Brett Brown opened the door of his Orlando-area hotel room and was surprised to find that the bedside lamp was turned on. He was always very careful not to leave lights on where he didn’t need them. As he walked over to turn it off, mentally noting to let the housekeeping management know that they should be more careful about housekeepers leaving things turned on, he noticed a handwritten note underneath the lamp.
Expecting it to be from the absentminded housekeeper, he picked it up and started reading, but it soon be came clear that the author of the note was somebody entirely different:
“Dear Brett,
You and your cronies’ eagerness to be rid of my presence sure is paying off right now, isn’t it? I am thriving here in Orlando, while your alleged ‘point guard of the future’, Ben Simmons, has stagnated in his development.
While you publicly beg him to shoot three-pointers, I take and make them with regularity. In a scoring and secondary ball-handling role, I would see much success, and that is exactly what you could have offered me in Philadelphia had you not desperately unloaded me for non-assets. I will be watching with great glee when Bum Scrubbins’ flaws get exposed in the playoffs in front of everybody, and it would bring me no greater joy than to be part of the opposing team that does the exposing.
I would end this letter with a ‘no hard feelings’, but as you can tell, I do harbor hard feelings for you. The media will characterize my efforts against you tonight as a ‘revenge game’, and, for once, the media will be right about something. But I promise you this: no matter how much revenge I exacted upon you tonight, there is more to come. There will always be more to come.
-Markelle”
Just as Brett finished reading the note from his former player, there was a knock on his hotel room door and a faint “room service!” from the hallway. Knowing that he had not ordered room service for himself, but also knowing that his players often ordered food on his behalf, he opened the door thinking happily of the cheeseburger or steak that was surely about to be his dinner.
But when Brett opened the door, there was no hotel staff member waiting to be let in. Instead, it was a more familiar face.
Markelle Fultz.
—
Markelle relished the look of absolute shock on his former coach’s face when he opened the door. Surely his note to him had been read already.
“Where’s my food?” Brett asked dumbly.
Markelle laughed callously. “No food, Brett. But I’ve got something else that I think you’ll enjoy.” Without any further warning, Markelle launched his fist directly into Brett’s jaw. Brett staggered backwards and tumbled to the floor, not quite knocked out but too dazed to do anything but sit there. Markelle took advantage of the Sixers coach’s weakened state by aiming a sturdy kick into the side of his head.
“Nuhhhhh,” Brett moaned, grabbing his head with eyes squeezed shut.
“I’ve got another surprise for you,” Markelle said, feeling nothing but pure contempt for the injured man. He roughly pulled Brett to his feet and led him over to the small clothes closet that was next to the bathroom. Making sure that Brett was paying attention, he pulled open the closet’s double doors.
“No…no…” Brett mumbled in terror when he saw the corpse of Ben Simmons leaning limply against the closet wall.
“If only you had another franchise-caliber point guard on your roster,” Markelle gloated. “Too bad.” Markelle then pushed Brett into the closet and slammed the doors shut. Before the stunned Brett could escape, Markelle pushed a chair underneath the door handles.
“Let me out! AAAAHH!” Brett screamed insanely, and the screams doubled in intensity when Markelle flipped the light switch that turned on the overhead light in the closet, allowing Brett to clearly see the dead body he was sharing the small space with. While Brett pounded on the closet door and yelled incoherently, Markelle got his hammer, nails, and boards from the hallway.
When Brett heard the sound of nails being pounded into the drywall, his sanity snapped. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? AAAAHHHH!” There were thick whumping sounds of him throwing his body against the doors and walls, but Markelle suspected that this only succeeded in getting Brett tangled up with Ben’s lifeless body.
His job done, Markelle wiped the drywall dust from his hands and admired his work. “Good luck with the rest of the season, Brett,” he said.
There was no response from his ex-coach, but Markelle didn’t need one. He walked out of the room and towards the elevator, reciting Joel Embiid’s room number in his head.