Byron O'Dell, 3/17/09 12:33 PM

The pudgy bastard takes another sip of his coffee as I shift uncomfortably in my seat across from him. I’m becoming increasingly impatient with this man, my eyes darting between him and the briefcase he sat beside his chair. I want to reach across the table and throttle the man, wipe that smug grin off his face; it wouldn’t be hard I’m double his size and my hands are more than big enough to ring his fat throat. My muscles tighten and twitch with rage, something he seems to notice and his smile fades for a moment.

“So, you’re a football player for the University correct?” he ask eyeing me up and down his grin slowly returning.

I respond thrumming my fingers against the table impatiently, “Yeah…”

“First string right? Linebacker I believe is what I read. Some pretty impressive tackles, didn’t you knock someone out cold once?” he raises an eyebrow and my blood starts to boil.

“What the hell is this all about!?” I slam a fist against the small table and it shakes violently, “Get to the point Peters or whatever your name is or I’m out.”

He acts taken a back for a moment then nods slowly, “You sports types, always in a rush. Even the golfers, which is odd since they seem so calm on the course,” he seems lost in thought for a moment then turns to me, “Have you ever tried golf Mr. O’ Dell?”

I growl and push myself up from the tiny chair, “Fuck this.” I turn to walk back towards Erik’s table when the pudgy little bastard clears his throat and I hear him sit the briefcase on the small table.

“Now I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this Mr. O’Dell, You might at least want to have a look at these pictures… or I could just run the story.” His voice is no longer chipper and bright but suddenly serious and slightly threatening.

Exasperated I rub my eyes. I’m never going back to Mexico. I turn slowly back to the table and slide back into the seat letting out a long drawn out sigh. “Fine, but can we just get to the point here.”

“Fair enough,” he clicks open the two locks on the case and flips open the lid. “I was hoping you could explain these to me before they go to print…”

He tosses a stack of photos at me. I shuffle through them. They are of my wreck, my truck plowed into a tree, though this isn’t what I remember the truck looking like... Oh well, thank god it’s not Mexico.

“What is this a Joke? Everyone knows I was in a wreck, I don’t remember much after hitting the tree,” I start to slide the photos back towards him and stops me halfway.

“Please Mr. O’Dell you haven’t even looked at all of them, the first one is nothing, the true story unfolds as you go through them,” he smiles that shitty smile that makes my skin crawl.

I grumble and take the photos back and start flipping through them. The first one is my truck the front end smashed into the tree, the second is pretty much the same, but a little closer and a slightly different angle. The third one is where things get a little strange. A large dent appears to form on the roof as if something punched it up from the inside. The forth captures the front door flying through the air as a large booted food sticks out from where it used rest. The next picture shows a pair of large hands, my hands, prying the opening wider, it almost looks like I’m crushing tin foil the frame crumples so easily. The next show I mangle the truck even further the stearing column gets chucked through the fractured wind shield as I stumble free of the wreck. My muscles are swollen and large, almost too large I look to be a foot taller than I really am, and my clothes are stretched across my body almost torn… I look like some comic book character. The last few pictures are of me collapsed where the police found me, there are a few shots of the car all mangled, and in the shots of me collapsed I look like I’d returned to my normal size.

I remember none of this. It can’t be real, probably some kind of computer manipulation or something, but at least it’s not Mexico.

I smirk and look up at the man.

“Any comments?” He holds up a tape recorder that I promptly slap to the side.

“No, like I said is this a joke? I was driving home and fell asleep at the wheel, it’s all been in the real paper already, it was a miracle I wasn’t hurt more but what else do you want?” I sigh sliding the picture back to him.

“Oh you can keep those I have many copies,” he straitens his tie and places the tape recorder in his briefcase and closes it. “You weren’t hurt at all from what I read, well saw actually I mean I was there. Was it steroids? Some new kind of drugs? Is that how you were able to tear your own truck apart?”

“I didn’t tear my truck apart, the cops say the door must have flown off in the impact and I rolled out.. I never wear a seatbelt, and they say that this is one of the few times that it probably actually saved my life. If you were there why didn’t you help me?”

“Who do you think called the cops? And from looking at the pictures, I’d say it’s obvious you weren’t thrown from the car, you kicked the door off and tore it apart with your own bare hands. Pretty impressive. So, I ask again, was it Steroids?” He leans in closer waiting my response.

I slam my fist against the table again making it quake so hard I think it might collapse for a second. “Look I don’t care what you did with the computer to make those pictures. I don’t remember any of it, so I’m inclined to believe these are all fake. I don’t take steroids. You got nothing, print whatever you want if anything it will make me even more popular. So, we done here?”

He grins and stands up slowly, “I guess we are, I tell you this though, these aren’t doctored in any way, and a story like this and accusations of steroid use can be very damaging to a rising young athlete such as yourself. Since you aren’t willing to cooperate I’m going to run whatever I damn well please.”

“Yeah whatever, its all bullshit anyways, I can’t wait to sign autographs on all my friends copies.” I stand slowly and smile, as an after thought I grab his half-finished coffee and spit in the cup. “That’s for waiting my free time during spring break prick.” I shove the cup into his hand then turn and walk away.

“I will find out what really happened that night Mr. O’Dell! The world will know the truth!” He calls to me as I approach Erik’s table. I flip him off over my shoulder which prompts a laugh from my waiting friend. He raises his hand up and I smack it eagerly.

“Lets get out of here,” I say to Erik ready to put this shit behind me.

“So,” he lowers his voice, “was it Mexico?”

“Naw it was just some bullshit about my wreck!” I clap him on the shoulder, “Come on, call the guys, lets get out of here, lets go to the fucking beach!”

Erik’s eyes light up excitedly and he hops out of his seat with blinding speed, “yeeeaaaaahhhhhhh!! Now you’re talking!” He throws an arm over my shoulder and leads me towards the door as he pulls out his phone and begins dialing.