“IT WON’T STOP SHAKIN’ THIS TIME, TEDDY. I NEED A BREAK.”

Jack “Koz” Kozlowski slumps in a folding metal chair behind a table in the ground floor conference room of the Golden Nugget Las Vegas Hotel & Casino, pleading with his younger brother Ted. His right hand shakes violently, barely able to hold a black sharpie pen over the 8×10 photograph on the table in front of him.

In the photo, a much-younger Koz – 6’4” and a chiseled 240 – blitzes through the Cincinnati Bengals offensive line on his way to the quarterback. His eyes are fierce, his body a well-honed wrecking machine. The 1985 season. Koz made his third consecutive NFL all-pro team and led the Browns to the AFC Central division title. Seconds after the photo was snapped, he notched one of his twelve quarterback sacks for the season. He was an unstoppable force, best middle linebacker of the 1980s. Not just part of the ’80s; the entire decade.

Ted pats Jack on the shoulder and coaxes him on. “C’mon, Jacky, you just need to stick it out another hour or two. Look at all these fans lined up for you. Each of ’em is fifty bucks a pop for us. We can’t break now. C’mon, man!”

Jack shakes his head and drops his pen to the table. He looks down and stares at himself in the photo taken so many years ago. Confident. Focused. Fearless.

Back in the day.

Stevie Weinstein (of Vegas Sports Collectibles) walks up to the table. He’s not happy. “What’s goin’ on here, fellas? We have another two hours to go. I got a line of customers backed up to the fuckin’ elevator bank.” He glares at Ted. “I need to talk to you.” He turns and waves for Ted to follow him.

Jack looks down at the table. His head aches and his vision blurs.

Stevie and Ted walk to a corner of the conference room, alone and out of earshot. Stevie looks Ted in the eye. “I know he’s your brother, man, but what the fuck? We’ve been promoting this event for weeks now and you promised me four hours. That’s twenty K for you and Jack. I know you’re in deep with the gambling debt – and whatever else you’re into, not my business – and ya need the money bad. So what’s the problem?”

Ted sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know, Stevie. It’s his fuckin’ head thing, man. Been gettin’ worse lately. I’m doin’ my best with him, I really am. Can you just give us like twenty, thirty minutes? I promise no more’n that. ’Nuff time to get a couple drinks in him. It usually does the trick, steadies him out. Just give us a little halftime break then Jacky’ll be on autopilot the rest of the afternoon.”

Stevie frowns but nods reluctantly. “Okay, but thirty minutes tops.” He checks his watch. “Be back by 3:30 and that’s it, no more breaks. Jack’s gonna finish up today – as agreed – even if we gotta duct-tape that fuckin’ pen into his hand. Got it?”

Ted nods and pats Stevie on the arm. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”

Back at the table, Jack squeezes his eyes shut. His elbows are perched on the table and his head is lowered into his hands. He’s surrounded by unsigned footballs, jerseys and other sports memorabilia. Sometimes when he squeezes his eyes hard enough, it stops. But not today. Today it’s ping-pong up there in his head. Some days it’s hockey, some days bocce ball, some days pinball. But today it’s ping-pong day. Ping-pong Friday, boys and girls, how ’bout a fuckin’ popcorn? When Jack smiles, a sharp bolt of pain shoots from his mouth straight to his brain. His so-called brain. Or whatever jumbled confused mess of it is left up there.

The ping-pong ball bounces from side to side, top to bottom, front to back. Then all over the place. Sometimes it’s just hollow plastic. Sometimes it’s hard rubber. Sometimes it’s filled with lead, like a police sap banging away inside his skull. Jack can’t predict where it’ll strike or what it’ll do next. Like the Zodiac Killer. Jack chuckles and his face twists in pain.

And the noise. The fuckin’ noise. The goddamn fuckin’ noise! Sometimes just a low buzz; annoying but manageable. Like my ex-wife, Jack thinks, trying to stifle a laugh. Sometimes a crescendo like “Ride of the Valkyries,” building up speed and momentum and readying for attack, followed by an overpowering wail trying to bust through his eardrums and out of his eye sockets. To escape the purgatory inside his skull. Like steam in a kettle jacked up as hot as it can go, it builds up and up and up and then looks for an opening. A hole, a gap in the line that it can plow through like a bruising fullback. John Riggins. Jesus, that dude could deliver a hit, pack a fuckin’ wallop. Sometimes the noise can escape, sometimes it can’t. But either way, Jack has no control. All he can do is wait and hope. And hope. And wait.

