Deckfight Press is at it again. Out now: Everything That Dunks Must Converge by Bryan Harvey, a (free!) literary e-chapbook of complex NBA fan fiction. Stories about Blake Griffin as Houdini, Rajon Rondo as an astronaut, Hakeem as a butcher and more features on Isiah Thomas, Amare Stoudemire, Dwight Howard, Danny Granger, Bill Walton & Kareem.
Excerpt after the jump:
Dwight Howard, The Dog Walker.
To the Saturday morning coffee sipper, who happened to peek over the horizon of his or her newspaper, Dwight Howard’s body rose like a great wooden mast, and the leashes that ran out from his hands resembled the knots and grids of a ship’s riggings, as he sailed through the crosswalk.
He was in full command of his fleet. He was the captain of his ship, leading the dogs from one sidewalk to another, making the whole ordeal appear as orderly and artistic as a canine version of Abbey Road. As Dwight and his omegas reached the double yellow line, a bright red car with flames emblazoned on the side sped through the intersection, ignoring the red light, demonstrating a complete disregard for basic traffic laws, sending the dogs into wild disarray.
Barks flew out of their throats like flying fish flopping awkwardly in the air. They leapt like waves into the sides of Dwight’s legs, rocking his lifeboat-sized quadriceps, as if they were in choppy waters. Their howling eyes darted from side to side, lost at sea and surrounded by jagged fins circling in the current. The dogs ran this way and that. Lines tangled, and Dwight found himself tied down in the road; Andromeda waiting for the Kraken to breach. He needed more balance, better footwork, quicker reflexes, a third arm, but he didn’t have any of those things that a captain needs. The ship’s wheel spun out of control, and he feared all was lost.
As the light turned green, Dwight scuttled over the curb like a wounded crab, his dogs clinging to him like the frail legs of a crustacean, their fur speckled in oily dirt. He wondered if he could get them back to their owners, scrubbed clean and not barking. He began to undo the maze of leashes and noticed the grimy stain that now sat in the middle of his Bill Cosby sweater.
Walking dogs was supposed to be easy, even fun. A ruined holiday sweater and grooming costs for a dozen dogs were not Dwight’s idea of fun. In fact, these things gave him stress. He looked down the road and shook an angry fist at the red car that brought him such pain, whose license plate read CHSN-ONE, only, to the people around him, Dwight’s fist appeared comical, and they laughed from behind their newspapers, sipping coffee, critiquing things they have never done.