Keep the Wolf from the Door

Chapter 1 - Superbowl Sunday 2003 Tampa Bay Buccaneers vs. Oakland Raiders

1:

Super Bowl Sunday:

2003 Tampa Bay Buccaneers vs. Oakland Raiders

"Raiders down by a touchdown, with only five minutes left in the game are currently driving the ball down the field and in the red zone. Quarterback Rich Gannon looks down the field and has a wide receiver open in the end zone. He chucks the pig skin...Oh no! Tampa all-pro safety, Ronde Barber, intercepts the pass and runs it down the field to score on a pick six. The mighty Oakland Raiders have just been annihilated by the underdogs! Tampa Bay Buccaneers—Super Bowl champions!"

Inside a dodgy sports bar, on the outskirts of town, Michael took a glance around him. Like watching a tableau, there was a moment when not one drunken eye blinked and not one stressed muscle flexed in front of that big screen. An eerie silence, the calm before the storm, loomed as the underdog Tampa Bay Buccaneers were mere moments from winning the Super Bowl. The storm hit, and the up-roaring shouts of ruthless vulgarity rang through the crowd, which favored Oakland heavily. "The fix was in!" A drunken slob shouted.

The bartender was a young blonde with braids, black smudges, and a kid's size Oakland Raiders jersey stretched sparingly over her breasts. She was indifferent to the high tension around her as she closed out her checks with a flirtatious strut. "Anything else I can get for you, baby?" She leaned against the bar.

Working hard for her tips was a wise move. Super Bowl Sunday: a day where horny blue-collared men drank frivolously, also a day where they gambled frivolously. And though she may be used to inheriting such a drunken man's money, on Super Bowl Sunday, their cash belonged to Michael. He handed her forty. "Keep the change."

"See you around," she leered. He watched her walk away with an accentuated wiggle of her young and perky backside. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit redial. At the other end of the bar was a man alone in a booth whose phone went off, turning him ghostly pale.

Lenny Canone: in the hole fifteen grand...

Lenny slammed his fist down with a great deal of distress.

Michael drank the rest of his whiskey.

Lenny turned his phone off.

Michael stood from his bar stool.

Lenny spotted him—his eyes bulged with fright.

Lenny sprang from his seat plowing through the crowds nearly knocking over several people in the process. Michael dodged his way through as he watched Lenny blow through the emergency door. "Charlie!" Michael shouted to his cousin waiting outside. Charlie was supposed to be watching the back door in case Lenny decided to run. But, like always, the sight of women in skimpy clothing derailed his train of thought.

"Shit!" Charlie watched Lenny run passed. He jumped back in the car and barely got the door closed before he peeled out of the parking lot.

"You're dead Charlie!" Michael shouted to his cousin, who was screeching down the street in Michael's beloved black Murcielago.

* * *

Driving alongside Lenny, who was running for his life, Charlie lit up a smoke. His main objective was to trap Lenny in a contained area with no way out. He watched Lenny run through a back alleyway connecting to a large parking lot. Lenny tugged on the doors of the buildings like the world was caving in on him. One of the doors flew open and Lenny disappeared. Charlie threw open his door and ran.

Lenny was wheezing a few stories above in the dark stair well. During the brisk climb, Charlie remembered that he had left Michael's car running in the parking lot. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" Michael would not be happy. Desperately reaching the top of the stairwell, Charlie busted through the door leading out to the roof. Standing on the edge of the four story building was Lenny.