It’s been getting worse. The balls get faster, the bounces get harder, the noises grow louder – sometimes deafening, consuming every inch inside his head. Sometimes he sees black spots, sometimes the entire screen goes pitch black. Sometimes just a flash, sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for what feels like eternity. Jack can’t always tell how long. But things happen during the blackouts. Hidden, concealed. By the dark stormy sky inside his head. He can’t control them. Even if he does know what they are, or can even remember them. Because he’s helpless. The great Jack Kozlowski, NFL hall-of-famer. Captain Koz, Killer Koz, The Kozerator, The Kozmanian Devil.

Completely. Fucking. Helpless.

Jack raises his head from his hands and looks around the conference room for the one person on earth who can help him, who does help him. His brother Teddy. His only family. There may be others left, maybe an older sister or a cousin or two somewhere. Jack’s not sure anymore. But Teddy’s the only one here now, with him every day. The only one who cares. And now he’s walking back toward the table. Jack tries to wave Teddy over, but can’t even raise his arm. He just sits and looks at Teddy, hoping that Teddy sees him. Teddy knows that Jack is here, right? Teddy was here before with Jack, right? Jack drops his head back into his hands while the ping-pong balls bounce harder and faster.

“Okay Jacky-boy, we’re good. Let’s take a break and get you straightened out,” Ted says with a smile when he returns to the table. “There’s a bar right around the corner. We’ll throw a few back then you’ll be good to go.” He puts his hand under Jack’s armpit to help him up. But when Jack tries to stand, he loses his balance and falls back into his chair.

“Gimme a minute, Teddy,” Jack says. “I need to clear my head. Just a minute then I’ll be good.”

Ted looks down at his watch. “Okay but then let’s hit the bar – a beer an’ a couple a’ shots’ll settle you down.” Ted looks quickly around the conference room, then turns back to Jack. “Sit tight, Jacky. I just saw some guys I know. I’ll be right back.” Ted turns and hurries over toward a group of men huddled together on the other side of the room.

Jack watches Ted leave, then turns his head toward the large double doors leading to the hotel lobby. Past the lobby is the casino floor. Jack can hear the bells and whistles and shouts and whoops and laughter. They sound familiar, like the locker room after a big win. Everyone was happy, in good spirits, knowing they had the next day off and the best reason to celebrate: a win. They partied after a loss too, but a win was tastier. Especially a home win, against a division rival like the Steelers or the Bengals. That much sweeter. Just a few hours later they’d be out on the town. Maybe kick off in Ohio City, or hit the Tremont bars. Then the Flats. Always the Flats late night, for the real action. Fagan’s, Peabody’s, Harbor Inn, Rum Runners. Head over to Shooters on the West Bank. Full of Browns fans. And girls everywhere. Up for whatever, whenever. Jack and his teammates were gods the night after a game. Any night, it didn’t really matter. Jack smiles and shakes his head. But it hurts. And makes him dizzy. So all he can do is keep his head still and hope it gets better. Just hope.

“Holy shit, is that Koz? Jack Kozlowski? Captain Koz?”

Jack looks up from the table. His vision is still blurry but it clears up when he pinches his eyes. This time it works, next time who knows. Two fortyish guys, about ten years younger than Jack, stare at him from across the table. One has a wide grin (a “shit-eating-grin” as Jack’s dad used to say) and the other is stone-faced. Both of them hold beers and wear Browns caps.

Jack manages a painful smile. “Sorry guys, I’m on a break now. You can come back in a half hour or so.”

“Holy shit, dude,” shit-eating-grin says to him. “You were my favorite Brown growin’ up. Had your jersey and everything. I still remember the AFC championship game back in ’87 when you sacked Elway twice, forced a fumble and returned a pick six. Amazing!”

Jack tries to hold his smile but he can’t. Not with the pain. Someone just won a jackpot and the winning bells blast from the casino floor straight into his head. His Jesus Fucking Goddamn Head. All he can do is clench his jaw, nod and flash a thumbs-up sign.

