1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 steps and then a bang. Red stain on the turf on the field. There was a red stain on the fake grass and it was my fault. Everyone saw it, I did it in front of everyone. On purpose too. The Red Death was dead, gunshot wound to the back of the head, now splayed out in the 20 yard line, in similar fashion to a ragdoll. Ironic, since when one thinks of “football,” they don't think "Raggedy Andy doll splayed out on the turf.” Regardless, the Red Death was dead, living up to his name. Red Death’s name was coined by the stupid face paint he’d wear every game. What started as splotches of red on his cheeks, resembling Jigsaw, slowly morphed into two skull shaped blobs on his face. He leaned into it, letting his plays get increasingly more violent. Almost killed a guy two months ago. Nothing about it was published, they covered it up for the most part. I was at that game. That tackle broke a rib. A news publication published just 10 physical copies of the article before they had to pull them off the shelves. Everyone who bought the paper was advised to blot out the article with black ink. I didn’t. I’m facing a potential fine if they find out that I have the article. Luckily they won’t figure it out. It's locked away in a box in my basement. Back to the current game, the Red Death made his way across the field, pushing people out of the way without any fouls. It was too much of an effort to try and stop him at this point, he was too big. He’d probably crush the referee if he was questioned. His size didn't make up for his lack of brain. He ran on horsepower. He chugged oil before a game and revved his engine before going on the field. He mowed down everyone, including the people on his own team and the audience. Once the crowd was on the floor, the whistle blew. I wasn’t there. I was heading down to the field under the guise of getting a hotdog. Not really. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but more of an I got a hotdog and then I snuck onto the field. I made my way down to the sideline in broad daylight. Nobody stopped me, they just watched the Red Death spread. The ground area surrounding the field was full of celebrities and rich people who paid to be close to the field. Closer to Death. I stood by the coach, glancing towards his face. He had a sullen look plastered there. The tired, almost angry expression carved into the stone of his face, yet eroded for a long, long time. He was older than I was. His name was Jacob Gilbert Emerson, nicknamed EmSee by the team, and I knew he was secretly hoping for the same thing I was. He was sick of Jordan Dean as much as I was. Actually, I had no personal issue with the Red Death. Honestly I don’t know why I did it at all. There was no reason for his slaughter. But I managed to get the weapon in, so why not try and take my aim? He was a mediocre player anyway. Last season he barely made any points. No fouls though. Just points. The game began. Red Death ran circles around the other opponents, forming a tornado between him and them so they couldn’t get past. The wind was too strong to walk through, so they were stuck stagnant. He darted to the end zone, his teammates in tow, begging him to pass the ball. He sprinted the full way and made the goal. The crowd screamed. He botched the kick for an extra point. 6-0. This process continued for the second round, after he mowed down the other players again, once again, not passing the ball, keeping it locked in his arms like a bear trap. Bounding on air he scored the next touchdown, this time, making the extra point. The crowd screamed. 13-0. He came up to me after that play. He ran a lap around the field. He held out his huge hand, expecting me to take it in mine and shake it. I complied. He firmly shook my hand and ran out onto the field. As he left, I walked right behind him, following him out onto the field. That's when it happened. When he was about 3 feet away from me, I pulled the weapon out of my pocket and made the shot. Despite his size, he fell down after one bullet. The wound splayed across the back of his head, and he went slack and fell face down on the field. The crowd was silent. Nobody moved, or anything crazy like that. Nobody got up to help him. They all watched. It seemed as if more people than Emerson wanted him gone. Or maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they thought it was one of his stunts, some theatrics to keep the audience watching. They've started doing that recently. Theatrics, I mean. Not shooting the players. It started with confetti cannons and ended with overly dramatic, scripted stunts. Sometimes the games themselves were scripted as well, every move thoroughly planned–hold for the Red Death. Jordan made moves of his own, unscripted, unplanned. They didn't bother to script his games. They let him run free and do whatever. Regardless, Red Death was dead, and nobody moved. Everyone saw me do it, everyone looked down at me from the seats. None even tried to grab me and arrest me. There was security spanning across every door, yet none of them came towards me. There were numerous doctors in the crowd, yet none went to help him. The crowd just watched him bleed. I stood there, staring at him as the blood spread across the turf. There was a gaping hole in the back of his head. I couldn't see his brain through all the mush. Fitting. Like veins, his blood painted the stadium red, from end zone to end zone, sprawling across the ground like tree roots. The whistle blew again and the game started, the Red Death still on the field. Nobody took him off. The Red Death’s limbs started to straighten out, putting him in an “at ease” position face down on the ground. Points went up, this time for both sides. I barely watched the game. I was still in the playing field, nobody took me off either. I kept my eyes on the Red Death, watching him descend into the ground. I watched as his body clipped into the nylon grass, sliding through the ground like it was nothing. Once the game was 16-12, half of his body was submerged. It looked like he was drowning. At 19-18, his face was poking out. When his entire body was submerged, the ground began to shake. The game went on, even as the sinkhole that the Red Death created grew, sucking the red veins into the ground. Once the sinkhole took up about a quarter of the field, the game ended. 24-18. Death’s team had won. The crowd cheered, and calmly left, ignoring that anything had even happened to Death. I stood and watched the sinkhole that Death created. Looking in, I could see that he was still making his flat descent down to the Earth’s core. I was still on the field. Everyone was gone and I stood, watching him drag the stadium down with the roots and the veins and the 40 yard line and the turf and the field goal post. I moved back to the sidelines, sitting down and taking a bite of my hot dog. The sun was setting now. I looked in front of me, directing my eyes to my left. Coach Emerson was still there. I don’t feel like it’s right to call him EmSee. I’m not a part of the team, just a spectator. He was watching Red Death fall too.
