The Lord of the Dunk
Joe Swanson. Respected father, neighbor, police officer. Full-time Wheelchairman. The finest wheelchairman the country- ney, the world- has ever seen. And Joe knew it. He felt the looks of envy the fair citizens of the city of Quahog cast upon him. He gladly accepted their offers of respect as they refused to hold the door for him and never pointed to the wheelchairman ramp. Everyone knew he could do it himself. They were pushing him forward, towards the ultimate goal of self-reliance. Push him into reality, a thing Joe had long been without.
Not everyone knows that Wheelchairmen live in a world separate from the able people. Wheelchairmen can see and do things others can't. Special things. They could see stairs from miles away, smell ramps from even farther.
"Being confined to wheelchair a lot like being blind," Joe's former sensei had told him. "When you no use your legs, other senses become better."
Why his sensei had insisted on being by Joe's side during the Grinch Incident was beyond him. Jedi worked in mysterious ways. Unfortunately, a .500 round to the skull tends to end mystery with an explosive finish.
Too explosive for Joe's tastes, refined though they were. That's why he played b-ball with his son, Kevin. It was important to repress your most traumatic memories. Talking about them made you seem weak, something the prince of b-ball could not be. Joe would not be weak. He would be b-ball king, whatever it took.
"You're about to witness an offensive the likes of which haven't been seen since the American Invasion of Iraq," Joe said.
The wheelchair moved on its own, sending him left as he dribbled the beautiful orange b-ball between his hands. Kevin fell to the ground, skin scratching against the pavement of the b-ball court. Joe smelled blood. He didn't care. Like any good king, he needed a court. And this one was his.
His son was too sluggish to be a real king. Too sloppy to rule effectively. He cared more about living people than he did the court, so it was Joe's job to take it right from his greasy, bloodstained palms. Joe smiled rebelliously. He was a revolutionary, a born freedom fighter. Like those that had gotten the better of Kevin during the war. Another weakness to capitalize on.
"You don't stand a chance in my court, boy."
"It's not over yet, Dad," Kevin replied amusingly. He still thought this was a friendly game of b-ball. Such a fool.
As he continued dribbling and wheeling himself towards the hoop, Kevin tried to knock Joe to the ground. The final gasp of an ineffective regime.
Joe took the b-ball in both hands, and, with the might he mustered after years of being a police officer, slammed it down on Kevin's head. A sickening crack sounded through the neighborhood as Kevin's skull split open, exposing his delicate brain to the world. Blood welled from the deposed king's head, drooling lazily through his hair and onto the pavement.
The b-ball king smiled, taking the ball in both hands, raising it above his head, and took the shot. The b-ball sailed through the air and sunk through the net. The orange globe fell to the pavement, bounced once, twice, then came to a rest at Joe's feet.
He was king b-ball.
"OH YEAH," he shouted. "I AM THE B-BALL MASTER. ARE YOU PROUD OF ME NOW HIROHITO-SENSEI."
He pumped his arms in the air and did a sick wheelie over Kevin's warm corpse, drawing stares from his aghast neighbors. Even Peter Griffin, professional ladder thief and Fatman, was cowering. None of them mattered now. They wouldn't dare call the police. Joe, king of the bball court, was the police. They could do nothing to stop him. He was too powerful. Nothing and no one could best a man in a wheelchair.
Frodo Baggins tramped across the soft, springy grass around his home in the Shire. More than a few years had passed since Bilbo Baggin's unexpected departure, leaving Frodo the last Baggins in all the Shire. He was lonely, terribly so. His friends moved on with life at such a pace Frodo could not keep up with. They were much too busy to visit their supposed friend up in Bag-end. Not even Sam had dropped by. A shame, really. The plump Hobbit missed out on Frodo getting his ring.
Smooth, shiny, gold; it was the perfect addition to any jewelry collection. The Sackville-Bagginses would have a fit knowing he owned such a valuable item!
Perhaps I should wear it around the Shire, make them even more jealous of my fabulous wealth. Frodo thought, kicking a pebble with his right foot. Surely Bilbo would approve… If he were here…
But Gandalf gave him an explicit warning against wearing the ring, didn't he? The old man mumbled through his beard so much it was nearly impossible to understand him. If it wasn't for the raw power the wizard gained from the beard, Frodo was sure he would have shaved it off long ago.
Frodo walked back to his home, hands shoved in his pockets, grabbing for the ring. It wasn't there. He knew that, but did it anyway. It was on the mantle above the fireplace, tucked inside the envelope Bilbo originally placed it in. He had no reason for wearing this ring before… He could swear the ring was calling to him, begging for him to put it on…
But rings couldn't do that. As Frodo knew, no object in the world could. Why should they?
