Ryan Anderson was hard at work. He had always like to tinker with things, even before he discovered his proclivity for basketball. His landlord had complained when he built his underground workshop underneath the tony condo complex he lived in; a couple million dollars was enough to alleviate any concerns. The builders always asked him what he planned to do with the space. He always replied the same way: “Oh, you know, stuff”. Soon they stopped asking.
Sparks flew and the sound of mechanical implements resounded through the cavernous foundry. Occasionally there was a great burst of flame. The seeming danger of the environment went ignored. What were a few burns and scrapes compared to the pride in his coming success? Sweat dripped from his brow as steady hands, honed from years of three-point marksmanship, made fine adjustments. He was so close.
Finally, the work was done. He looked down upon it happily, as if he was God creating the world. There was no need to test if it worked; he knew the device intimately. It was almost a part of him now.
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The New Orleans Pelicans were hard at work, practicing after a tough loss to the Cavs. A scrimmage was in progress, and the whole team and coaching staff were assembled in the practice gym, minus one.
Ryan Anderson walked into the gym, wearing a much-too-large sweatshirt over his jersey. Jimmer Fredette, nursing a minor tweak on the sideline, looked at him oddly.
“I know it’s getting a little bit towards winter, but there’s no reason to be wearing that thing. Why are you so late, anyway? Coach was freaking out, he’s says you’re gonna get suspended if you keep this up.”
Ryan gave a little smirk. “Oh, you know, stuff. I’ve got a project that I’ve been working on that I just finished up. I’ll… have to show it to you!”
He ripped off the sweatshirt, while letting out a primal scream. Jimmer Fredette began “What the…” but was cut off as his face was incinerated by a large stream of fire. He fell on the hardwood, writhing, his entire body now ablaze.
Ryan Anderson stood over him, still displaying the smirk. His right arm appeared to have been replaced a jet-black construct of mechanical origin. From the end, where his hand should have been, spurted a jet of flame. He held this arm aloft and proclaimed “I am the flamethrower!”
His teammates and coaches, in a panic, ran for the opposite exit. A logical strategy, given that the only other exit was presently guarded by a man with a flamethrower for an arm and the now burned-out corpse of a teammate. To their dismay, they found the exit unopenable. Their banging and pleading did little against the welded shut door.
Ryan Anderson advanced on them while loudly proclaiming his status as an incendiary device. Various players and coaches tried to make their escape, but they were no match for the incredible power and accuracy of Anderson’s flame. One by one they were taken down and burned. Soon, only Anthony Davis remained, surrounded on all sides by the smoldering remains of the Pelicans.
“P-please don’t hurt me, man. Why are you doing this?”
Ryan Anderson smirked once again as he incinerated the helpless man.
“I am the flamethrower!”