There is an impatient knock at my door. Annoyed that somebody is disregarding my clearly posted “no solicitors” sign, I ignore the demand of my attention and continue the consumption of my gourmet breakfast: a personal creation called a “Pop-Tart Sandwich”, which is two of one flavor Pop Tart sandwiching one of another flavor Pop-Tart, resulting in a succulent stack of three perfectly-microwaved Pop-Tarts.
I am alarmed when I hear the sounds of my door being kicked in, so I take a defensive position near my computer, where I keep a not-insignificant cache of weapons. I am just trying to think of which NBA player I might have inadvertently snubbed (they have paid me visits before) when the door is removed cleanly from its hinges and falls inside my apartment.
“‘Sup Montrezl,” I say calmly.
Montrezl stares at me in confusion for a few seconds, as if uanble to believe that I could respond so friendlily to a hulking, muscular man carrying an AK-47 in each hand. Finally, he speaks. “I am here to collect on your debts.”
“And what debts might those be?” I ask, and while my tone is cheeky, I honestly have no recollection of any snubs against Harrell. I see my kitty Japurri Purrker peek his head into the room to see what the commotion his; I give him the special signal with my right hand and he promptly disappears.
“My second game in the NBA,” Montrezl growls. “I scored seventeen points, yet I was ignored!”
I smile. “Oh, yes. I remember that one. I assumed that, since seventeen points had come so easy for you, that twenty or thirty was only a few games away, thus, no highlight video for you that day.”
Montrezl is shaking with rage at this point. Clearly this past injustice has been corroding his sanity for years. I take a quick glance at the hallway and see that Japurri has returned, dragging an M16 by the strap. A miniature WW2-era military helmet is on top of his head. My attention returns to Montrezl, who has finally decided to act. “ALL DEBTS MUST BE…” he pauses here to aim both guns at me. “PAID!”
Just as his fingers move towards the triggers, Japurri bites down on the trigger of the M16. His aim is perfect, and a single barrage of bullets hits Montrezl in the back. Reflexively, his fingers contract into the triggers of his own guns, spraying bullets haphazardly around my living room. I duck as one of my computer monitors explodes in a shower of sparks, but I am otherwise unharmed.
Japurri trots over and sniffs Montrezl’s unmoving body. I can see that he is breathing, but his eyes are closed and he has no more words for me. I reluctantly dial 911 to summon medical treatment for this brash, overly aggressive visitor, and as I do that, Japurri walks onto Montrezl’s back, turns around a few times, then compresses himself into a ball and goes to sleep.