Markelle Fultz looked down at his hands. They were bloody.
That was to be expected after one had committed acts which Markelle had just committed. He wiped his hands on his pants, leaving bloody streaks which would have plainly implicated him in the deed, were anybody around to do the implication.
Slipping out of the house unseen, Markelle was thankful that the residence was in the type of neighborhood where the fences were tall. His presence in the area could easily be explained to an interferer, but the blood, less so. And his satchel of tools was quite atypical for an NBA player to be toting around.
He got into his car and drove to the location where the next step of his plan would take place.
Markelle checked his reflection in the rear-view mirror. This part of the plan, he had practiced to perfection in the security of his own apartment back in Orlando. He had to admit to himself, he made a very beautiful woman. His youthful face only needed a simple layer of makeup to be transformed into the face of a sexy black goddess. The rest of his body needed a bit more in terms of disguise, but the billowy long sleeves of his party dress adequately concealed his musculature. He had worked and worked on a “feminine” speaking voice until it was flawless.
Entering the nightclub, Markelle immediately found that he was already getting lusty stares from the male patrons, which made him feel both disgusted and emboldened. However, there was just one man that he was looking for.
His intelligence gathering efforts had informed him that this club was Brett Brown’s preferred hangout. Brett was usually there just to eat and drink, but he would occasionally take women home with him, apparently with the grudging acceptance of his wife, who would stay somewhere else on those nights. If Markelle had judged Brett’s habits correctly, tonight was one of those nights.
There were multiple bars in the place spread across many floors, and it took a while to find Brett, but he was eventually found, nursing a cocktail and a plate of calamari. When Markelle sat a few seats down from him and ordered a drink, he was happy to note that Brett was checking him out, and not discreetly either. In the dim light of the club, any masculine features would be overlooked in favor of his voluptuous rear end and perky bosom.
Markelle leaned over. “Wanna go home, big guy?” he said in a husky, seductive voice that bore no trace of his normal speaking voice.
Brett clearly didn’t notice anything was amiss. “Yeah. I do. With you.”
“Let’s do it, honey.”
Riding in the passenger seat of Brett’s car, Markelle tried to maintain a playful demeanor as he turned away Brett’s from pawing hands. Being groped not only physically repulsed him, but it could reveal the fact that his chest was 100% padding and 0% actual female breast. Finally, they got back to the home that Markelle had left not two hours earlier.
He again had to play coy as Brett tried to grab his hand to lead him upstairs. His hands were the telltale giveaway. There was nothing to be done to make them look like the hands of a woman, and he couldn’t let Brett touch them or the whole plan would be ruined.
They were now in Brett’s bedroom, which Markelle had already seen. As Brett eagerly unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his belt, Markelle knew it was time to end the ruse. He unzipped his dress, causing the womanly padding to fall out and reveal an athletic young man in a tank-top and basketball shorts. A makeup wipe was quickly deployed on his face to reveal his true identity.
“It’s me, Brett! It’s me! The first overall pick that you traded for nothing!”
Brett stood in his undershirt and boxer shorts, too dumbfounded to speak. Markelle took the opportunity to swiftly punch his former coach in the jaw; Brett crumpled to the floor, moaning in pain.
“You’ll never win a championship, Brett. Not with old-ass Al Horford, Ben Simmons who’s allergic to shooting, and Joel Embiid, who…well, you’ll see what happened to him.”
“Please…don’t hurt me…” Brett whimpered as Markelle roughly propped him back on his feet. “I’m…I’m sorry…”
Markelle laughed. “You wanted to get in bed with me, huh, Brett?” he taunted before throwing back the bedsheets. “You sure about that?”
Brett Brown took one look at what was under the covers of his bed, then began to scream.
It was the severed head of Joel Embiid.
Markelle made a quick escape to the door. The windows had already been barred with sheet metal, and now he worked quickly to do the same with the door. Inside the room, Brett’s insane screams could still be heard as he incoherently begged to be let out.
“Maybe you and Joel can cuddle,” Markelle called through the door. “See you around, Brett!”
There was a thud as Brett threw himself against the door, trying to escape. Markelle only chuckled to himself and referenced the to-do list on his phone. The next name there: Elton Brand.