Gerald Henderson answered the call from GM Neil Olshey, silently wondering if something weird was going to happen. “Hey Neil. What’s up?”
“Can you come to my office? We need to talk about playoffs, and specifically, about how the team needs your leadership,” Neil said.
Relieved that the topic of discussion was not related even peripherally to Neil’s unrelenting obsession over the long-departed LaMarcus Aldridge, Gerald responded “sure thing” and started walking towards the GM’s office.
When Gerald walked through the door, he groaned. A bed had been retrieved from somewhere, and Neil’s hands were tied to the headboard with a pink scarf. He was still clothed, thankfully.
“You’re not LaMarcus,” said Neil, looking at Gerald as if the two had never met.
“How did you get tied to the bed?” Gerald asked because he could think of nothing else to say.
“I don’t know,” Neil said blankly, glancing upward at his bound hands. “Where’s LaMarcus? He was supposed to dominate me. We were going to switch roles.” Neil’s deadpan voice introduced a small amount of worry to Gerald’s revulsion. “He was going to call me ‘white boy’.”
Understanding that there would be no talk of playoff leadership, Gerald slowly backed out of the door. “Cool.”
“Maybe you can be LaMarcus tonight,” Neil offered.
“Uh, no.” Gerald had made it to the hallway and now began to speed-walk away. Behind him, he could hear shuddering sobs.