor in the low levels of the Chamber. His life was idyllic. He was free to follow his interests every day. He was on no one's clock. His membership in the Sorcerer's guild kept him well-paid. There was also, of course, the fame. He enjoyed the recognition that came with spell-casting. It afforded him opportunities for pleasure that might otherwise not materialize. Before that topic of his daydream could develop, Arenas was stopped in his tracks by a firm hand against his chest.

"What is your problem, man?" It was Antawn. In Arenas's absence from the battlefield, he had heard that Antawn was really asserting himself as the lead Sorcerer. So far, it hadn't meant much.

"Hey, Antawn." said Arenas, removing the hand from his chest. "What are you talking about?"

"You are hanging us out to dry, man! There is a war going on! We need you if we're going to get to the Prize, and you're hanging back studying all day. Why are you doing that to us?"

"Antawn, I've explained all of this before. I've talked to the Grand Mage about it. I'm not ready. I'm not the Sorcerer you need me to be at this point, whether I'm out in the fields or not. If I go out there, my spells are going to be half-assed and low-energy. I won't be able to go the duration of the war. As hard as it is to do it without me, I'd prefer to be absent at the outbreak of war than the late days of it, when my efforts might make a greater difference."

"But it's not just you. We don't have Daniels. We don't have Brendan. It's affecting the younger mages. They don't believe they can win so they barely put forth the effort. I'm trying as hard as I can to get them motivated, but they just seem to be on stand-by, waiting for everyone to return."

Arenas sighed and looked down at his shoes. "I'll talk to the Grand Mage. Maybe we can cook up something small, some cantrip or maybe a hypno that will get things moving a little better. I think I'd be up to that." Antawn gave Arenas a disappointed stare. He nodded sarcastically and turned away from Arenas.

"Sounds great. Don't hurt yourself."

Arenas laughed at Antawn's joke. He did need to speak with Grand Mage Edd, and this would just give him one more thing to talk about. It wouldn't put too much of a strain on his preparations to simply work on a mood-altering spell for the younger guys - give them a confidence boost.

The Chamber had a grand spiral staircase that carried Arenas from the study levels, past the open range, past the living quarters, past the observation decks, all the way to the rooms of the Grand Mage in the upper tower. The High Council of Sorcery maintained offices that floated above the Chamber, tethered and camouflaged as clouds by non-expiring spells, but for all his wisdom, the Grand Mage was not a part of the High Council. His study and office were still tied to the structures of the earth. Arenas reached the door to the office and spoke a knocking spell upon the door.

"Enter, Arenas." came the call from the other side. He opened the door and found the Grand Mage seated at his desk. Edd looked haggard, tired. He was in a simple robe without the hood and heavy cloak that Arenas usually saw him wearing. With his entire face revealed, the Grand Mage's deep stress lines and weary eyes were surprisingly apparent. He did not look up from his work as Arenas entered, continuing to read and transcribe from an unfurled scroll. "To what do I ascribe the reason of your visit?"

"I had intended to update you on my progress. On my way here, I was stopped by Antawn, who expressed serious concerns over my continued absence from the field of battle. I was hoping to renew my confidence that you supported my continued study."

"Arenas, we have discussed your absence enough, I think. The only debate on that topic as far as I was concerned was whether or not you could have been preparing earlier. The time for that debate has passed. Is there anything else you wish to discuss with me?"

"No, Grand Mage. I guess there isn't. I'll just report that, with luck, I'll be ready within a month."

"Well, then," answered Edd, looking up at Arenas for the first time, "let us hope for luck."

*****

Arenas had an unsatisfactory night. After his brief meeting with the Grand Mage, he had the feeling that something was amiss. Running through a mental checklist, he could not identify any possession or process that he had neglected. He slept, but was troubled by unpleasant dreams. Even the temperature was cold enough to wake him early and abruptly the next morning. Typically, Arenas took advantage of his open schedule by sleeping late. This meant that he would have the living quarters to himself since all of the other Sorcerers had gone to the open floor to prepare the day's spells. Today though, the other Sorcerer's were all still standing around, whispering to each other, and looking generally worried. Arenas stood from his bed and sleepily shambled over to Caron.

"What's up?" he asked.

Caron looked him up and down and did not seem friendly. "Talk to Antawn" he said.

Arenas looked around and was surprised to find Antawn already glaring in his direction. "What's the problem?" he asked.

Antawn stepped forward angrily. "The Grand Mage is gone. Not gone on a walk. Not gone on vacation. Gone for good. Cast out by the High Council."

"What? I talked to him last night!"

"Yeah. I know. You were the last one. What did he refuse you?"

Arenas was shocked at the implication. "What are you...are you serious? You think I wanted him out?" Arenas realized that Antawn was probably putting on a show for the benefit of the younger mages, but he couldn't be sure.

"You spoke to him. You aren't contributing. He needed you. Now he's gone. Connect the dots."

Arenas replied with unintended irony.

"You can't put this on me. I wasn't with him when he left."

NBA Dramatique: Buried?

Years ago, he was a part of it. He was a contributor, had been perhaps their most valuable fighter. He kept the legacy alive, and added his own tales to the long story of the Western Banner. But that was the past.

The Big Resurrection was telling stories to the newer Followers about his years spent with the Western Banner. There was a part of him that missed life within the castle walls. He had certainly enjoyed success. If only he had been able to co-exist with the assassin. The two of them had fought side by side, year after year. They had captured the Prize three times for the Banner. Unfortunately, being a great warrior can be a heavy burden on the ego. The Big...what was he called then?...and the Black Knight had both sought to lead the Western Banner's forces. Neither was willing to accept following the other, and neither was willing to accept co-leadership. Though the particulars of his exile have decayed from his memory, the fact was he went to Hell, the assassin stayed in the castle.