“Hey man,” shit-eater says to Jack. “Not sure if you have plans tonight, but we’re in town for our buddy’s bachelor party. It’ll be awesome. We rented an entire penthouse suite at the Circa. There’ll be at least fifty, maybe a hundred people. We’d love to party with you, bro. The groom is a huge Browns fan too and he’d love it. Captain Fuckin’ Koz, holy shit!” He turns to his friend. “Yo Jerry, this guy was an absolute legend on and off the field.” He turns back to Jack. “Dude, I heard you guys partied like rock stars back in the day, tore up the Flats.”

Jack forces a weak smile, fighting the pain. The fuckin’ pain. Play through the pain, Jacky-boy. “Thanks for the invite, guys, but I gotta talk to my manager. He handles my schedule. So busy I can’t even keep track of it.” Not anymore.

The guy nods and hands Jack a business card. “My cell number is on there. Just let us know if you can make it tonight. We’ll probably be kicking off around 8 pm or so.” He gives Jack a fist bump then turns to leave. But his friend Jerry continues to stare at Jack, making no move to leave. Jerry approaches the table and leans in closer, studying Jack. “You alright, man?” he asks. “You don’t look so good.” He looks down at Jack’s hand, trembling on the table. “Where’s your manager? Is he here?”

Before Jack can answer, Ted is back at the table. “Sorry boys, we’re taking a little break,” Ted says to the two guys. “Come back in twenty if you want an autograph.”

“No problem, dude, just wanted to come up and meet my all-time favorite Brown,” shitting-grin says. “You his manager?”

“Yessir”

“Well, as I told Captain Koz, we got a bachelor party tonight over at Circa – gonna be epic – and we’d love to host him as our guest of honor.”

Ted’s eyes light up and he glances over at Jack. “Well then step into my office, sir. Let’s talk business.” Ted turns away from the table and waves for the two guys to follow him. Friend Jerry glances back at Jack while they follow Ted. Friend-o Jerry.

Jack sees Ted talking to the two guys, then shake shitty-grin-eater’s hand and takes his card. Friend-o Jerry glances back at Jack, then says something that sets Ted off. Ted gets heated. Jack can’t hear what he’s saying but it doesn’t look nice. Ted turns away as Jerry looks directly at Jack and shakes his head. His eyes show concern.

Jack leans back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling. The ceiling expands and contracts, grows closer then farther away, like it’s breathing. Then the tiles begin to shuffle. It looks like a 3-D movie Jack once saw where a brick wall blew up and blasted out of the big screen. Or maybe it was a tank. Freaked out the entire theater. Jesus fuck, Jack sighs, tears welling up. Please make it stop.

A few minutes later, they’re at the bar in the middle of the casino floor. Teddy’s throwin’ the green around, buyin’ drinks and talkin’ up the bar like usual. Good ole Teddy, life a’ the party. Jack sits alone. Shot and a beer. Beer and a shot. Rinse and repeat until the pain goes away.

But it never does.

***

The stands are packed and the crowd is alive. It’s a late November game in Pittsburgh. Or maybe it’s Cincy. It might even be a home game but Jack can’t see the lake to the north. Or the tall downtown buildings to the south, looming large over Public Square and gazing down at Cleveland Municipal. Maybe it’s Miami or San Diego. Somewhere warm. Jack loved those late fall games down south, away from the bitter cold and wind and snow flurries later in the season. And the girls. Oh man, the girls. Blondes and brunettes and brunettes and blondes. Short and tall and tall and short. Tits and ass and ass and tits. Always plentiful the night after the game. The big fuckin’ game. Jack had his strange in every AFC city – Marni in Denver and Sheryl in Buffalo, or maybe it was Sheryl in Denver and Marni in Buff—. Or whatever the fuck their names were, who cares. And no shortage of booze and coke and vike and everything else they needed back then. To endure an entire NFL season. Brutal hits, battered bodies, broken bones, sprained ankles, pulled groins. Sore fuckin’ everything, all the time. So they could relieve the pain any way possible. Every way possible.

Then February. Hawaii. The Pro Bowl. Jack smiles, no pain this time. Perfect weather, beautiful beaches, best parties ever. Ozzie and Golic and Dixon and Minnifield. And of course – drumroll please – Captain Koz! Nine straight pro bowls. And Marino and Elway and Esiason and Fouts. QBs he terrorized. Opposing offenses revolved their entire game plans around Koz. Captain Koz, Killer Koz, The Kozerator, The Kozmanian Devil. All of ’em drinkin’ mai tais and pina coladas at the tiki bar on Waikiki Beach. Laughin’ and bustin’ balls about their regular season battles. Bitter enemies out to kill each other every Sunday, now the best of friends. Good ole boys bellyin’ up, knockin’ ’em back and partyin’ hard in Honolulu. Like brothers.

