The unforgiving madness of “Bradley Center Bratwurst Barbarity” continued without end. Naked except for his undies, Jabari Parker worked on the sixth of ten uncooked bratwurst sausages which he was supposed to consume. He was fairly certain that he would not win this contest; Giannis had already finished the brats, and was on the second portion of the competition, which was to run around the Bradley Center ten times.
However, he couldn’t stop. He would have liked to, but Zaza Pachulia was yelling “encouragement” into his megaphone in the form of graphic threats.
“You stop eating, we stop being nice to you!” he shouted. “Team bus become not place of fun and friends, but instead of harrassment and ridicule! Locker room no longer about team, but about making young players know place in hierarchy!”
Jabari laid himself down on the cold grass, closed his eyes, and tried to remember what happiness felt like. To his horror, he couldn’t. It seemed as if his whole life had been this nightmare of team-building gone wrong. His jaw feebly worked on the slimy, disgusting bratwurst in his mouth, but it was barely a token effort, for his body had given up.
Suddenly, he felt a sense of cold, almost supernatural, dread wash over him. He opened his eyes immediately, but there was no wind, nor anything else that should have made him feel that way. The others must have felt something similar, for Zaza had ceased his drill-sergeant routine, and Ersan was looking around with a frightened look on his face.
“You guys feel something?” Ersan asked. “It almost feel like ghost.”
Jabari nodded from his position on his back. “It got real cold all of a sudden. Really freak-”
Jabari was interrupted by the sounds of frantic screaming coming from the other side of the arena. “Giannis!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “Something bad’s happening to him!”
Struggling not to vomit, Jabari began to sprint to where the frenzied yells had stopped just as suddenly as they had started.