- Saturday, April 13th, 5:00 PM EST -- Scotiabank Arena, Toronto, Canada--- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- ---
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God of Fire and Flame, Terrence Ross, sat alone in the middle of Planet Coin Flip in Messier 31. "AAAAAAAAAAAGH!" he let out a massive scream, reverberating off of the other stars in sight. "I have nothing to do here. Lisa Ann went back to the Milky Way, Amber Rose got lost out in orbit somewhere, I'm all alone." he said, XBox controller in hand. He decided to log on RealGM, which still had ads even in another galaxy somehow, and read what was happening on the forums with his two teams.
Detective posted: “Ross is good now? Yo guy, I’m hella cheesed bro. He had bare opportunities here and kept bricking in the playoffs. There’s no way he went from a wasteman to 6th man… oh, hey, nice OVO jacket, you want to link up fam??” the poster suddenly switching topics as if he had the attention span of a squirrel.
“What the **** is this garbage?” Ross angrily stood up and grabbed a basketball, shooting it 10,000 times. The last shot swished through the net, and he winked to an invisible camera, as if he knew what would happen next. It rolled and rolled and rolled…
It rolled off the planet. Imagine that! Kyrie was right after all. The ball traveled for light years to get to Earth, collecting all sorts of iron and nickel and ice along the way. "HUAA HUAAAAA HUAAAAAAA!" Ross cackled from Planet Coin Flip, imitating the the Kawhi laugh transmissions he received from Earth. He knew something. He knew this meteor would wreak havoc, but he didn’t know where it would land, or what cause and effect it would have. He just hoped it would get close enough to Toronto to spill Tim Hortons coffee on all the hypebeasts walking past Dundas Square in Supreme.
”Oh my god, what is that?” Kyle Lowry muttered, taking off his sneakers after practice, soaked in sweat. “It looks like a giant meatball. Buh. The sun moves now?” Danny Green slapped the back of his head. “Stop thinking about food for once, idiot. That’s not the sun. It actually looks like a meteor... My boy Jeremy Lin taught me about meteors, since Popovich wouldn’t let me out of the doghouse he had in his backy...” Danny trailed off, rubbing the deep scars on his neck as his eyes started to well up.
Lin's eyes grew wide, and he stood up in the middle of the locker room, alerting the rest of the team.
“RUUUUUUUUUN!”
Matt Devlin was broadcasting to the entire city. He cleared his throat.“OVERTIME! No, Raptors win!” Leo Rautins was visibly frustrated and grabbed the microphone. “This is an emergency. Get out of Toronto, there is a meteor heading straight for us. I repeat, this is an emergency..” a bigger hand suddenly engulfed the area where Leo’s hand previously was. Khem Birch had a warm smile, but his intentions were not pure. Wes Iwundu began snickering in the background, his hand clasped over Matt Devlin’s mouth. With his free hand, he plugged in a USB to their laptop and looped a different audio and video to the city.
“ONIONS, BABY, ONIONS! ONIONS, BABY, ONIONS! ONIONS, BABY, ONIONS! ONIONS, BABY, ONIONS! ONIONS, BABY, ONIONS! ONIONS, BABY, ONIONS!” the voice of Chuck Swirsky over a Max Headroom video kept repeating loudly among the civil defense sirens, and the Magic were officially infiltrating the city and creating all the chaos it could muster up.
Ross’s master plan had worked. The flaming meteor ball contained the entire starting lineup of the Orlando Magic, sent to exterminate the Raptors once again.
Jonathan Isaac had a white mask on, similar to that little kid in “Us”, except with his poofy hair sticking out. Pascal Siakam couldn't move without Jonathan Isaac making the same exact movements. “THIS ISN’T FAIR! YOU’RE MY SHADOW!” Pascal could be heard yelling fearfully, falling backwards into the pooled up lava. Jonathan Isaac sat there, still mute, with a bible in his hands, as Siakam’s hand sunk lower and lower into molten depths.
Gordon was battling Ibaka, who provided to be a tougher physical foe, but was ultimately defeated by the mental game, in this case, the Congolese food AG had prepared prior to their battle. “HOW HUNGRY ARE YOU?!” Aaron Gordon questioned Ibaka with a spoon in his hand and smirked. He heard how loudly Ibaka’s stomach was rumbling and timed his question perfectly. Ibaka opened his mouth and pointed to it, and Gordon happily obliged, even making airplane noises as his spoon entered Ibaka’s mouth to feed him. Ibaka let his guard down, comforted from the Congolese food, but suddenly grabbed his throat as if it was on fire, and ran away as fast as a Mafuzzy could. AG shrugged. “Huh. That was easier than I thought it would be. It was only lactic acid...” Aaron remarked, spritzing all of Ibaka’s colognes on his body from the cologne bag he dropped in fear.
Vucevic and Fournier, the Buddy Ball tandem decided to take on Marc Gasol and Jeremy Lin. “Wait, why am I involved in this?” Lin asked quizzically. “It’s the foreigners versus the foreigners.” Fournier said matter of factly. “But I’m from Palo Al--” Lin was interrupted. “Eh, eh, eh, I do not care!” Fournier whipped out two sabres from his belt, throwing one to his buddy Vucevic. They danced, swords clanging, but Gasol was clearly running out of breath while Vooch had barely broken a sweat. “Come on, man! Why’d you have to eat all that paella!” Lin nervously yelled at Gasol, who was already defeated with Vucevic using his body as a resting stump. Fournier was about to finish Lin off with a sabre strike when Lowry jumped out of nowhere. “No! I can’t let you do that! I’m the starting PG, take me instead!” Fournier looked at Lowry in his soul, then at his gut, then back to his soul, and asked… “Do you want to come to Guy Savoy's restaurant with me in Paris?” Lowry’s eyebrows raised out of his skull. “I thought you’d never ask!” Lowry skipped alongside Fournier, leaving Lin behind who was in disbelief. “Un - **** - believable.” Vuc, still sitting on top of an exhausted Gasol, extended a plate out to Lin. “Paella?”
Ross landed not too long after the meteor, right in front of Kawhi Leonard, the final boss. Kawhi was foaming at the mouth. He saw what happened to his city, to his teammates. He clearly wanted blood in retaliation. Somebody had to pay for these atrocities.
“I’m going to be real with you, Kawhi. I already made all the shots I could possibly make when I got them up earlier today on my home planet. I can’t shoot over 50%, you know this. I’m powerless now. I don’t want to do any more damage than I already have.”
Kawhi didn’t care what he was saying... he was focused on one thing, revenge. He rushed Ross with his outstretched hands, grasping him tightly around the neck, his fingernails digging into his skin like actual raptor claws. Ross was clearly losing breath and was on the verge of being strangled to death, his face turning blue.
“You’re going to Los Angeles anyway!” he gurgled with a raspy whisper in Kawhi’s ear, the last words he thought he would ever mutter in his life.
Kawhi immediately let go. “Wow. You know what? You’re right.” Kawhi turned around almost robot-like in his motion, and started walking down the 403.
Ross smiled.
Toronto would never be the same after 4/13/19.
