“This is our new practice facility,” said Celtics GM Danny Ainge as he led his newest acquisition through the front door of the Auerbach Center. “Just opened last year. Only the finest amenities.”
Kemba Walker wondered why Danny was seemingly so focused on trying to impress him. The sign-and-trade had already happened. There was no more pitch to be made. He needed no more convincing that Boston was where he wanted to be. But he nodded and followed along politely as he was led through the various hallways and training areas.
Eventually they reached the practice court itself. This caught Kemba’s interest; he was itching to get back into his off-season training routine after having to take a hiatus while he moved to a new city. “I got my gear in my bag. Mind if we cut the tour short so I can get some shots up?” He didn’t want to be so blunt, but he figured the GM wouldn’t dare to say anything that could be construed as disagreeing with his new star point guard.
If Danny was offended, he didn’t show it. “Of course. You’ll see the rest of the place soon enough, anyway. The locker room is through that door there.”
Kemba shook Danny’s hand and then walked into the locker room. The Hornets’ practice facilities had also been modern and luxuriant, so Kemba wasn’t surprised to see high-quality furniture and large TV screens everywhere. Lockers didn’t appear to be assigned, so he picked one randomly and started changing into his workout clothes, wondering if there were any trainers around at all or if he was truly alone.
Kemba had pulled on his new pair of Freak 1’s and was about to lace them up when an unexpected chuckling from behind him caused him to pause mid-knot. He looked around in surprise, wondering if the acoustics of the locker room were amplifying some faraway conversation. However, what he saw when he looked over his shoulder was far more disconcerting than some overheard laughter.
There were decorations in his locker that weren’t there before. Thanksgiving decorations. Not only were they completely out-of-season, but they were defaced and torn as if placed there by somebody who held the utmost disdain for the holiday. A cutout turkey had been colored over with red crayon; a happy pilgrim family lay on the shelf, their smiling faces belonging to heads that were no longer on their bodies; a plastic cornucopia figurine had been stabbed through with a kitchen knife.
Wondering how he possibly could have missed the odd aesthetic choices of the locker’s owner before he had decided to sit there, Kemba moved his stuff to another locker that was out of eyeshot of the grisly display. He finished getting his gear on and then headed back to the court. By the time he had put up a few shots and started working up a sweat, the strange occurrence had disappeared entirely from his mind.
—
After his workout, Kemba successfully, although unconfidently, navigated Boston’s public transportation system back to his newly-bought condominium. He had been recognized by many of his fellow subway riders, but that had been the plan; by being friendly to the common fan in everyday situations, he hoped to build up the same devoted following in Boston that he had built up in Charlotte.
Now he took the stairs up to the second floor of the building and let himself into unit 237. It still didn’t quite feel like home, but it was getting there. Much of his stuff was still in boxes, but he already had some art and pictures on the walls to make the place seem less like a hotel room. He set down his bag and got ready to take a shower. The showers at the practice facility were nice, but showering at home was always preferable.
Fifteen minutes later, Kemba stepped out of the shower feeling very clean and refreshed. Now he would take the rest of the day off, maybe order in some Chinese food, maybe catch up on his shows, maybe text some of the guys back in Charlotte to jokingly ask how they were coping with his absence.
But thoughts of those plans were pushed out of his mind when he saw some undecipherable symbols scrawled on his bathroom wall in a red substance that could have been blood.
“TИƎMИЯƎVOӘ”
Kemba, feeling like he might have just been the victim of an uncommonly quiet home invasion, turned to look at the bathroom window for signs of forced entry. However, as he turned towards the window, his eye fell on his reflection in the mirror, and when he saw the strange scribbles reflected back at him, he almost screamed.
“GOVERNMENT”
What was the significance of that word? Why would it be written on the wall in his bathroom? And who had written it there? Kemba walked back through his condo but none of the windows or doors seemed like they had been broken into. All he could think of was that the building manager had played a prank on him. Perturbed, he sat down on his couch, but he couldn’t enjoy what was on.