Quincy Pondexter Career High 22 Points Full Highlights (5/27/2013)

“Hey Quincy!” The large forward turned around to see a group of fans waving at him. One of them, a pudgy, smartly-dressed man, seemed to be the one who had addressed him. “Sucks that you guys lost, but you wanna come grab some barbecue with us?”

Quincy was not one to turn down a fan. He loved to interact with his fans, even after a crushing playoff sweep. “Yeah dawg, I’m down wit dat,” he said, walking over to the group of men. “I love me some good ol’-fashioned ‘cue!” It was true. As far as he was concerned, the best part of playing for the Grizzlies was the wide range of barbecue restaurants to choose from.

Several minutes later, he was sitting in a minivan, laughing jovially with his new friends, regaling them with locker-room stories and the like. He failed to notice that the minivan was not traversing any of Memphis’ main commercial avenues; rather, they were working their way further and further into the city’s grimy industrial core.

Finally, after twenty minutes, Quincy casually glanced out the window and remarked, “Yo dude, when we gettin’ dat grub? I’m hungry.” Before he could react, a blindfold was slipped over his eyes. He began to struggle and yell, but several of his companions, now enemies, held him down and tied his limbs.

The portly, suit-clad driver laughed as Quincy was gagged, rendering his yells impotent. “Quiet, big fella. You’ll get your barbecue. Oh yes. You will have your fill!” The driver pulled the car into an alley behind a dark warehouse. His henchmen efficiently bundled up Quincy and carried his writhing body into the abandoned structure.

Quincy could feel himself being tied to a chair. Despite his bound feet, he attempted to stand up, planning to flee with the chair still attached, but he soon ascertained that his seat was securely bolted to the floor. Not only that, but the ropes binding him showed no signs of loosening, even after much wriggling of the arms. These were professionals.

As soon as his gag was removed and his blindfold whisked away, he spluttered out, “I got money. How much money you want? Whatever you want, I got it. The bank of Pondexter is open.”

The driver, who was very clearly their leader, laughed. “We don’t want any money, Quincy. We just want to give you some barbecue.”

This confused Quincy. “Well then, what’d you abduct me fo’? Just let me go and we can go down to Jerry’s Ribsplosion fo’ some ribs.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think we’ll be doing anything like that. Brad, bring in the meat.”

A man, apparently Brad, wheeled in a large cart of assorted saucy meat from Quincy’s left. In spite of his fear, Quincy’s stomach leapt at the savory aroma of the finely smoked, expertly cooked pork, beef, and ribs.

The leader rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Commence the feeding!” Unseen hands from behind Quincy roughly grabbed his face, holding it in place while Brad grabbed two large handfuls of beef brisket.

Brad approached Quincy with a twisted smile on his face. “Eat up!” he said before abruptly jamming a fistful of beef into Quincy’s pried-open lips. Quincy coughed and gagged as the large amount of delicious cow product assaulted his mouth. As soon as he managed to swallow most of the food, another man grabbed a similarly large amount of pulled pork and, mimicking Brad, stuffed it into Quincy’s unwilling mouth.

After this process was repeated several times, with barbecued meats as well as side dishes such as macaroni and cheese, Quincy was feeling very ill. He often ate three or four of Jerry’s combo plates in one sitting, but never this much. The front of his shirt was stained red with BBQ sauce, his lap coated with untold biscuit crumbs, his face peppered with bits of pork.

“Yo dawg. I ain’t feelin’ too hot. Let me go. Please. Please dawg. Please. I can’t eat no mo’ pulled pork.”

The leader nodded. “You heard him guys. Release him from his bonds. He has had his fill of barbecue.” As soon as Quincy was unlashed from the chair, he fell over lifelessly to the side and hit his head hard on the floor of the warehouse. As his head spun and his stomach complained, he was dimly aware of his captors bustling out of the room and the sound of a minivan driving away. Then, silence.

“It’s true,” Quincy said aloud, his face resting on the dirty concrete. “Memphis has the best, most hospitable fans in the world.”

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