THE ECHOES OF RACING FOOTSTEPS awaken the ancient tunnels.
Miles of dizzying paths weave the hallways of the catacombs, stretching from the vanishing point ahead and releasing, soaring rearward. Torches adorning the stone brick walls shoot out of view like lamp posts on the highway. Spots of perspiration soak into the uneven cobblestone floor, tracing the path of the running cleric as he curses each forsaken day of cardio; each leg day that had been atrophied into another hour of slumber. Every step dusts the ancient footpath as they scuff the ground.
Right turn, left turn, left turn, straight.
Glancing over his shoulder regularly, every five seconds, the sprinter’s head is yanked to the six o’clock position. Any followers? No. Repeat.
Left turn, right turn.
He cannot allow the sacred texts to be observed by unworthy eyes, and as far as this holy man could tell, he was alone beneath the earth. Navigating the winding passageways and charting a course to the inner sanctum, desperation and exhaustion gradually morphed to anticipation and delight.
One final right turn, and he sees it: towering nearly 20 feet in stature, the oaken door without handles. Shadows cast by the torchlight obscure the searcher’s vision. Rushing to the wooden surface, he carefully massages the door’s surface. Pilfering every carved design, dragging his fingertips across every imperfection, the cleric scans by feel with his sight taken from the equation.
It’s here somewhere… it has to be.
That’s when he hears it; the murmur of his adversaries grows to a roar. Creeping closer and closer, the rising crescendo is sands passing through the hourglass. There was no more time to guess — he needed solutions right now. Taking a step back, he glances at the silhouetted form of the door’s hinges and takes an educated guess. One deep breath, and he pushes off the ground, dipping his shoulder and driving through the barrier with all of his might.
Tearing pain catches fire in his shoulder as he meets the obstacle. Pain so intense that he can’t tell if the shattering sound is his target or his skeleton. Letting out a yelp, he feels the door give way and join him on his descent to the stone floor, a mighty crash lights the beacon to his hunters, but he made it through. There wasn’t a moment to lose.
Holding his right arm in the other, his right shoulder was clearly dislocated. Pain screeched through his nervous system with the slightest touch or movement, but he’d come too far to allow the illusion of pain to cut his search prematurely. The mob was approaching rapidly; surely, they were only a few hundred feet away now, but he had to push on. Where was that god-forsaken scroll, anyway?
Towering from floor to ceiling, the cylindrical chamber’s walls were more parchment than stone. Scrolls were stuffed into every cubby space, and made the room feel more like an overcapacity kindergarten than a collection of invaluable history. Still, he had no time to marvel. Spinning his head like a cyclone, he scanned the library of its contents until his eyes finally locked onto their target. So high it was nearly level with the ceiling, a green and gold scroll stood perched atop the heap.
Climbing the ladder to the top, he could hear the voices of his attackers now. They were dangerously close.
Grinding his teeth to powder, the cleric bore the pain that blended his insides as he hurriedly, while methodically, climbed the medieval elevator.
“Stop him!” His guests had arrived.
Though his enemies jostle the ladder and climb to detain him, the brown-robed holy man stretches to reach the object he had risked so much to obtain. He snatches the roll and reads it aloud. A booming voice, his words draw such power that the mob freezes to listen.
Butler. Brewster. Baylor.
These three B’s shall be spoken
For glory, for disgust
In reverence, and in vitriol
The music bearers shall arrive
And just as suddenly shall they depart
The fair one shall blossom
And leave to greener gardens
The comet shall soar
But then rocket from orbit
But the mountainmen’s Key
Will not arrive ‘til year three
It is he who will usher in the age
Of Jazz supremacy
The signs have always been there, and in recent history, this was true. Scenes flashed before the eyes of all in earshot. Keyonte igniting for 32 points and nine assists against Cleveland compelled his former to rave: “It started with Keyonte George, who deserves to be an All-Star. A young fella that I know personally, and I’m excited to see his progress just from last year to this year.”
He’s the first Jazz guard to post 10+ 30-point outings since the legendary Spida. He’s playing at an All-Star level, alongside the resurgent Lauri Markkanen. Utah’s rebuild has been a slow burn, but it’s working. It’s actually working!
Losing all strength, the cleric’s vision goes black as he falls from the highest rung. Breaking a smile, he accepts his fate.
