So it's deader than Beck's follicles around the NFL right now, and until things liven up, I thought I would get all creative on your asses.
This is the 2006 Season Review for Jerramy Stevens. It contains no insight into his play on the football field. It's a purely fictional account of his one (reported) ignoble night in Scottsdale. This is a work of fiction, no one within it is real, it is not based on anything but a handful of facts and my own ribald imagination. To paraphrase J.D. Salinger, if it is ribald, let it be a testament to my own estranged, ribald father. In other words, this is NSFW.
The engine boomed and rocks spit out from under the tires like teeth through a wood-chipper. Our player, Jerramy Stevens, sits in the front seat of a late model Chevrolet. Stevens is drunk. Stevens, who is regularly this drunk or drunker has entered what alcoholics refer to as a normalized state. His vehicle, a purple Silverado with full leather package and a Boston Acoustic sound system, is spinning wheels in the faux-dive inspired gravel parking lot of the 'Salty Senorita'. The Senorita's owner, Dick Condón, is blissfully unaware that his glitzed up piss-hole is not, in fact, faux-dive, but rather, a dive.
"Shit, hoes give me no play tonight, th-fuck they think they are, little bitches."
Stevens has spent the better part of the last five hours solemnly drinking alone, tossing around big bills and throwing out his own name like a hot-shot. The response was decidedly lukewarm. It would seem Steven's fame has disappeared like him in so many Seahawks' losses.
"I'm motherfuckin' Jerramy Stevens, and these skilz are about to get pay-eed! Jerramy Stevens don't need no haughty little bitches--I can suck my own dick! Wait, man I'm glad no one was here to hear that."
Despite Stevens' best attempts, he couldn't find that magical combination of fucked-up, naive and possibly underage that represents his type. Though he threw around Cs and name dropped like a coked up NYU prof, his hollow blood-shot eyes, and 5am shadow read "washed-up" and "watch your drink" to the Senoritas' collected skags, skanks, snatches and hanger-ons.
"Though that might be kind of nice, best of both worlds--I mean, uh shit, I need to tap that booty line. I'll call Yessica."
"Is that you, Jer?"
"That's right, hoe, you round? I'm hornier than, a, uh, er..."
"Where you at, I'm in Tacoma, I'm at my--"
"You're where? I'm in Arizona. Shit. Why you in Tacoma for?"
"This is where I live, Jer, right? You know that. I live in Tacoma, we met at Dancing Bear, remember sweetie? Listen, Jer, while I have you on the line, Tommy's been yellin' me, that last check you gave--it bounced. I thought you were rollin' sweetie, now he's all pissed at me, so--"
"Snatch, maybe you shouldn't be taking checks when yo suckin' dick for a livin'. Haha, that's pretty funny, I-Dawg would think that's funny, I should call that hoe."
In Stevens world, everyone, good or bad, male or female, is a hoe. It's a sort of affected street speak rooted in turn of the nineties NWA, that brings his friends, his "crew", no end of material for shit talk when Stevens is not around. I-Dawg, née Isaiah Jefferson, is Stevens' good friend and accountant. Following the 2006 season, fearing that his gravy train may soon be derailed, Jefferson has grown increasingly philosophical about Stevens' off-field behavior.
"WHAT IS UP I-DAWG!"
"Yo, Jer, yer shoutin' dawg, tone it down, It's almost three in the morning."
"Sorry man, but I just said something that is so-o fun-nee: I was talkin' to Yes, that little hoe, nice rack, though and an ass...anyway, I was talkin' to Yessica and she was all 'yo check bounced' and I was like 'maybe you shouldn't be ceptin' checks when you suck dick for a livin'--HAHAhaha!"
"Wait, your check bounced?"
"Uh, nah, I mean, yeah, that's what she said, but that hoes so dumb she probably, uh, she prolly, uh--"
"Wait Jer, let me see if I have this all straight: You gave a hoe a check, presumably for giving you head or something--"
"And after paying a prostitute with a document that has your name and address on it, that check bounced."
"That's what she says."
"The check bounced?"
"Is this check for ten grand you just sent me, is this check going to bounce?"
"Uh, nah, that other check was like, I think I fucked up my signature or something."
"That doesn't cause a check to bounce."
"Listen, man, I'm sitting on a role of Bennies so thick I've got to swerve to keep my ass straight, you don't have to worry, I'll keep you paid, hoe, I'll keep you paid."
"The Hawks signed Marcus Pollard."
"Shit, that dudes old as shit!"
"You're not going to be able to resign with them; they say they've closed the door on the Jerramy Stevens era."