*****

The assassin carefully moved his hands across the face of the cliff, looking for the entrance. He had located the lair of the Followers of the Sun, and was about to lead his knights into their lair. His mind shuffled through thoughts as his fingers looked for the point of access. He contemplated war with the undead and considered what he would do to destroy them. He thought about the men that the Followers had once been. He thought back to the days when he fought beside one of those men, and they had basked in the light reflected off the Prize. He remembered the days of contention the two of them had gone through, when the big guy had been unwilling to accept the ascendance of the Black Knight. He remembered that he had not touched the Prize since his former partner had been sent away, but that his former partner had. He found this troubling. He found the secret door and opened it, and his knights followed.

*****

Though they fought with conviction at the outset, the Followers of the Sun grew lethargic as the battle went on. They recognized that their lair was not in danger of being lost; the Banner knights had invaded simply to have something to fight, as they had done against several other forces. Once they saw that they were not going to be victors, the undead simply went through the motions until the Banner grew tired, claimed victory, and departed.

Unobserved by any of the participants in the fight was a notable parallel. It may or may not have had an effect on the fighting spirit of the armies, but two men in the battle, on opposing sides, were listless and disinterested. They did what they had to do - what was expected of them - but they had each ceased attacking before the battle had officially ended. Perhaps they were weary from the fighting, or perhaps they misjudged the deciding point of the skirmish. The possibility existed also that these two men, once friends, then begrudging coworkers, then bitter enemies, had no desire to do harm to one another any more, and that they took themselves out of the fight before that circumstance could arise.

NBA Dramatique: Bring Your Beatdown to Work Day

It was good to be wanted. There were many different kinds of power that a man could wield, and King James was familiar with a number of them. The one that he found most intriguing was the power of youth. Specifically, his own. He was a young man destined for greatness, and most of the armies of the world believed that he could achieve that destiny with them. It was always whispered wherever he went that his loyalty was only as good as his army. If his soldiers could not carry out his orders to take possession of the Prize, he would likely abandon his castle and take control of an army that could.

He had been invited to the Factory. The owner was a man very serious about business. The invitation had been sent, its meaning somewhat deeper than the actual script. The written words offered a chance for the King to view the Factory and to consider a treaty. That was the ruse. The One Who Would Be King knew exactly want the true intention was of the invitation. "Come see my Factory. See my workers. See my army. Doesn't it fit nicely? Would you not succeed with these men at your side?" The King was no fool. He decided to accept the invitation but with an agenda of his own in mind.

On the day of the visit, the Would Be King's horses paraded up the lane to the Factory late in the afternoon. The knights were resplendent in armor and the King led the procession in a heavy crimson cloak. The Factory owner, Joe, walked towards the procession with an outstretched hand.

"Welcome, King James! I've been thinking a lot about your visit. I've done my best to make sure everything was just right for your arrival."

The One Who Would Be King dismounted and shook hands with Joe.

"Thank you, I appreciate it. Is the Factory in operation now?"

"The first shift is just running down. Our second shift will be arriving before the end of the hour. May I show you around?"

"If it's all the same, Joe, my knights and I would prefer to tour the facilities unaccompanied."

Joe did not let his smile falter, nor did he hesitate with his reply.

"By all means. If you have any questions, please send for me." Joe turned and walked away, knowing exactly where he needed to be. He was no fool.

King James turned to Z. "We have him fooled. Let's get inside and take this Factory for our own." The knights entered the Factory and spread out quickly. The first-shift workers had known that the visit was coming, and had made sure that the Factory was highly presentable and that their work was top-notch. However, King James had purposely arrived at this time, knowing that the workers on the first-shift would be rather worn down and tired. With his knights in place, the One Who Would Be King walked to a large steel press, aware of all present eyes upon him. He placed a hand on top of the press and dragged the hand forward, collecting a handful of dust. He looked at his hand. The workers looked at him. The knights looked at the workers. With a loud clap he brought his hands together above his head and the dust blew out into a cloud. "War is in the air!" he shouted. The fight erupted.

*****

Joe had hurried to the bar down the street from the Factory. He knew that some of the guys liked to go there right after work, and hoped that he would find at least a few of them there tonight. When he arrived, he found that he was in luck. Two of his best were at a table near the entrance. They saw Joe come in looking concerned and stood up to meet him.

"Guys! I think you should come back to the Factory."

"What happened, Joe? We just left a few minutes ago!" asked Wallace. He had come to the bar with the Answer after a long work day, and wasn't in much of a mood to be bothered with more business.

"King James is here. He brought all of his knights. They're up to something."

"Let's go." said the Answer. The three men left the bar in a rush. Two cold untouched beers stayed behind on the table.

*****

"You were right. They're too tired to fight us." Z said to King James. He had been at the side of his king through most of the fighting, bashing men over the head. James was not giving much to the fight, instead letting the knights do the work. They were having an easy time with this enemy, an opponent usually more difficult to overcome.

"Once they're beaten, it will be even easier to take out the second shift. Then the Factory will become my palace." said King James excitedly.

As soon as the words had left the air, a tremendous crash was heard from the area of the Factory entrance. Wallace had driven an over-sized forklift through the wall. The Answer held onto the frame of the cab, and the forks held a large pallet, on which stood the men of the second shift. Wallace turned the engine off and looked at the men on the pallet.

"Hey guys. Why don't you go get clocked in. The Answer and I will get started."

*****

Start they did. The second shift came in energized and within moments had turned the tables on the knights. Stuckey and Afflalo loved their work, and took pride in doing a good job. They did a superb job demonstrating that men in armor did not belong in their Factory. Wallace and the Answer showed how they survived year after year of war. The knights lost composure and the One Who Would Be King lost interest.

The Factory produced another victory.