Mike Muscala reclined on his couch, eager for another night of ESPN. There was always the chance that his name would get dropped at some point, given that he had been the game’s leading scorer. And if there was even a chance that the name “Mike Muscala” would escape a reporter’s lips, it was his responsibility to be watching when it did happen.
There was a knock at his door. Annoyed at the interruption, he got up and opened the door, ready to tell whatever salesman or petitioner it was to screw off. “Hey, I’m kinda busy right n…”
Before he could finish his admonition, Mike was tackled to the ground by an extremely buff man wearing some kind of police uniform. As the man pinned him to the floor, Mike began to make the connection. These two guys were the same men who had visited him back in December, the Macedonian officials who were frustrated with Pero Antic’s lack of minutes.
On cue, the other man, who sported an 80’s-style mustache and sunglasses, asked, “Why you take minutes of Pero Antic? Why you hate Macedonia, Mike Muscala?”
“I already told you, Al Horford is taking his minutes, not me!” Mike responded, gasping as his chest was constricted by the burly man laying atop him. “I don’t even play!”
“Lies,” said the thinner man coldly, withdrawing a dangerous-looking gun. “You get many minutes in past weeks, at expense of Pero.”
Now Mike struggled to hold back the panic that was growing in his mind. “If coach Bud thought that Pero deserved minutes, he would get all the minutes he wanted. I can’t do anything about that.”
“But you can,” snarled the large man who still remained on top of Mike. “If you suck at basketball, then you not play, and Pero do play.”
“Listen, I’m not going to start playing bad on purpose just so you Macedonian nutcases can have somebody to root for,” Mike answered. “That’s not how the Hawks do it.”
“Then we left with no choice,” said the sunglasses-wearing man, taking out a pair of handcuffs.
Mike struggled to get free. “No way. You’re not arresting me. You don’t have the right!” Mike yelled, hoping that somebody in a nearby apartment would come to his aid. “Help! HELP!”
“Shut up, идиот.” Punches to the face and stomach brought Mike’s physical resistance to an end, and he stopped yelling. He was handcuffed and dragged outside, behind the complex’s dumpsters.
Only a few seconds later, the sound of gunshots rang out through the night.