Darius Bazley woke up confused. He didn’t remember having fallen asleep. All he remembered was being in the locker room after the game, celebrating a win with his teammates. Had he really partied that hard?
After confusion came fear. When he tried to move his arms, he found they were strapped or tied so that he was spread-eagle on some kind of flat, hard surface. “Yo guys, if this is some kind of rookie prank, I think you too it too far,” he joked nervously despite not being in a joking mood at all.
“It is no prank,” said a voice from the corner of the room.
Darius was able to lift his head just enough to see a black-cloaked man lit only by stuttering candlelight. The man’s face was in shadow underneath the flowing folds of his hood. The theme of the whole thing was very occult, and Darius’ worry only grew, now approaching something like panic. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Silence, young one,” said the hooded man. “The ritual is about to begin.” The man then picked a limp body off the floor and threw it onto the slab next to Darius, which caused him to flinch. He turned his head to try to identify the new character in this sinister story, but couldn’t; the head was turned away from him.
The hooded man laid his hands on the body and began murmuring some kind of incantation in a language that Darius didn’t understand. Was this some kind of death ritual? Was Darius going to get turned into a zombie? Were demons going to burst forth from the walls? As the words came out of the man’s mouth, the room started shaking, and a green light was drown out of the (dead?) body until it floated above them like a shining cloud of gas.
Before Darius could do more than flinch, the greenish cloud coalesced into an orb, which the hooded man took in his hand and slammed into Darius’ chest. A chilling sensation overtook his body, as if all warmth had been banished from it. The candles were extinguished by this action, leaving them in total darkness.
“The nickname transferal is now complete,” the hooded man announced in a solemn voice. “Darius Bazley, you are now the rightful owner of the ‘Bazed God’ moniker. Kent Bazemore, your soul is now cast into the nicknameless void.”
Darius felt two hands placed upon his chest, and when he next opened them, he was back in the locker room.
“Thank you Bazed God,” he whispered.