Tayshaun was stretched out on his sofa, attempting to give his back some much-needed relief, while also enjoying some Price is Right on the TV. His phone, sitting by itself on the coffee table, began to rang just as he was getting comfortable.
“This better be important,” he grumbled as he stretched to grab the phone, wincing slightly at the contortions of his back. Looking at the incoming number, he smiled. It read, “The Unholy One Himself (666-6666)”.
Answering the call, the voice on the other end didn’t waste time with small talk. “Khraakklor, I have some business that needs to be taken care of ASAP.”
“What’s that, boss?” asked Tayshaun, otherwise known as the demon Khraakklor G’orlath, Torturer of the Damned.
“I decided I don’t like the Wizards anymore. Their name bugs me. Why can’t they go back to the Bullets? You’ve gotta kick their butts tonight, Khraakklor.”
Tayshaun was disappointed at this request. Usually when Satan called him with a request, it was to torture some unfortunate soul in the tarry pits of Hell for a thousand eternities. That was the kind of stuff that Tayshaun really went for. “I don’t know, boss, my back’s not holding up too good. You know I’m only averaging six points per game this year.”
“I might be able to fix that,” Satan responded. In an instant, Tayshaun felt the pain in his back melt away. “There. If it flames up in the game again, just give me a call and I’ll sort it out.”
“I’ll try my best, boss,” Tayshaun said. Again, he smiled. With the awesome and terrifying power of Satan behind him, he would throw back the hands of time and put on a show that would haunt the Wizards for the rest of their earthly lives.