Back in the day.

Then it faded. First slow then fast. Until it disappeared. Guys got injured. Guys retired. Maybe you saw ’em at an annual charity event, a golf tournament. Nineteenth hole, fellas! Some guys signed on as announcers, others landed cushy front office gigs. Some guys started businesses. Car dealerships. Restaurants. Bars. Get Koz a shot and a beer on the house! Captain Koz, Killer Koz, The Koz—

Some guys even became coaches, but not the ones who crushed their heads together sixty snaps a game, sixteen games plus playoffs, every year for however long they could play. Until they couldn’t play anymore. Some of ’em made out okay. Some faded to black. Others missed the fade.

***

“Attaboy, Jacky! Great hit! That’s how you get after it!” Coach McClain’s fists hit Jack on the shoulder pads as he jogs off the field. His tackle for loss on third down just ended Bishop Canevin’s last possession; its punt team takes the field.

Jack smiles and trades high fives with his teammates now hustling over to congratulate him on the sideline. He takes a pull from a Gatorade bottle, then plops down on the bench for a few-minutes rest before he has to go back on the field with the offense. A two-way star at fullback and middle linebacker, Jack’s just a handful of games away from closing out his high school career as the best player to ever wear a Central Catholic football uniform. He’s being recruited by every school in the Big Ten and lots of others.

But for now, he just tilts his head back and smiles. And savors the smell of the field, the loud cheers from the packed stands, the cool not yet cold mid-October weather in Western PA, the feel of the freshly-trimmed grass beneath his cleats. And the game. The thrill, the suspense, both teams fighting to gain or defend territory while the clock ticks down. But what Jack loves best is the contact. The hits. The feel of his helmet and shoulder pads smashing into a running back to stifle a run, or throwing a crushing block to level a linebacker. Jack loves every second of it.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and just listens. To the sounds of a Saturday afternoon football game. Absorbing every one of them into his head, like music in his skull massaging his brain. But it doesn’t last long. Time to get back on the field. “C’mon, Jacky-boy!” his QB pulls him off the bench by a shoulder pad. “Back to work!”

Jack puts on his helmet and buckles his chinstrap. And smiles. The home crowd behind him erupts into madness as big number 44, Jack Kozlowski, takes the field.

***

Jack is jolted awake by a hard shake. Ted’s firm hand grips his shoulder.

“Just take him upstairs and clean him up,” Stevie Weinstein says to Ted. Stevie frowns and shakes his head at Jack from across the table. Somehow Jack got back to the conference room from the bar. But he doesn’t remember how.

Ted hoists Jack up with the help of a burly hotel security guard while Stevie looks down at Jack’s gray sweatpants, darkened by a wet stain in the crotch. “Jesus, Ted,” Stevie mutters. “He fuckin’ pissed himself. Please just get his ass up to the room and outta here.” He looks at Ted with a scowl. “And this is the last time, man. I’m out a lotta coin today so don’t even think a’ comin’ back.”

“What about our cut for today?” Ted asks. “Jack was signin’ everything we put in front of him for two hours straight. We get fifty a pop, that was the deal.”

Stevie laughs and shakes his head. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me, Ted. Just pick his ass up and go.” He turns and leaves.

A few minutes later, the security guard turns to Ted as they step off the elevator to walk Jack down the hall to his hotel room. “Your brother ain’t right, man. He needs help. Maybe got that concussion shit. It’s real, bro. I seen a lotta ole NFL players—”

“Thanks for helping, but I got it from here,” Ted says to the guard as he opens the door to their room.

“But I’m serious. He needs medical—”

“I heard what you said, man, but it’s not your fuckin’ problem. I’m his brother, I look out for him. You can go now.” Ted shuts the door in the guard’s face. He carries Jack into the room and sets him down on the bed, then looks at his watch and curses to himself.

