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Terrell leaned back on the couch, trying to pretend this was a normal day; and not a day on which he was required to give thanks. On a normal day, he would've been hanging around the house by himself, watching SportsCenter and fantasizing about a fistfight with a certain beloved quarterback. But the Thanksgiving holiday made things feel different. He wasn't alone, but his house never felt so lonely. Or empty. Days like this one should not have been silent. He alternated his blank gaze between the television and his bronze sculpture of himself. It was too difficult to watch Jeff Garcia still playing football while he was not. "Now see," he thought to himself. "What did I ever do to that faggot?" Mostly, he wished he wasn't so lonely. The fact that there was only one person in the world that wanted to be with him was bad. Worse, however, was the fact that that one person was Drew Rosenhaus. Rosenhaus sat silently in a white leather recliner, occupied with thoughts of his own. His mind worked quickly and in its own self-interests. With his eyes pointed in the direction of the television, he had thoughts like, "Man, I am really racially progressive to be spending a major holiday alone with a black guy," "I wonder if T.O. is mad at me," "I hope he wants to watch Jerry Maguire with me after dinner," and "I really like purple ties." Fighting through the heavy silence in the room, he said randomly, "I care about you, Terrell." "Man, you said that like 57 times today," Terrell replied without even turning his head. "Shut the fuck up and watch the game. Before I whup yo' ass." Rosenhaus smiled warmly, nodded his head and said, "Good one, buddy. And happy Thanksgiving." "I need someone to detail my car," Drew thought to himself. Terrell closed his eyes in disgust and shook his head dismissively. He picked up the remote control, stood up and shut off the television. "Fuck it, let's just eat, man." #81's Personal Chef (which was hand-embroidered in green on his white apron, and was also the name that he was required to answer to when he was in Terrell's house) had prepared a feast that would've made Emeril blush. The table was long enough to accommodate Jesus and all of his friends at The Last Supper, and it was nearly half-covered in food. The turkey was massive and golden-brown, like the ones you see in Butterball commercials. There were Cornish game hens and a plump, round ham covered in pineapples and cherries. There were mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, broccoli, stuffing, pumpkin pies, pecan pies. And there were just two people to consume this feast. Terrell Owens and Drew Rosenhaus were both big fans of excess. Terrell sat at the head of the table, likely one of the few men in history to have eaten Thanksgiving dinner while wearing only Under Armour. Rosenhaus sat down adjacent to Terrell, buttered a warm roll and shoved half of it into his mouth. "Wait, man," Terrell interrupted him. "We got to say something we're thankful for. That's what Thanksgiving's all about. So take that roll outchya mouth, bow your head and be thankful for somethin'." Rosenhaus swallowed what he could and put the rest of the roll back down on the plate. "Okay, you got it. Kind of a weird tradition, but it's cool. I can adapt, man, because I care. I care about all different kinds of people." Terrell, his head bowed, shot a cold glance up at Rosenhaus. Noting Terrell's displeasure, Rosenhaus mimicked his client and bowed his head. He began. "Um... well, for one thing, I'm really thankful for all the advances in cell phone technology. Those things are really great. Um, I'm thankful for silk, because it is really soft and I wear a lot of it. This tie I have on cost over $300, which I think makes me a pretty special guy. Let's see... I'm thankful for ESPN, because they put me on television, and man, that is fucking cool. You have no idea how much ass I've gotten because of ESPN alone. And I'll be honest with you, I'm thankful for money. Not any specific amount of money that I have, but rather, the concept of a currency-based economy in general, because to me, it really gives life meaning." #81's Personal Chef, standing ready to carve the turkey, looked at Rosenhaus and shook his head slowly from side to side.. He wondered if he was good enough with a knife to throw it at someone and kill them. "And I'm thankful for my best friend, Terrell Owens, the greatest football player to ever live," Rosenhaus concluded, reaching over and patting Terrell's arm. "Get your hand off me," Terrell said without actually moving his arm. Rosenhaus removed his hand from Terrell's arm and bowed his head, because he thought he was probably supposed to. "Dear Lord," Terrell began. "I'm thankful for all my blessings. I'm thankful for the big linoleum star that I'm having put in the