Space Pirates Ltd.

I don’t remember how I got there; like a scene from a nightmare the scene simply unfolded around me, the how or the why inconsequential. The haunted moon lit my retreat beneath a sky whose stars disappeared one by one every night. As I ran through the trees and over rocks I could hear them behind me; the neighing and the braying of the Indianapolis Colts offensive line echoed over the trees, obfuscating their whereabouts as they pursued me through the underbrush.

“COOHOO!” they said, “COLAY!” they shrieked, their impish giggles covering the forest.

But above all the voices, one rose up like soprano solo of the infernal choirs, changing the plays at the last second and interpreting the blitz with diabolical soothsay.

“ITS OKAY RICKY, YOU’VE STILL GOT THE BEST THROWING ARM IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD,” sounded the forerunner. The sweat poured off of me as I ran, clumsily stumbling over vines and nettles. You always mock the victim in horror movies, unable to negotiate a seemingly simple obstacle in order to save their life. But you don’t consider all the factors. The adrenalin raging through your muscles, almost ready to burst out of your skin and get ahead of your body. The salt of your sweat stinging your eyes and seeping into the thousands of open cuts on your feet and hands. Your frantic mind glancing ahead and screaming at you, with each punishing throb in your skull, to go faster.

It’s a strange feeling – the sense of hopelessness that no matter how fast you run they will catch you. My legs, in a final act of rebellion, realized this and threw up the white flag, collapsing under me and sending me falling to the mossy ground. In the years it seemed to take for me to glance up I tried to come to terms with what would be waiting for me. The truth was that there was never any chance of escape; I was the player of their sinister game, and now it was time for the punch line – the Colts Offensive line had surrounded me.

They giggled and chortled, slapping each other on the back and leaping around in frenzy. Slowly they parted and made way for their leader, snickering and quivering with anticipation – slowly, Peyton Manning stepped into the circle they had formed around me, meeting my gaze with an inhuman lack of compassion, a devilish grin appearing under his helmet.

“ITS OKAY GUYS THEY’RE NOT SAYING BOO THEY’RE SAYING MOOOOVERS,” he shrieked at me, sending his fellows into a near fit of madness. Like a surgeon preparing for his work, he held out his hand to his underlings, yet never taking his lifeless eyes off of mine. Timidly, wide receiver Marvin Harrison approached him, and handed him an object I couldn’t quite make out before disappearing back into the ring.

In an instant he was upon me.

“Shake it off Johnny, rub some dirt on it,” he whispered in my ear, flicking his serpent-like tongue across my cheek.

The harvest moon reflected off his helmet, making me blink for the first time in what seemed like hours. When my eyesight adjusted, Peyton Manning’s hand was inches away from my face, the object in his hand now illuminated. There, in front of me, was a pipe, its end inching ever closer to my quivering lips. A silence had fallen over the crowd around me, their eyes locked in anticipation like an army of dolls. Peyton Manning drew forth his other arm, lighter in hand. He brought it up to the bowl, now too close for me to hope to avoid. He flicked it once, and a tiny flame appeared, illuminating the bowl.

It was full of human hair.

This entry was posted on Sunday, February 4th, 2007 at 8:30 am and is filed under Pirate Brew Ha-Ha. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.