"That fuckin' fat walruss signs Methus, eh, Meffusa, uh, that Metherfuckin' old man over me? I've got mad skillz, ho, I'm the next Tony G, mothafucka!, teams will be linin' up for these skillz, just you watch."
"Where are you right now--you sound drunk."
"I'm, um, wait, I can't focus on the street signs, I see a, uh, ABCO Soo-per, uh, Supermarket, and, is that a dog?"
"Pull over dumbshit, a dooey is just what you need right now."
"I'm fine, HOE! Nine out of ten times I drive drunk nothin' bad happens. NINE. OUT. OF. TEN."
"Ok, listen man, shut the fuck up for second and listen to what I'm about to say to you."
"You don't have to get all serious and shit, dawg--"
"Jerramy Stevens, shut the fuck up and listen to what I'm about to say to you."
"Are you packin' smoke? Do you have any bud on you, right?"
"And you've been smoking, and you're drunk."
"I'm not drunk hoe, I've been waaay drunker than this."
"You need to pull over the side of the road, you need to get the fuck out of that car and call yourself a cab. You need to do this shit right-the-fuck-away, alright? You need to hang this phone the fuck up and get yourself off the road before you lose us a lot of money, ok shithead, d'you here me?"
"Oh, shit, I'm gettin' jacked by the you-know-who."
"I got to go, Isaiah, uh, damn, sorry, dawg."
"Are you getting pulled over YOU STUPID MOTHER--"
Sure as shit, a squad car has pulled behind Steven's swerving Silverado. Officer Elwood P. Koogen and Bo Blad have stumbled upon the three point buck of law enforcement: rich, drunk and pigmented.
"Ah shit, man, I'm so unlucky, I bet, like, five banks is bein' robbed right now, but they see a young brother drivin' a nice automobile and, shit, they send the whole goddamn police force."
Stevens pulls to the side of the road and in an instant his brain reboots long dormant memory banks: He's college educated, despite his recent windfall, he's middle classed. It's a shock that cleaves through a thousand hours of auto-suggestion that's convinced him that he's a hard-ass, street wise, gang-banging sonofabitch. He threads his fingers, squeezes until pain--feels compelled, now, to peer into his rear-view mirror, seeing first, in HD, the splintered veins creeping his eyes, and then, the lightshow being put on in his honor.
A silhouette steps from the drivers side, walks through the halogen spray, begins to take on color and form as it approaches.
Officer Koogen raps lightly, officiously, on Stevens' driver side window.
"Sir, will you please step out of the car."
"Ok, officer, what's going on here, what's the problem."
"You were swerving quite a bit back there..."
Blad slams the door slightly after exiting the squad car. His wraith-like form cuts through the floodlights, a little red, now blue, glinting off a quarter-smirk.
"It's pretty late to be on the roads, don't you think?"
"Sir, have you been drinking?"
"Nah, I mean, I was at a bar, but--"
"Officer Koogen, I distinctly smell tequila on this man's breath. I never mistake the foul musk of agave and distilled violence."
"Sir, we are under the suspicion that you are driving while intoxicated, would you like to take a field sobriety test? You have the right to refuse and may take a breathalyzer, instead. If you refuse both, we will be forced to arrest you for suspicion of driving while under the influence of intoxicants. Do you understand your rights?"
"Uh, yeah, I'll take the test--uh, the field-thing, not the breathalyzer. You know I play in the NFL. You all watch the NFL? Cuz, I'm Jerramy Stevens, I'm, uh, looking for a new team right now, I'm a free agent."
Koogen stands like a dowdy cowboy statue, Blad slides a hand over his mouth covering an irrepressible grin.
"Sir we need you to walk along this white line here, in a straight line--"
"Maybe I'd sign with the Cardinals."
"We don't take kindly to threats, sir."
"Please just walk a straight line along this line here, take ten steps, turn in place and walk in a straight line back to us. Is that clear, sir?"
"Yeah, ok, I'm a pro I can walk this, uh, sh-shit, I'm a little knock-kneed, maybe, uh, can I--"
Stevens, despite his best efforts, is walking like Jimmy Buffett on a teeter-totter.
"Maybe I should, you know, say my ABCs backwards, or something."
"We don't make people say them backwards, sir, that's a common misconception."
Blad, smelling the kill:
"I see something green and leafy on your back pocket there, fella, you like the dope, you been smoking weed tonight?"
"Uh, no, yeah, you know I don't think I can do this right now, um, yeah, can I, like, not do this?"
"We'll need you to use this breathalyzer then, you understand?"
"No, I, uh, no I can't do that."
"You have the right..."