“Ho Ho Ho! Merry Christmas!”
“Kyle, what the hell is this?” groaned Carmelo Anthony in response to the figures that had just walked through the locker room door.
If Kyle O’Quinn had hoped to make an impression, he certainly did: he was dressed in the traditional attire of Santa Claus, but with a green-colored coat instead of red, and purple shutter shades instead of spectacles. A large amount of flashy gold jewelry was arranged around his neck. Flanking him on the left was a lithe redhead in a skimpy green bikini; on his right, a voluptuous black beauty whose own bikini was enveloped entirely by her flabs of flesh. In one hand he held a comically oversized bottle of Guinness, in the other, a similarly sized bottle of Night Train Express. He took turns taking deep droughts of each, constantly readjusting the large sack of gifts on his back, as the girls fawned and cooed over him.
The Knicks locker room sat in silence, unsure how to respond.
“I said, ‘Ho Ho Ho’, bitches!” Kyle looked annoyed at the lack of reaction.
“And I said, what the hell is this?” snapped Carmelo.
“What does it look like, fool?” Kyle lifted up his shades and glared at his female companions, as if they were the ones at fault.
Ron Baker piped up. “Like Irish Santa?”
“Like Black Santa?” offered Courtney Lee.
The girls giggled a bit, followed by more silence.
“… like Irish Black Santa?” said Brandon Jennings, finally.
Kyle put both hands on his belly and laughed deeply, sending both bottles of alcohol tumbling to the floor. “Ho Ho Ho! That is right, young one! I am Irish Black Santa, here to give the gift of good cheer and cheap booze!” He walked over to Jennings, his ladies trailing behind, set his bag on the floor, and began rummaging through it.
“Now, what does young Mr. Jennings want for Christmas? Maybe a…”
Carmelo pushed him away. “No. Hell no. Dude, the second half starts in five minutes. I don’t know where the hell you found these sluts, or this sack of crap, or the booze, or that ridiculous outfit, but we’ve got a god-damn game to play and we have you roleplaying as a potato-and-fried-chicken loving fatass with an ugly beard! You’re not even from Ireland!”
“Yes I…”
“No you’re not! So take this crap off, get these chicks out of here, and try to take something seriously for once in your god-damn life!”
Kyle looked stunned. “I just wanted to make people happy…” he said, looking around for support from his teammates. As none was forthcoming, he slowly picked up the spilled bottles and his bag of presents. He turned around and trudged towards the door, bag dragging behind him. Right before he left, he turned and looked sadly at Carmelo. “My beard isn’t ugly.” he muttered before slamming the door behind him.
Silence filled the locker room again, punctuated only by what sounded like sobbing coming from down the hall.