Devil's Escort the Novel (teaser)

One hundred and eight degrees climbs another notch expanding matter and thresholds to heat. Players do everything they can to take in natural air surrounded by metal bleachers and standing on turf in the middle of a highly polluted city. Paul, a man’s body slapped with the brain of an adolescent, looks at the digital thermometer hanging from a huge blue scoreboard. The team’s mascot, a white mustang, was painted under the temperature. Somehow, the mustang looks more like a retarded mule then the majestic wild horse it’s meant to portray. The Ponies have the worst record in the league for the past three years and one could draw the conclusion a less then authentic cartoony horse has something to do with it.

Whistles belt out short loud chirps. “Alright, stop for a fifteen second break!” Paul puts his hands over his head and slowly controls a deep breath. Players struggle to encourage other teammates hunched down huffing and puffing. Paul “come on get up let’s go guys! Two more then we’re done!” Short, rigid and hairy Coach Benet blows his whistle. “Sprint you pussies!” Spit flies out his mouth as he bites down on the whistle. “Move your asses or everyone is getting two more laps.” Benet’s face glows bright red and blood vessels swell on his throat. “I want to see you winning this year.” Players drag their feet and attempt to stay focused as heat waves ripple off the stadiums metallic chairs like over spilt gas. “Oh, ya baby I’m cold!” Sidney shivers then transforms into a wild dog. “ Ruff, ruff.” Snarling at the teams slowest runner is Coach Sidney. A Former Cowboy’s linebacker and it’s easy to see he’s the biggest man on the field. He’s got weird style but wears it well. A tall mohawk afro with three separate sized shiny necklaces that match his gold ear rings. He claps his hands chest muscles bounce and stretch the pink tank top with black tiger paws on it. “Push it! Let’s go!” Sidney runs up to the fattest lineman and slaps the linemen’s slow plump sweaty ass. The whistle gives out one long last chirp.“Alright good job, get in here.”

The team runs to circle up on Coach Benet. “Take a knee.” They snap off helmets then shoulder pads and Benet twirls a whistle around his pointer finger. He brushes down a Tom Selleck mustache resting his chin and thinking as a copper bracelet slides down his arm. The sweat and skin alchemized a visible green stain around his wrist. “All the losers and tit suckers get off my fucking field. “ The team struggles to catch wind. He points up to the thermometer. “I know it’s hot, you can take it. Right?” The team responds with a massive “yes sir.” He takes off his ten gallon straw hat. “If you caint’, go play tennis or soccer because this is a man’s sport.” Sweat drips in his eye and he doesn’t blink. “If you want to play for me, you better bust your ass!” He spits the wipes down his mustache. “Don’t cramp up. I’m tired of players having to get I.V.’s.” Paul squirts cold water on his face. “Get hydrated before practice. Drink a Gatorade right when you wake up.” He looks over at Coach Sidney who is shuffling through his fanny pack. “Coach Sidney, anything to add?” Coach Sidney steps forward cracks open a quick whiff of ammonia meant to give power lifters a head rush before throwing weight in the air. Sidney snorts in the strong scented break stick then snarling he growls at the players around him. “I’m going to bench five hundred pounds twice then hit the showers, I got swamp ass.” The team laughs. “Alright, everybody up on me let’s get in here and get a loud as fucking break.” The players enclose on Benet shoving each other as the bounce around with pure testosterone. “Break it out three. One, two, three, the team joins in Mustangs!” As the players disperse Paul picks up his helmet and shoulder pads. “Paul, come here a minute I want to talk to you.” Paul runs to the sideline where his coach stands now accompanied by Sidney and three other assistant coaches.

Paul, “Yesser?” The assistant coaches silently stare at him judging the “Boy-Man” from head to toe. Sidney looks at Benet. “Doc needs to see you.” Paul, ok, just give me a few minutes. I got to take a shower.” Benet sighs. “Why don’t you just go ahead and hustle straight to Doc’s.” Hesitantly Paul replies, “Sure.”

As instantaneous as Paul turns and jogs to the exit assistant coaches snivel spitting out chew and relentlessly shooting fast glances back and forth. An assistant coach looks at Benet.” It’s a damn shame on that’s boy family, him Losing everything on account of stupidity. I’d be mad as hell at my boy if I was his Paw…” Another assistant coach spits out a slab of chewing tobacco. “Coming home with his tail tucked between his legs.” Benet, “Come on now guys, he’s going have to get a job pumping gas somewhere.” All the coaches’ share in an elongated laugh but, Sidney slows his chuckle sooner than the rest.

The inside of Docs office is pristine. Like a commercial set for some cleaning agent. Certain books in his shelf glisten making it surreal and almost fake clean or just impeccably kept. It’s got a motif the seemingly suggests that a professional cleaner comes every hour on the hour and signs their name after having thoroughly sanitizing everything on spot. It had a verifying the comforting feeling one would come to naturally love, believe and feel safe in. Scholarly looking papers hang framed and certified on the wall behind Doc.

(Foot note 1) Doc makes up an entire lineage of trainers working in sports medicine. His father was a trainer for the Bears and his father before him a trainer for the Packers. They were all dapper men claiming wives as mere puppets to lead on straight coaches who have always hired them on their remarkably inviting personalities. Doc senior did not receive any special training nor did he go through any specific course to obtain his job. He simply gave Vince Lombardy a blow job. That brings up the question of whether mere circumstance played into a lineage of bisexual football coaches bread into the business by men that couldn’t face society’s rejection of their homosexuality. At least one could arrive at the conclusion that these coaches felt comfortable around a particular breed of men so much so they provided jobs of rank to them for three generations. Their names are Doc, Doc sr. and Doc. Jr. (back to text)

He enters Doc’ Junior’s office. Three football players and a metro sexual tennis player get the total body ice down in a whirlpool room towards the back of the complex. Paul opens the door after taking off his shoes then starts a slow walk in before being immediately greeted by Doc.