***

“Holy shit! Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Is that Jack Kozlowski? Captain Koz?” A guy in a blue polo shirt walks up to the door from the inside of a loud Circa penthouse suite holding a bottle of Hennessy and a pair of shot glasses. Behind him, the suite is filled with raucous laughter and Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell” blasting from the speakers. Ted and Jack stand out in the hallway, waiting to be let in. Polo shirt’s eyes flicker and his smile fades slightly as he gives Jack the once-over. He hands a thick envelope to Ted. “Here ya go, brother. Now you two rockstars get your asses in here and join the party!” He turns his head and shouts, “Captain Koz in the house, boys!”

Jack hears the crowded suite erupt into a loud cheer as he walks in behind Ted. The noise sets off a pinball game in his head, but Jack thinks he can subdue it this time. Play through the pain, Jacky-boy. He grabs a shot of some brown-colored liquor from an outstretched hand and knocks it back with a quick flick of the wrist. He closes his eyes as the familiar warmth flows down his throat, then back up into his head. To cushion the pinballs. He raises a fist in the air and lets out a loud whoop.

And the crowd goes wild.

***

Another big win. Another great game for number 44. Coach McClain calls Jack into the coaches’ office after the game. After a hot shower, Jack is decked out in jeans and his Central Catholic football sweatshirt. McClain has a wide grin. “Penn State offer comin’ next week, Jacky-boy,” he says. “The D-coordinator himself was here for the game. Came up from State College during their bye week. They love you, Jack. You’re their number one defensive recruit.” His smile grows even wider as he gives Jack a bear hug. “Our own Jack Kozlowski in the navy blue and white, won’t that be somethin’!”

Jack and Darla leave Smitty’s party early that night. Most of the guys are still there celebrating, the keg not yet kicked but getting close. But Jack and Darla have somewhere else to go. Her parents are away for the weekend. The house is all theirs and they take full advantage of this rare opportunity. Afterward, they lie together in bed, enjoying the silence. The pleasant stress-free silence. For the first time all day.

Penn State’s only a couple of hours away, an easy weekend trip, Jack tells Darla. She’ll be a senior next year, plenty of time to visit him, especially in the spring. Darla smiles. But her eyes don’t smile; they look sad, distant. She knows. Jack and Darla, Darla and Jack. Jack in the PSU Navy Blue, Darla back in Clairton. But they’re happy now. And in love. Which is all that matters. Not worried about what happens next.

Back in the day.

***

“Dude, go ahead and take her back to the bedroom,” a whiskey-drunk voice whispers into Jack’s ear. “She wants you, bro – a roll in the hay with a living legend – Captain Fuckin’ Koz!” polo shirt beams while he hands Jack another shot. Jack sees three of him, so he smiles and raises his shot glass to the one in the middle. Sitting next to polo shirt on the other side of the sofa is the girl he talked to before. Or he thinks he talked to before. Maybe it was another girl. There’s lots of ’em here, especially now way after midnight. She parts her lips and winks at him through dark mascara. Big beautiful brown eyes. Just like Darla. She crosses her legs, making her short black skirt ride up to reveal long toned legs, while her eyes stay fixed on Jack. She smiles as Jack’s gaze soaks up her body.

But suddenly, Jack begins to spin his head around, looking for his brother. “Teddy?” he says in confusion. “I need Teddy, where is he?” He stands up from the sofa, looking desperately around the hotel suite. His vision blurs again and he squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, he just sees a mass – a multicolored blob of unsynchronized movement and noise. Is Teddy in there somewhere?

“Don’t worry about your manager, looks like he’s takin’ care of himself just fine,” polo shirt laughs and points toward a corner of the suite. Jack looks over to where polo shirt is pointing. Ted speaks quietly with a tall thin guy in a black cashmere overcoat, then hands the guy cash while the guy hands him a small plastic baggie. They fist-bump and Ted walks away toward the balcony door. With a girl. Skinny as a rail with a tat sleeve and long stringy hair. She can’t stop twitching. Some dirty skank, Jack thinks. Not like my Darla.

Jack falls back onto the sofa and lowers his head into his hands. He feels lost without Teddy. But now Darla is here for him. To console and comfort him. She leads him back toward the bedroom. But first the hot tub.

