D.J. Augustin Career High 35 Points/8 Assists Full Highlights (1/25/2015)

DJ Augustin looked uneasily at the storefront of Mrs. Mysteria, Detroit’s finest psychic and purveyor of occult products. The grimy wooden facade stood as a stark contrast to the other stores in this particular strip mall. Maybe he should just go next door and pick up some Chinese food?

Ignoring his misgivings, he walked in, to be immediately greeted by a thick aroma of burning incense. A black cat emerged from a corner and began to wind sinuously around his feet. Coughing, he began to peruse the wares. Various occult and mysterious items towered over him, arranged haphazardly on shelves and piled on top of one another.

As he inspected at an Ouija board purportedly owned by Abraham Lincoln, a soft voice came from beyond the counter. “Are you here for an appointment or just browsing, my dear? Don’t answer; I already know!” Mrs. Mysteria laughed at her own wit. “Just let me know if you need anything. And don’t touch that Ouija board. It’s cursed!”

Augustin withdrew his hands quickly. He was just wasting time. He knew what he wanted, but he didn’t want to seem to eager. Looking elsewhere, he spotted a few home hypnosis kits, “Guaranteed to provide total acquiescence or your money back!”. He let himself imagine a new tactic for getting more minutes: simply hypnotize SVG into benching Jennings! He shook his head. He wasn’t sure if his coach was the type to simply stand there and let himself get hypnotized, and even if it worked with some people, Van Gundy fit the profile of someone who it would not.

Walking over to the jinxes and hexes section, he found what he had come here for: Dr. LaGrange’s Injury Powder. Picking up the bright orange box, he read the back.

“Dr. LaGrange is proud to present his latest and finest creation: Injury Powder! Simply apply to the desired area and watch as your foe suffers grievous bodily harm! Warning: do not ingest. If ingested, call your local Poison Control Center. Not authorized for commercial use.”

“It works, too, just ask Mr. Mysteria!” The proprietor laughed again, the shawls draped over her swaying, as DJ walked up to the counter.

“Of course you would say that.”

Mrs. Mysteria’s eyes lit up through her gold-rimmed glasses. “And I’ve got the doctor’s report to prove it! They were totally baffled as to how his whole apparatus could have just disappeared. Poof! Serves him right for cheating on me!”

DJ couldn’t think of anything to say in his response, so his pulled out his wallet to pay.


DJ had arrived to the locker room early. He didn’t want to be interrupted, though he had a ready excuse if anyone interrupted him. He walked over to Jennings’ locker, where his sneakers waited to be used. He took out the bright orange box from his duffel bag and began to apply it to the shoes.

“What are you doing?” It was Greg Monroe.

“Haven’t you noticed how bad Brandon’s feet smell after the games? I’m just taking some preventative measures, haha.”

Greg didn’t look convinced. “Whatever you say.”

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