LeBron James and Tristan Thompson stood nervously outside of Matthew Dellavedova’s apartment door, talking in hushed tones.
“You got the plan, Bron? Run in, grab the target, restrain him, and take him to rehab. Simple. He might be hostile, but we should be able to handle him.” Tristan Thompson toyed with the duplicated key in his hand.
“Yeah, yeah, I got the plan. I just ain’t never done one of these before. How messed up on the stuff do you think he is right now?” LeBron looked nervous at the thought of confronting his teammate.
“He’s probably mainlining it as we speak.”
“I didn’t know it was that bad, how long has he been a junkie?”
“Since before you came here, as long as I’ve known him. It’s gotten bad, though, you’ve seen him in practice, coach can barely play him.” Tristan looked sadly at the door. “Enough chatter. Might as well get this done sooner rather than later. Ready?”
LeBron slumped his shoulders before straightening up again. “I guess. You go in first. I got yo back.”
Tristan fitted the key into the lock and opened the door. The two Cavaliers rushed in to the living space of the apartment, prepared for anything.
What they saw shocked them. Matthew Dellavedova was sitting on his couch, the only intact piece of furniture in the whole place, surrounded by Vegemite paraphernalia, spreading some of the product on plain white bread. His apartment was in shambles; There were holes in the walls, the television had been kicked through, and the threadbare carpet was stained a sickly brown, as was Dellavedova himself. In his yeast-induced haze, he did not recognize the intruders, thinking instead that he was being raided by the police.
“Grab him!” ordered Tristan, as he and LeBron lunged at the addict.
Matthews leapt from the couch and retreated to a corner, wielding his butter knife, eyes wide and movements frantic. “Get back, you pigs! YOU PIGS!” He took a few large swings at his advancing teammates, but they were not dissuaded.
“Ouch! Dammit Delly, we’re here to help! Bron-Bron and Triscuits only want to help! Tristan, grab the duct tape! LeBron shouted as his forearm was lightly scratched by the knife. Despite Matthew’s best efforts, the struggle was short-lived, as the junkie’s Vegemite-weakened body was no match for the two hulking power-forwards. Soon, he had been crudely bound by his hands and feet and was being carried out of his apartment.
“I have rights! I want a lawyer! PIGS!” Dellavedova shouted as he continued to struggle against his restraints.
Tristan’s voice was gentle, his expression calm. “Delly, settle down. We’re not the police. It’s us, Bron-Bron and Triscuits. Don’t you recognize us? You’ve got a problem, man, but it’s okay, we’re gonna fix you up right.”
Matthew’s expression softened as he looked at his now-recognizable teammates, and he stopped struggling. “Bron-Bron? Triscuits?” The wild look he had worn faded away, replaced by tears, tears colored a slight brown from the poison in his body.
“I need help.”