Gary Neal sighed contentedly. A new beginning, in a new city. A new apartment, a new television. The new TV, that was the best part. The ghostly specter of Stephen Jackson was permanently affixed to his former TV, and as far as he knew, it still whispered “Goggle me slime. Im in da streets,” in menacing tones. Yeah, the new TV was just swell.
A chill suddenly swept through him, and it was not due to Wisconsin’s fall air. He tried to push those thoughts away. Milwaukee would be different. Nothing could get to him here.
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Expecting it to be one of his new teammates, eager to perhaps hit a nightclub or a bar, he answered it without a glance at the incoming number. Had he looked down, he would have seen, for the briefest of moments, an image of Stephen Jackson’s face encompassing the entirety of the screen.
“Hey, this is Gary speaking.”
“You didn’t think you could get away that easily, did you?” responded an unwelcome, yet familiar, voice.
Gary threw his phone on the ground, causing it to shatter explosively. The color was gone from his face. “No. No…”
Stephen’s voice continued to speak, emanating from all around Gary. “Yes, Gary. Yes. I am here to impart more wisdom upon your ears, whether they wish to hear it or not.”
In defiance of Stephen’s words, Gary clapped his hands over his ears. “This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. THIS ISN’T REAL!!!” But even through covered ears, Gary could hear clearly the mad cackling of the malefic spirit who tormented him.
“Hey man, don’t talk to your old teammate like that. Remember, we were very close to winning it all last year.”
Gary stood in his living room, a burning terror-sweat soaking through his clothes. “Pop killed you after you got waived. You didn’t help us win nothin’.”
“That may be true, Gary, but you must recall the advice I gave you before the playoffs.”
Oh, how Gary remembered. He doubted he would ever forget. “You told me to be a chucker. And it worked. Almost,” he said dully. “But now I’m here in Milwaukee, and I don’t need your advice no more.”
More laughter. “Wrong, Gary. You need my advice more than ever. I played half a season with the despicable Bucks franchise, and can give you insight in how to get traded as fast as possible.”
With a sigh, Gary responded, “Let me guess. I gotta be a chucker.”
“Right in one, Gary! Very good! Yes, you must shoot as much as possible – preferably, every time you touch the ball in half court. Then, when your minutes are inevitably reduced to nothing, you must incite disputes with all of your teammates in order to cultivate a cancerous locker-room situation.”
“Fine, whatever, just please stop haunting me,” Gary said, knowing full well that it would not be that simple. It could never be that simple. Not with Stephen Jackson.
There was a bright flash of light from his new TV. The one that was only recently out of the box. The one that was not even plugged in. Gary turned around to find Stephen’s face amidst the blackness of the screen. Now the lips began to move.
“Fuk yo team clown. I say it again, Gary. Fuk yo team clown.”
He couldn’t take it anymore. In a blind haze of terror, he ran somewhere, anywhere, to get away from the possessed television. Finding himself in his kitchen, a kitchen that he had not yet utilized, he glanced at the microwave. What he saw within made him vomit instantly upon the pristine white linoleum, as if he had just been given a triple dose of the world’s strongest emetic.
The rotting, severed head of Stephen Jackson was in his microwave. A colony of maggots infesting the cranial cavity was clearly visible through the reinforced glass window. “God, no, oh god, no! Please lord, no!”
He watched in horror as Stephen’s eyes opened, revealing sockets filled with yellow sludge. The mouth formed itself into a grin, showing off an array of rancid brown teeth, then spoke just as Gary fainted to the floor.
“Fuk yo team clown.”