Of Basketball Showdowns, Bloody Virgins, and a Bar Stool Dog

The TV set at the Slaughtered Lamb played tonight’s basketball game. 

It was the same as the night before.

And the night before that.

Sparkman couldn’t remember when it had been different.

It was a five-on-five game of Kazaam versus Shazaam. 

They were the two best players to ever play the game. 

The two best. Times five.

Sometimes the five-man Kazaam squad was ahead. 

Sometimes the five-man Shazaam squad was ahead. 

But the outcome was always the same: the best took on the best in a game that never ended. 

Of course, who was best was always up for debate.

And Buck Sparkman, gravedigger, was an easy mark. 

Kazaam.

Now and forevermore. 

Buck cracked another vial of idiot and tossed it back. 

He pulled another one out of his pocket. 

It winced.

Then it whimpered.

Before finally breaking down in tears.

Sparkman put the vial back. 

He was heading for an emotional breakdown, but today was not that day. 

The big game was on.

And Buck never missed a game. 

At least not anymore. 

The ramifications were just too much. 

Stock markets crashed. 

Dynasties crumbled. 

People began to remember that “Young Sheldon” was a thing.

For seven intolerable seasons. 

“Fuck you,” Buck mumbled to himself, as the vial’s tears turned to silence and then to snores.

“You talk like that in front of your mother?” a scruffy voice behind Buck asked. 

A brindle-colored cairn terrier leapt up on a bar stool. 

It was Terry.

And judging by the bits of swamp sludge on his paws, he’d been at the office.

Not the one at home with Sasha. 

The one that Buck Sparkman rarely visited.

The one that Buck Sparkman stayed away from.

The one that Buck Sparkman owned and operated at the corner of Witch Hazel Boulevard and Full Moon Drive. Sparkman’s Mortuary and Pawn.

Once Dead Dan the bartender looked down from the other end of the bar where he was pouring a bachelorette party a line of harikaris, a shot of cinnamon vodka, a package of strawberry Pop Rocks, a Xanie, and an after-midnight excuse to hit the Mondo Diner and order a double-order of hash browns, fried, flipped, and flayed.

The bartender asked, “A double-shot of Blind Trust and a dog biscuit, Terry? ”

The pup nodded. 

“Another Bloody, Buck?” Once Dead Dan asked the gravedigger, who promptly pointed at the U.S. Constitution on the wall next to the lederhosen porn and sports necrophilia.

“How’s the paw?” Buck asked. 

“Better,” the dog replied. 

Two weeks ago, Terry the Terrier had gotten into a scrap with a real gang-bang gang, a rough-and-tumble bukkake crew, the kind that’ll beat you senseless and leave you covered in cream for the TV crews. 

As for what started the trouble with the gang-bang gangers? One of them had called Terry’s mother a bitch. 

And Terry didn’t take so kindly to that.

Despite the veracity. 

Hands were nipped. 

Ankles were bitten.

And someone’s leg got rubbed raw.

Which was a horrible way to greet people, Terry thought, as much as he enjoyed it.

No one took the time to get to know each other, to know whether someone was a friend or a foe, Terry bemoaned to no one but himself. Thanks to Peepers and Jeepers no one felt the need to do so anymore. Asshole: it was all anybody smelled anymore.

“Fuck you, Peepers,” Terry said in a growl to himself. “Fuck you, Jeepers.”

Buck stirred the last sip and tipped back the glass. 

The salt around the lip tasted like sand spurs, SPF 30, and soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. 

“I’ve got a new gig for us,” Terry said. “Looks like a real moneymaker too.”

“Hmm,” Buck replied, his interest in the game exceeding his interest in thinking about work, well, after work.

Once Dead Dan placed a new bowl in front of Terry and a Bloody in front of the gravedigger. 

The dog began to lap at the double shot bowl. The biscuit was on the side.

Buck just stirred, waited, and watched the game.

It was a tight one.

Kazaam dunked the ball. 

Shazaam dunked the ball. 

Kazaam dunked the ball. 

Shazaam dunked the ball. 

It was a real nail-biter. 

“So, we got a call yesterday at the office,” the pup said and took another sip. “You won’t believe who it was.”

“Hmm.”

“Arson Whales.”

“Hmm,” Buck replied. 

Terry was either pulling his leg or had gotten pranked himself. Either way, Sparkman was waiting for the punchline.

By the gravedigger’s reckoning, there was no reason why Arson Whales, the creator of the first Tombstone, would have placed a call to Sparkman’s Mortuary and Pawn, especially since he had disappeared from the public eye following his controversial takeover of Cuddle Tech, the makers of a competing Tombstone product called the iPlot. 

And like most corporate takeovers, it ended with one party beheading the other, in this case Arson Whales and Cuddle Tech founder Mallory Ware. 

But Whales went too far. 

During his victory celebration, Whales sent out a video epitaph of him drinking a Magnum Doo Code Orange from Mr. Ware’s skull in between snorting thick orange lines of Cheetie Peetie’s cheese puff dust from the crack of Mallory’s ass. 

“Well, he’s given up on the tech sector all together. His new mission is indigenous rights,” Terry lowered his head and began to lap at his bowl again. “And making sure they don’t have any.”

Sparkman waited.

Kazaam dunked the ball. 

Shazaam dunked the ball. 

Kazaam dunked the ball. 

Shazaam dunked the ball. 

Terry lifted up his head from the bowl. “He wants us to take out the Snuffs,” Terry said.

“Hmm,” Buck said, as he watched Kazaam sail over Shazaam and dunk the ball.

“The whole village. PawPaw, Porkey, Smarty. Even, Snuffette.”

Buck turned the glass, licked the boot-heel salt, and took a sip. He thought about the hot water heater. It was still in the stocks in the attic. “What’s it pay?” Sparkman asked.

“Fifty-five thousand gojiras,” Terry replied. “So you’re game?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Buck said.

Once Dead Paul put a new bowl in front of the cairn. Terry started to drink.

Buck looked up at the TV. 

Kazaam dunked the ball. 

Shazaam dunked the ball. 

Kazaam dunked the ball. 

Shazaam dunked the ball. 

Terry sneezed and shook his head. He licked his lips. “So what’s the verdict, bub?” 

Buck’s tombstone cracked. He looked at it. It was Sasha. 

The refrigerator had decided to go on strike and had begun organizing a strike. The smoothie maker and the air fryer were the only holdouts.

At this point. 

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Buck asked and signaled Paul. 

A job like this required another Bloody, if not two.

Kazeem dunked the ball. 

Shazaam dunked the ball. 

The end of the game was nowhere in sight.