middle of the kitchen floor, so that me and #81's Personal Chef can stand in the middle of it all day long and bask in our own greatness." #81's Personal Chef silently tapped his toe, praying to himself that he would be hired soon at a local T.G.I. Friday's. Terrell continued. "And I'd like to thank you, Lord, for blessing me with so many things. Like my good looks. And my unbelievable abs. My soft hands. My incredible courage that inspired so many people in the Super Bowl. My friendship with Michael Irvin. And my abnormally large penis." "Amen to that one, buddy," Rosenhaus chimed in, extending his arm to give Terrell a high five. #81's Personal Chef muttered "Jesus Christ" under his breath. Terrell ignored Rosenhaus, his eyes staying closed, leaving him hanging on the high-five. "Also Lord, I am thankful that you made me the most talented wide receiver in the National Football League. I want to thank you for the game of football that I have enjoyed so much. I want to thank you for giving me that outlet for my pain and anger," he said, his anger building and his voice getting louder. "I want to thank you for all the touchdowns I scored. I want to thank you for how much I used to love football. I want to thank you for my creative endzone dances. I want to thank you for my goddamn Sharpie routine, the cheerleader routine, the waiter thing, every motherfucking thing that I USED to love about football, which I CAN'T FUCKING PLAY ANYMORE." Rosenhaus shifted his eyes nervously around the room and whistled softly to himself, trying to be as pleasant and non-objectionable as possible. He was very afraid. #81's Personal Chef looked at him and chuckled. Terrell rolled on. "I want to thank you, Lord, for my agent, the one guy in the world who might be a bigger asshole than I am. I want to thank you for all the wonderful things he's done for me. I want to thank you for all the ways he's helped me." A relieved sigh crept from Rosenhaus's lips. #81's Personal Chef looked mildly disappointed. "Except, Lord, I can't think of ONE GODDAMN THING THAT HE'S DONE FOR ME," Terrell yelled with his head still bowed and his eyes still closed. "All he's done is encourage me to be a bigger asshole, get himself on TV and cost me millions of dollars. THIS MAN HAS DONE NOTHING GOOD, LORD." It was at this point that Drew Rosenhaus temporarily lost control of his bladder and a little bit of urine warmed his crotch. #81's Personal Chef looked at Rosenhaus, smiling broadly and nodding, enjoying his fear. "Are we, um, still friends, T.O.?" Rosenhaus asked, trembling in fear. Terrell did not hear his question. Terrell stood up from the table, his eyes shut tightly, his body overcome with the spirit of perhaps not God, but some less noble, more childish force. "LORD, I ASK YOU, WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH THIS MAN? PLEASE GUIDE ME, LORD. PLEASE ADVISE ME ON MY RELATIONSHIP WITH THIS EVIL MAN, LORD. SHOULD I FIRE HIM, LORD?" #81's Personal Chef cupped his hands over his mouth, and in a low, booming, whisper, said, "Don't fire him. Kill him." Rosenhaus's head snapped in the direction of #81's Personal Chef, and this time, his loss of bladder control was not temporary. Drew Rosenhaus had peed all over himself. "I will do thy bidding, Lord," Terrell Owens said, in a trance reminiscent of the one that took control of Reggie Jackson is The Naked Gun. "I will kill Drew Rosenhaus, Lord." Terrell finally opened his eyes and took a few steps towards the small, cowering, man. Rosenhaus jumped up from his seat, pointed at #81's Personal Chef and shouted, "HE SAID THAT!" Terrell looked at #81's Personal Chef, who yelled, "I AIN'T SAID SHIT," while jumping up and down in pure glee. "IT WAS GOD, NEGRO!" #81's Personal Chef handed Terrell a large carving knife. And with one swift violent motion, Terrell Owens killed Drew Rosenhaus by burying a large stainless steel carving knife into the side of his neck. The blow did not completely sever his head, but it was enough to have it hanging loosely to one side. It was certainly gruesome enough to ruin Thanksgiving dinner. After the deed had been done, Terrell looked at #81's Personal Chef, who responded by shrugging his shoulders in a "Hey, life goes on" sort of motion. And then #81's Personal Chef grabbed the ankles of Rosenhaus's lifeless body and drug it to the basement where he would douse the corpse in gasoline and incinerate it. He performed this duty silently, without having been told to do so. It all seemed very natural to him. Terrell found a portion of the turkey that was not spattered in Rosenhaus's type A-negative blood, carved himself a piece, took his plate back to the living room and turned the football game back on. Jeff Garcia completed a screen pass for 7 yards. "Fucking faggot," he thought to himself. |
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