'Pretty far down there. The coach remarked to no one in particular.
He pronounced it oddly. Like ad ver ‘tis ment. AdVERTISment.
I couldn't really think of anything else to say. I honestly didn't know if I wanted him dead. The coach chuckled at that.
Emerson turned to me from the distance we had between each other. The setting sun shone on his wrinkled face.
I looked down sheepishly. He was right. He won here. 29-68.
So, denial.
Or not. Just weird ghost things.
I stepped forward, looking into Death’s sinkhole again. The hole stopped growing outwards, the veins all gone, but it was still huge, and edge pieces were still falling in. Death was either too deep down, or disappeared. I wanted to take a bite of my hotdog again, but my hand slipped and it fell down the hole. I waited a few seconds and heard a distant “hotdog hitting the floor” noise at the bottom.
The ground never shook, yet Death was taking out tufts of grass like a black hole, all while falling stiff as a board. The body never ragdolled further than the state it was in. Looking like he was partaking on an ancient internet trend. Death’s Sinkhole wasn’t deepening anymore. That’s what they called it after this. They’re still gonna have to rebuild the stadium. They haven’t since the sinkhole’s creation in 2164.
I bet someone will, I said to no one in particular.
I peered down to get a better look at Death himself. Death was still. Looking like a flat of wood that you would buy from the hardware store, Death laid slack in the sinkhole. Slowly floating down. His body came close to the bottom of the hole. I kneeled down to get a better look, adjusting my glasses and squinting. You’d think the funnel shape of the sinkhole would cause his body to begin folding in a “V” shape, akin to a lawn chair, but it didn’t. It started with his feet.
His heels clipped into the dirt, along with the tip of his head. The dirt didn’t move, yet his bleeding body phased directly into the hole. Continuing to descend through the ground to God-knows-where, I watched him slowly fall, his jersey number slowly getting obscured as he floated. The 24 slowly had its edges cut off, then disappeared completely with the rest of the jersey. Death was gone, headed straight for the core of the Earth, where he’d most likely either get cremated, or phase through the whole Earth, coming out at the other side in the Southern Indian Ocean. Being confined to the bottom of the ocean or falling up, rising until he went to space. He’d be rotting by then. Brainless, airless, stuck alone in space, going farther than anyone else would dare to go, except for those few groups of astronauts back in the second ‘20s. Sad.
That was sad to me. The first time on that day where I’d actually felt bad for the guy. It must be hard to be dumb and sad and dead in the ground or the ocean or space or wherever he was.
It didn't matter anymore anyway. He was dead and gone and there was nothing that anyone could do about it.
I could have done something. I could have not killed him in the first place. but what was the use of not killing him? he was of no use to the world. I was only doing my job. I was only doing what I was supposed to do but I am still not sure why I was supposed to do it. I don't understand and I don’t think I ever will. goodbye
EmSee walked away . I heard the shuffle of his feet on the turf on the concrete on the dirt on the ground on the Earth and it made me wonder why they replaced the grass in the first place . probably to reduce the stains on the players ’ perfect uniforms so that they’d look better in pictures . what pricks they all were . but what use was there complaining ? there was barely even a stadium anymore . goodbye
Wherever he was it was most likely dumb or sad or dead or the ocean or the blazing center of the Earth or space or the moon or maybe just in heaven like those Christians said maybe they were right maybe everyone was wrong who knows only Jordan Dean knew only the Red Death knew only the Red Death knew Death personally he was staring Death in the face he looked at Death head on and knew each and every crevice in his face and looked at him and looked at him and looked at him as he fell and fell and fell and fell and then it was dark and he was gone forever and he never saw anyone else’s face again. goodbye
｜———｜———｜———｜———｜———｜———｜———｜——— 🕳️———｜
Going home that night, I sat down on my old rickety couch in front of my old TV model from the 2000s. An ancient relic nowadays, though they reproduced them in the 2100s due to popular demand. I sighed. I wanted dinner, but it was too late to go out. I left the stadium around 2:13 in the night. Coach Emerson was still there, last I checked. Besides, I didn’t feel like it anyway, my heart wasn’t in it. I realized how much my legs hurt. I stood still for a long time at the stadium. Watching the sinkhole do nothing for hours was exhausting, yet I couldn't move. I froze. I reached for the remote and turned on the TV. It flickered onto an ad. I didn't particularly care about changing the channel. I expected to fall asleep on the couch and leave it on whatever I had last watched. I sunk into the couch, my eyes fixated on the TV, curious as to what was going to play. Although, I didn’t really care that much. I saw a logo flash in the corner of the screen, causing my eyes to widen. ESPN. I still didn’t feel like changing it, but God, did it make me feel a bit uneasy. My back straightened a bit. It was a rerun of a past game. Red Death wasn’t there. I grabbed the remote again, checking the channel menu – the next reruns had nothing to do with the Red Death at all. His team wasn’t even mentioned. No reruns did for the following days. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and nobody mentioned Jordan Dean’s name ever again. I slouched back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. If that were to be the sky, maybe I’d get a glimpse of death, spread out among the stars, floating in the middle of the cosmos. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe he’d burned in the core of the Earth, or was trapped in the ocean, or one of the other multitude of things I’d thought of. Who knows. Who really cares? I didn’t. Well. I did, but not much. I’d forget this in a day, remember in a month, and regret it in a year. It wouldn’t matter soon. Soon I was going to fall asleep. But who knows. Maybe I’d never sleep again. I had no clue. I’d never know unless I went and looked and found out. Maybe I’d fly out; rent a boat and go on a rendezvous to find him. Or maybe I’d forget. Who knows. I didn’t. I still don’t. I’m confused now. And tired. I guess it was time to watch some football.