Frodo walked through the round door of Bag End, and snatched the envelope off of the mantle. He tore it open and snuck his dirty little index finger into the creamy envelope, digging the ring out from its white prison.
Freedom.
Frodo threw the envelope aside, molesting the ring in his palm. Would it even fit? Bilbo was a heavy Hobbit. The tub of lard never got out of bed without his customary three layer morning cake.
He needn't have worried. Like a desperate man measuring his girlfriend's hand as she slept, the ring knew the size of his stubby grease fingers. It shrunk down in his palm. When Frodo compared the ring's size to his finger, it was perfect.
"I'll show them. I'll show them all. The Bagginses are not to be messed with ever again."
The ring slipped onto Frodo's finger. In a flash of brilliant light, he was gone.
Joe took his lunch out on the veranda. Such a beautiful day to succeed. The birds sang their shrill morning song. The lizards bowed their heads in respect to the new bball king. Ants avoided Joe's home. They knew the power he held. They would not dare enter his home ever again.
It had taken far more coaxing than necessary to get Bonnie to make his lunch. They didn't have maids yet, so Bonnie had to do until then. Every queen had to pull her share when times were tough. That didn't dismiss the pain in his knuckles, though.
The plate was covered with an extravagant meat. Well, not extravagant anymore. T-bone steaks would become commonplace in this bball kingdom. A sign of things to come. A symbol of power and prestige. With its mighty sidekick, beans of assorted shapes and colors, T-bone steaks would be the gasoline of this realm. They will fuel him with the holy energy required to play bball, to rise where others fall.
He dug in, sinking his teeth into the meat. It was far too tough for his tastes. Well-done. He would have to teach Bonnie how to cook steak properly. Perfection is required in the kingdom of Joe.
Not allowing the beans to go to waste, he ate them all, then placed the steak on the ground.
"Come to me, dear subjects. This is a feast for rich and poor alike. Your king loves you. So long as you remain loyal and sure of mind, you shall find a place here in my kingdom."
Animals came from every direction. Birds, lizards, ants, skinks, skunks, cats, dogs. They all flocked to the steak. It was quite a sight to behold. Joe never knew his kingdom was so diverse. That could present trouble later on. If his mandatory police training had taught him anything: minorities were nothing but trouble. Best to put them down soon, lest they grow half a mind like those Black Lives Matter people.
"My liege," a small orange bird said as it approached, bowing to him as it landed.
"Speak, bird. I shall hear your word."
"Yes, lord." The bird took a deep breath before continuing. "There is a tiny baby man approaching from the southeast. He seeks to undermine your rightful place as king through his mad ravings."
A baby man? Undermine the Joe Swanson? King of bball? He needed to resolve this quickly. Make sure none of his subjects heard the bird's word. Thankfully, the bird flew away without spreading word. Small miracles from the most loyal of subjects.
Joe pulled his Glock from his jock strap. The weapon of a policeman. Not one of a king. It would have to do. He'd killed many a man with this weapon, but he hoped to forget such things to his past. Eduardo would have been proud…
No time to dwell on that. He needed to act to keep his throne. He wheeled off of his porch and into the yard, his hands brushing past stray blades of grass that had grown too long. If he were a weaker man, the grass would prove an obstacle to unimpaired wheelchairman movement. But not to Joe. He had the strength of four Indian elephant riders. And much like an elephant rider, he could ride through the grass like an elephant through the armies of Alexander.
Joe refocused. The smallest things could distract him. Such a silly goose he was! He switched the safety off of his Glock, his index finger lingering about the trigger. He was going to bleed this tiny baby man dry with this gun if he had to. No one undermines his throne. He was god-
Something popped out of a nearby bush. Joe spun on it, gun ready to fire, but hesitated. It was a mere boy. Dark, curly hair worn down to his shoulders, a stout body, a face that had never seen hair. Yes, this was just a boy. Perhaps the tiny baby man the bird had mentioned? He wore the clothes of an Amishman. Peculiar.
"Who are you, trespasser? You step upon lands mean for the bball king and his subjects. I do not know you," Joe said. That boy's feet were awfully hairy. Unusual. No boy had such hairy feet.
"I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire, a Hobbit" the boy replied, in a deep voice. This was no boy. But a man. Well, a half-man. "I come by accident. I mean not to intrude upon your lands sire, I simply wish free passage. Perhaps some help as well. I have never seen such a whimsical building before." He looked over at Joe's house. Whimsical? This was the palace of the bball king! And what was that of this Shire place? There was no place called the Shire in this world. An extraterrestrial then?
"You are in Quahog, Rhode Island, half-man. You currently stand on the land of the bball king."
The halfman's expression melted to gloom at this.
