Tristan Thompson’s sleep was disturbed when he heard the unexpected squeaking of his bedroom door’s hinges. “Oh damn, that probably woke him up,” came a whispered voice from the area of the door.
“Yeah, it kinda did,” Tristan replied sleepily into the darkness, recognizing the voice as that of his teammate LeBron James. “If this is some kind of prank, man, can you leave it ’til morning?
“Now we’ll have to activate plan B,” LeBron whispered to whatever accomplice or accomplices were with him. “I’ll throw the light switch and you hit him the crowbar.”
Tristan didn’t like the direction this prank was heading, but his reactions were slowed by having just woken up from a deep slumber, and when the lights in his bedroom were suddenly turned on, he could only roll to the side and cover his head with his hands in response to the masked attacker who ran towards him wielding a crowbar. Then, there was a burst of his pain in his head, and everything went black.
—
Tristan’s head was throbbing and he didn’t want to open his eyes. Judging by the pure black of the inside of his eyelids, he was still somewhere dark. He could hear Cedi Osman’s voice speaking in worried tones. “I think this is in violation of human trafficking laws.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said LeBron’s voice.
If this was a prank, it had gone way too far, Tristan decided. He opened his eyes and looked around his surroundings. He was sitting in some kind of tall wooden crate, roughly cubic in proportion, with just enough room that he could sit with his knees tucked up to his chest and not be too cramped. He looked up to see that same masked man with a crowbar looking back at him.
“He’s awake,” said the man, who had Cedi’s voice. “What should I do?”
“Make sure he knows that he’s not getting out of his box,” replied LeBron. “Wave the crowbar at him.”
Cedi leaned his head into the crate. “Don’t move or, uh, you’ll meet my friend here, my friend, uh, his name’s Mr. Crowbar. I believe he has already made your acquaintance.” He lowered the crowbar into the crate and poked Tristan in the eye with it.
“Man, what the hell is going on here?” Tristan asked angrily.
“We’re trading you to Charlotte,” came LeBron’s voice, although LeBron himself was unseen. “That’s why we’re at the airport, so we can put you on the plane.” Suddenly, pieces of paper began to flutter into the crate. Tristan grabbed one and held it close to his face. After much squinting, he made out what it was: a thousand-dollar bill.
“Plane rides can be kinda turbulent, so we’re giving you some padding,” LeBron said, answering the question that Tristan had just been preparing to ask. “If you got to Charlotte all injured and battered up, they would just return you. We figured we’d use the money from your contract since it’s all wasted on you anyway.” Now huge drifts of thousand-dollar bills were being tossed into the crate, whole armfuls of cash that soon began to bury Tristan. He got to his feet to try to climb out of his enclosure, but a swift hit on the head from Cedi’s crowbar caused him to collapse back into the piles of money.
Soon, his entire body was covered with bills, and he could do nothing in response but moan weekly. He could feel blood running down his face, getting soaked up by his contract money. When he heard the lid of the crate get placed on top, and then the sounds of nails being hammered into it to make it escape-proof, it was all he could do to weakly beat the wood with his fist. “Let me out,” he moaned. “I don’t wanna be traded.”
There was no response, but Tristan, now slipping towards unconsciousness, did hear a different sound: muffled screams coming from nearby. “I promise to play better! I promise to share the ball!” came Isaiah Thomas’ voice. “Get me out of here!”
“It seems bad now, but just remember, this is what we need to do to get Kemba,” Tristan heard LeBron explain to Cedi. Then, his fate sealed, Tristan blacked out.