https://youtu.be/6GHDX8p4jh4
LaMelo Ball awoke from his slumber only to come to the immediate conclusion that he had seamlessly transitioned from one dream into another.
The place he was in was like no place he had been on Earth. A brightly shining sun, whose light was dampened by silver cloud cover, lent an otherworldly glow to the place, causing the gray stones of the walls to shimmer with golden energy. A marble floor extended infinitely in both directions. LaMelo felt like if he started walking, he would never reach the end, even if he walked for a thousand years. Of course, in a dream, such an unlikely setting as an infinite hall was perfectly reasonable.
LaMelo started walking, and his hunch was true; he never seemed to reach any end point. However, if he was walking in a circle, it would have to be a very big circle, because he could detect no curvature in the hall’s perfect straightness.
In time, he came to a gently burbling fountain set against the wall. He ran his hand through it, thinking that the sensation of the clear water trickling between his fingers felt extremely real. Realer than any dream he could ever remember participating in.
The clarity of his thoughts was also surprising. Usually his dreams were disordered and illogical. This dream was perfectly calm and soothing, and he found himself thinking complete thoughts, rather than the jumble of emotions that his dreams usually beset him with. The dream of this infinite hall was so relaxing that he wished it would last forever. He was sure that he would yearn for it once he awoke.
“It is no dream, LaMelo.” said a voice from behind him, startling him out of his fountainside reverie. He turned around and saw a smiling man holding a neatly-folded white robe out to him. “You are in the Hall of the Thirty Point Scorers, and I am Carlos Delfino, the appointed guardian of The Hall.”
“Oh yeah, Terry mentioned this place,” LaMelo said, recalling a barely-remembered fragment of conversation from several months prior as he pulled on the exquisitely soft garment. Maybe this place wasn’t a dreamscape, after all. “I thought he was playing a trick on me.”
“Your friend Terry made a grave mistake in divulging that information to you,” Carlos replied, his happy demeanor soured. “He will certainly face retribution from The Overseers. How he managed to carry memories of The Hall to his mortal consciousness is a mystery.” Suddenly he grabbed his chest, as if stricken by some sudden pain. “Huh, all of a sudden I don’t feel good. Perhaps I should sit down. I wonder if…the Overseers…?”
But Carlos didn’t finish his thought. There was a guttural ripping sound as Carlos’ body began to split in two, revealing bloody musculature and throbbing organs. As LaMelo watched with fascinated terror, a humanlike form emerged from the grotesque corporeal wreckage, unfolding its limbs like an alien being birthed from an extraterrestrial placenta sac. Soon, a skinny man with long hair stood where Carlos had been standing just seconds before. The man took Carlos’ robe and put it over a naked body that was streaked with the vanquished man’s blood.
“What…who…?” LaMelo stammered.
“The Hall of the Thirty Point Scorers is lame,” the man said. “Welcome to The Hall of Players Who Are Too Good for DownToBuck!” He held out his arms as if inviting LaMelo to behold his realm, but nothing about it had changed. Except…there was a new shadow being cast on the floor. LaMelo turned around to see what had materialized behind him.
There against the wall was a small section of kitchen counter flanked by two vending machines. One vending machine seemed to contain nothing but Pop-Tarts. The other, nothing but Hot Pockets. On the counter was a single microwave and an open container of chicken wings. Atop one of the vending machines, a portly cat was taking a nap. It noticed the long-haired man, let out a small “merp”, and went back to sleep.
“These babies are both totally free!” the man said, striding over to the Pop-Tart vending machine and tapping some of its buttons without bothering to insert any currency. At his command, variously-flavored packages of Pop-Tarts dropped into the holding bin.
“I don’t know what’s going on at all,” LaMelo commented.
“You’re too good for my channel, and you get free snacks, what more is there to understand?” said the man. “Count yourself lucky. Until now, rookies had to wait until their second year to make it here.”
LaMelo took the package of S’mores-flavor Pop-Tarts that was being offered to him. Free snacks was always a good thing. “That microwave isn’t plugged into anything,” he observed.
“It’s powered by your hopes and dreams,” the man replied. “Also, it’s insanely overclocked, so don’t run it for more than five seconds at a time or you’ll trigger the spontaneous deonation of all nuclear weapons in the known universe.”
“Ah, that would be a problem,” LaMelo said. Maybe he would enjoy the Pop-Tarts cold instead.