"And who might this bball king be?I would very much like to gain his favor. Perhaps he would know how to return me home.
Why this ignorant fool. Joe thought. Not only does he not know how to go home, he doesn't know the king of bball.
"I am the king of bball, greatest wheelchairman and bballman in the world," Joe replied.
Looking Frodo over, Joe placed his hand on his massive cleft chin in thought. The Hobbit looked to be good slave stock. A challenge might be in order. According to bball law 11.492, one could only be forced into slavery after losing a match.
"Mr. Frodo, I do know your ailment. I may be able to help you on your way, but the bball king does nothing without a price. I require a test of your abilities."
The Hobbit looked at him, eyes full of hope. "Really?"
"Yes. But we must battle on the grandest of battlefields: the bball court."
Joe gestured, and Frodo gasped. The court was a gorgeous sight to the uninitiated. Even Joe was impressed when he first laid eyes on it, though the novelty had since worn off. Beautiful oak wood splayed across the bball king's backyard, painted with intricate strokes of red and white paint to denote the out-of-bounds and three-point lines. And the hoops. Oh the hoops. Never in the history of mankind had such hoops been built. Intricately carved steel supported the plastic, hollow hoops that adorned each end of the court. Such beauty. Such color. Bob Ross couldn't have hoped for a more colorful palette from which to work from. If only he could see it now.
The two adversaries strolled over, feet and wheels touching the hardwood simultaneously. It was here the great battles for Earth were truly fought. Not in the mighty sand wastes of Iraq, or the expansive plains of Europe, but here. The bball king's court.
"Mr. Frodo of the Shire, I wish to place upon you the terms and conditions of our duel. In this wager I would graciously surrender my knowledge of interdimensional travel were I to lose. Merely a formality. I know I shan't. I would have you swear fealty to me, the king of bball. You shall serve in peace or war, in living or dying. From your defeat on, until death take thee."
The Hobbit placed his hand on his chin, thoughtlessly molesting the large, bulbous, leaking wart on the corner of his lip. He clearly didn't like the idea of having to swear fealty to the bball crown, but with no other options to get home, how could he refuse?
"Fine," Frodo said, " I accept. My dream of returning home to a beautiful Shire rest in your meaty palms, king of bball."
"Very good," Joe replied. He scooped nearby bball into his regal fist, and bounced it off the wood, getting a feel for it. It had been far too long since the last he played. Thirty minutes was a large gap. The Hobbit might have the advantage after all.
"You understand the rules of the game, Mr. Frodo? This must be a game even you in the Shire play, yes?"
"We do indeed. It is a sport of skill and honor, much as it is here," the Hobbit replied.
"Good. I will have you know, however, that we here in Quahog play to five points. The first person to reach such a lofty score is the victor this day. I wish you luck, though you must know it serves only the truest of bball players: me."
"Very well."
The two retreated to separate ends of the court. As per tradition, the one who challenges receives the ball first, and Joe was more than eager to start the game.
"Prepare yourself, little man, for I shall execute a move straight out of the Art of War, 'burn soldiers in their camp.'" Joe burned rubber, moving with a speed never thought possible by a wheelchairman. The look on Frodo's face was enough to confirm Joe's true speed: fast. The Hobbit's defense wasn't enough against the speed of the bball king. Too slow. Much like Kevin.
Joe knocked the small man to the floor, wheeling as fast as he could to the basket before sinking one well placed shot. A satisfying swish rang out across the neighborhood. Two points for the bball king. His neighbors poured out of their homes at the sound. They knew to come watch and cheer on their king. They were good subjects.
With a grunt, the Hobbit picked himself up off the ground, his arm dripping blood.
"This will not go unpunished, bball king," he said, icy blue eyes locking with Joe's. Joe rolled his eyes in amusement and passed him the bball. He caught it in one hand. This halfman was much more skilled than he let on. Only those with a power level of one-thousand or more could execute such feats. Joe was still far ahead of him of course.
No need to worry. You are the king of bball for a reason. Joe thought, taking up a defensive position around his hoop.
Frodo bounced the ball twice between his chimney-sweeper hands. It was comically large compared to him. Do Hobbits play with smaller balls in this 'Shire' Frodo had spoken of? A humorous thought. How could you not play with balls this size?
Running forward, the halfman dribbled the ball between both his hands, crossing the court in mere seconds. Speedy for one without a wheelchair.
Staying near the hoop is the best defense, Joe though.
But Frodo did not stray near. He stopped at the three-point line, bouncing the ball over and over again. Taunting the bball king. Why that insolent Hobbit! How dare he offend Joe Swanson in such a manner.
