Brandan Wright 12 Points/4 Dunks/3 Blocks Full Highlights (11/22/2014)

Brandan Wright reclined lazily on his golden throne, a throne which rose above everything else in the hall. It glowed with an inner light, lending Brandan a halo that made him look almost angelic. A jewel-studded crown was perched on his head, and in his hand, he wielded a scepter on top of which was a large, pure emerald.

“Bring in the next subject,” Brandan commanded his pages, toying idly with the fringe of his robe. “King Wright decrees it.”

A shambling man, clad in rags, was brought in front of the throne. His legs were bound by chains, and his body bore the signs of torture at the hand of the ruthless dungeon master. “My lord…” he mumbled pitifully, reverently, bowing so low that his hair swept the cobblestone floor.

“Come to me, Dirk,” said Brandan. The man looked up, surprised that the King both knew his name and would invite him closer.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” Dirk Nowitzki mumbled, shuffling on his knees up the small stairway that led to the King’s golden throne. “Anything for you, my lord.”

“I ask of you, peasant, what is your field goal percentage this year?”

“Fifty-one percent, my lord. Certainly a small number compared to His Majesty’s,” Dirk replied, still gasping from the wounds on his back. “A small, insignificant percentage indeed.”

Brandan smirked. “That is correct, knave. And, perchance, do you know what percentage King Wright shoots from the field this season?”

“S-seventy-nine percent,” responded Dirk. “That is why you are my king, and I am your subject, my lord.”

Pausing to take a bite out of a whole ham hock, Brandan nodded. “Yes, but not only that number grants me my kingly privilege. I also lead the league in both PER and winshares per 48. Do you know what those terms mean, you lowly beggar?”

Dirk shook his head yes, feeling both shame that his own numbers were so pitiful, and awe that his king’s numbers were so dominant.

“Lick my feet,” commanded Brandan, kicking off the royal slippers. “Then you will know what true servitude is, peon.”

As Dirk licked the sweat and dirt from Brandan’s kingly feet, Brandan smiled. Then, as his toes were cleaned fully by Dirk’s massaging tongue, he laughed loudly, fully drunk on his own power.

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