***

The same replay won’t let Jack go. It holds him captive inside his own head. It just repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats AND WON’T STOP FUCKING REPEATING! The running back breaks right and catches a pitchout, then looks for a hole to turn upfield. He finds an opening, the hole he was looking for, then pivots and accelerates. But he doesn’t see Jack tracking him, hidden behind two huge linemen, then sprinting toward the same hole from the opposite side of the line, at full speed, a perfect angle. Jack’s eyes are laser-focused, his body energizing and tensing, jacking up when he sees the oncoming crash – the imminent collision that he craves, that split second of anticipation before the euphoria of the hit. Power and exhilaration surge through Jack’s body as he readies himself. But from the corner of his eye he catches a blur, barely perceptible but enough to distract him. He turns his head just an inch or two before the other helmet crushes into his at full tilt, rocking his head back and knocking his own helmet off. The running back trips over Jack and stumbles forward for a three-yard gain. Now it’s fourth and two. The offense stays on the field. Jack struggles to stand up, but his head pounds and his vision blurs and he loses balance. He’s able to shake it off. Captain Koz, Killer Koz, The Kozerator, The Kozmanian Devil. “Go away, I’m stayin’ put!” he shouts at the trainer running toward him, who turns on a dime and sprints back to the Browns sideline at Jack’s command.

“Attaboy, Jacky!” the strong safety slaps the back of Jack’s helmet after Jack lifts it from the turf and puts it back on his head. Or maybe he calls him Koz. It doesn’t matter. Jack shakes the black spots from his vision, then growls. “Get the fuck outta my head!” The spots disappear. Jack glares at the opposing sideline with a snarl and a headshake. Not in my house. Or is it his house? Maybe it’s Cincy, or maybe Pittsburgh. Or Denver or LA or New York? Or maybe it’s Columbus or Ann Arbor or East Lansing. But it doesn’t matter ’cuz Captain Koz is ready for the next play.

Now the cities and the fields and the teammates and the coaches and the fans and the bars and the women and the beers and the shots and the lines and the needles all bleed together. With his ex-wife and his ex-kids and his ex-houses and his ex-cars and his ex-money and his ex-fucking-everything. One giant entangled mass of exes of different sizes and shapes and colors and smells and sounds. They pound out inside his skull, trying to break through, dying to break out. Jack tries to keep them inside but it’s impossible now. They want to escape, they have to escape, they need to escape. He can’t control them. But he has to do something. He needs control over something, goddamnit!

Jack sees a neck, long and tan and slender, descending into beautiful shoulder blades, perfectly symmetrical, placed on either side of a throat. Smooth. Flawless. Young. Like Jack was once. Back with Darla. He reaches his hands out toward the beauty just inches away. So close that he can grasp it.

The jumbled mass pounds out of his head through his ears and eyes and nose and mouth and—

***

“Oh my God, what did you do?” A voice, then a pause, then a shout. “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO???”

Jack looks up at the Voice, the Scream, coming from a Mouth, in the middle of a Head, attached to a Body. Now surrounded by other bodies. Some in front and some behind, some smaller, some bigger, some stand still, some move frantically. None look like Teddy. He’s gone. It’s just Jack now. Captain Koz, Killer Koz, The Kozerator, The Kozmanian Devil. In the growing crowd, fingers point in front of him. Jack looks down. He’s in the water. In a tub. The water feels good. Warm and soothing. Like the training room after practice. He’s not alone. Her eyes are big and brown and soft and beautiful. But lifeless. They stare back at him, wide open, from just below the surface of the water. Her hands float close to her neck, which is covered in dark red splotches. Bruises forming slowly. Maybe they’ll change color. Transform.

Suddenly Jack’s head is clear. No sounds, no blurs, no ping-pong, no pinball, no distractions, no disruptions. Just silence. Clarity. For the first time in a long time, Jack knows where he is and what he’s doing. And what he needs to do. He stands up and steps out of the tub onto the wet tiles of the bathroom floor. The crowd of frantic bodies is now replaced by men, in uniforms, guns drawn. Pointing at his chest. Not his head. That’s good, Jack thinks, donate this brain to a fuckin’ lab. They’re shouting something at him. He can hear but not listen. He crouches down and sees the opening. The hole. And this time it’s him charging through it. On the last play of the game. He lunges into a sprint toward the guns. Fingers press triggers. Jack hears no crowd cheer, no laughter, no music. Just his own voice. Strong and clear. Just like …

Back in the day.

***

Nate Mancuso is a Florida-based attorney, fiction writer and editor. Nate’s stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines including PULP, Disturb the Universe, Synchronized Chaos, miniMAG, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Mobius Blvd, Black Works and others. Nate’s first collection of short stories is due to be published in mid-2026.