Joe wheeled towards Frodo, calloused hands violently gripping the slippery rubber of his wheelchair's wheels. It felt like they were going to pop in his grip like a mouse's body between a bench vice. Fortunately, they did not. Unfortunately, the halfman managed to squeeze out a shot.
The ball soared through the air, sun shining off of it as it went straight down through the hoop. 3 points. 3 whole points to a man smaller than Joe. A man less regal than him. His blood boiled. His breathing grew heavy and fast.
It was time for a smackdown.
Joe slammed the big red button on the right armrest of his wheelchair. An enormous booster engine sprung from the chair, flames erupting from within. His stomach lurched as he barreled towards Frodo at the speed of sound, a grin on his face. The little man was clutching his ears at the deafening sound the machine made, leaving him wide open. Joe threw the orange bball at him, bouncing it off the Hobbit's head. It came right back to the king of bball, like a boomerang or a man whose family you've taken hostage. Joe snatched it out of the air with his hamburger hands.
Frodo was lying in a heap on the ground as Joe passed, a small pool of blood forming around him. He was still alive, breathing heavily, but the wound looked much worse than it probably was. That should teach him not to be so defiant in the face of monarchal dominance. The king of bball always wins bball matches.
With the skill bestowed upon him by the bball gods, Joe threw the ball up against the backboard. It bounced off, flying round and round the rim like a satanic merry-go-round. Except Lucifer wasn't starring in this horse race. All the ball needed was devotion to Joe Swanson, bball king, to enter the succulent hole that was the cloth hoop of baskets. Two more points. Four points for the bball king, three for the offensive little man. One more and Joe acquires a new slave. Lovely thoughts.
Lovely thoughts indeed.
Frodo Baggins was slow to rise, nose throbbing and arm searing with pain. Blood poured from both. This bball king had delivered one dastardly beatdown. And boy did it smart.
Time for payback.
Frodo reached into the deepest, darkest parts of his mind. Past the collection choking fetish videos clogging the frontal lobe. Past the memories of mom and dad violently skinning a live gecko. And even past the Frodo's deepest, most heinous desire of all: marrying Sam. His dearest friend and companion. The heart of the one ring.
But that wasn't important now. Frodo grabbed the bit of Hobbit law he retained from community college, ripping them free of his mind. In one meaty paw he clutched a piece of blood crusted parchment. Frodo wiped the brain matter away, and read aloud to the bball king.
"Those who harm their fellows shall be harmed thrice as hard," he declared. His majesty stared down at Frodo. That condescending, evil stare. It was time to wipe it away.
Joe bounced the ball to him. Frodo caught it in both hands, dropping the parchment to the wooden planks of the court.
Once the bball king was in position, he rushed the deformed man. Faster than he had ever been before. More nimble than a thimble. More powerful than Gandalf the Grey. He was one with the bball, and it was one with him.
Frodo smacked the big man's legs with the ball, pushing him back towards the hoop.
"Your attacks on my legs do nothing. It certainly won't stop me from winning Shireling. One wrong move and it's all over for you."
"I know," Frodo replied resiliently. Heroically.
He caught the ball again, and threw it into the king's head, forcing him back even more. Underneath the hoop. It was time to execute his master plan.
Summoning all the power he could muster, Frodo jumped towards the hoop, flipping and twisting in the air. The world around him faded. It was just him, the ball, and the hoop. Then he brought the ball down through the hoop.
And the world returned with an ear-rupturing snap. The rim broke, Frodo's strength too much for the suddenly frail piece of metal. The sound shattered the backboard, raining fragments of glass down onto Joe and Frodo as he fell towards the king, smashing the orange ball into Joe's skull.
A crack rang out across the bball king's land as his skull split open. Blood spewed from the popped pimple that was his head. The look of surprise on the wheelchairman's as Frodo revealed his ultimate power move was almost enough to satisfy Frodo's quest for vengeance. Almost.
He followed through, forcing the ball through Joe's head and into his neck, where it finally came to rest. What remained of his brain matter fell out of his former head like a melting leper. Blood coated the surrounding area, Frodo's own clothing stained with the tangy red liquid. Brain and bone alike painted the court like a five-year old's brilliant mind expressing itself upon a piece of paper.
Frodo stumbled backward, dripping with Joe's scarlet ichor. He'd done it. He'd beaten the bball king at his own game. And killed the one man who knew the way back to the Shire. But the sense of accomplishment and pride could not be ignored. It pushed him to say something. Something grand. Something inspirational. Something that historians would look back on and say, "Wow. This Hobbit was pretty fuCKIN' COOL."
He sucked in a sweet breath of Quahog air. He regarded his fallen foe, turned towards the small crowd of wacky, lovable characters that had gathered during the duel.
And he spoke.
"Joe Swanson just got FUCKING DUNKED ON."
fin