No fewer than ten phone cameras recorded the moment, and not one revealed anything to distinguish between what Marty Richardson did on his final shot, and what he would do on any other approach and delivery. Several videos showed up on the internet that night and in the coming days. Others were examined by the bowling league’s board in reviewing Marty’s case. Nothing conclusive.

Marty knew, of course. He was in total command of his body on the night. He had never felt so agile, so precise in movement, so hyper-aware of his musculoskeletal system. He felt as a professional dancer must feel, an elite gymnast, a martial arts expert, or at least the bowling equivalent. On the ball in question, his right wrist over-rotated just a few degrees. His thumb dropped maybe a quarter inch too far. His shoulders tilted slightly out of alignment.

His ball landed cleanly, thirty inches out from where he released it, with Marty’s trademark thud. The following thunder from sixteen pounds of rolling power sounded just about right. Still, almost instantly—certainly within the ball’s first ten feet of roll—the error became apparent. A chorus of gasps and oaths and Dwayne’s familiar groan announced failure before the ball was halfway home.

Marty backed up two or three steps in that instant. He still had his back to his teammates, his opponents, and a crowd that had gathered to witness this ultimate shot. He watched the spinning ball bite on alley boards, driving into a left hook trajectory far too early for what was needed. In the next two seconds there was a hush on the crowd, except for a woman’s voice, Tatiana’s, screaming, “What the fuck, Marty?”

All anyone could do was watch it die. The ball’s path crossed the pocket. It kept straying, rolling past the left-side pins. Marty leaned. He stuck out his butt and pushed with his hands as if he could body-English the result. The ball held on just long enough to nick the far side of the seven pin in the back corner before clunking into the gutter. Marty’s ball disappeared into the machine. One pin fell. He straightened and then stood still, taking it in.

Marty Richardson just bowled a 291 game. That gloriously marked a new personal best, but fell infinitely short of perfection, nine pins shy of the 300 score that would have put his name on the Wall of Fame at Muskrat-Vu Bowl. Yet the prospect of doing what Marty had just done, following up eleven perfect rolls with one of ineptitude, seemed so unlikely that he marveled at his moment, nonetheless. He knew several people who had bowled 300s, but he knew no one who had ever rolled a 291. He never heard or read of anybody rolling a 291. It seemed 291 might be a novel distinction, at least around here.

When he finally turned, this is what those phone cameras caught: Marty grinned and spread his hands, an expression somewhere between, “Oh well” and “Was that cool or what?” Marty had big teeth, full lips, beady brown eyes, and a shaved head. He stood like a delirious, thin, six-foot-two joker, arms spread and wrapped in a cobalt-blue-and-banana-yellow “Tofino’s Turkey Tossers” bowling shirt.

“I just bowled a 291!” Marty shouted. He thrust his gloved fist into the air walked back down the approach looking proud and cocky.

Roy Konecki of the opponents, “Ballard Construction’s Pin Pounders,” was the first to wreck the moment and change the direction of Marty’s life. “You did that on purpose,” Roy said as Marty reached the scorer’s table. “What a loser.”

Marty hesitated to confirm or deny. Why must he? he thought. He paused long enough for the whole place to flip. Finally, when Marty did try to answer, all that came out was one word: “I–” It came out like a puff of smoke. Like a confirmation.

The crowd loosed a chorus of groans. This time Marty was looking right at Tatiana when she cut through the noise by again hollering, “What the fuck, Marty?” They’d been dating. Among the things Marty loved about Tatiana was her rebellious nature, and he always figured she loved his. If anyone here could understand Marty’s need to dismiss expectations, to zag, it ought to be Tatiana, what with her Goth-black hair, numerous tattoos, and tattered fashion sense that could make even the cobalt-and-yellow bowling shirt look good. Then again, Tatiana was a lawyer who could, for occasion, turn terrifyingly serious. Marty might have mistakenly assumed her dominant world was his. She repeated, this time in her litigator voice, a closing statement, “What the fuck, Marty?”

Next came Deven Hensley, the league president, and one of only three or four bowlers in the Thursday Night Mixed Flingers league who could compete with Marty one-on-one.

“So help me, Richardson, if you did that on purpose,” Hensley said.

“What if I did, Deven?” Marty replied, finally achieving a full sentence. He considered Hensley to be a pompous bastard who sought the bowling league presidency because he assumed he was entitled. Worse, maybe he was. They never liked each other.

“Here’s what,” Hensley said with a commanding finger-point. “I’m considering suspending you, pending a league inquiry.”

“What?” Marty shouted.

“And I may refuse to sanction your game score.”

“What?”

“That would mean Tofino’s Turkey Tossers would lose the third game and the series.”

“What?” shouted Marty’s other teammates, Dwayne Murphy and BeeBee Ramirez.

“Marty! We can’t lose these games. We need these wins!” BeeBee said. She was team captain. It was her duty to defend the team.

Marty kept his attention on Hensley. “You’re being a dick, Deven,” Marty said. They approached each other.

Like Marty, Hensley was a big man. Unlike Marty, he looked like he’d been trained and buffed and styled and made up to look like a high-class model, in a bowling shirt. He had perfectly coiffed short blond hair and dimples.

“You have to give your all on every ball. It’s my duty to protect the integrity of this league, the integrity of this sport,” Hensley said.

“Oh, come on,” Marty said. “You’re just pissed because I have high game now. And high series. You’re pissed because you’ll never roll a game that good. You’re doing this to catch us in the standings. You guys got swept tonight, right?”

“It’s not about me. If you threw away a perfect game, you spit on the traditions of this sport, you spit on every member of this league who dreams of being in the position you were in,” Hensley said. “Last chance: Did you deliberately throw a one on that last ball?”

“Bite me, Deven.”

“Consider yourself suspended then,” Hensley said. “And your game-three score is zero.”

“On what grounds?”

“I’ll find something.”

Marty turned to Tatiana. “Can he do that?”

“What the fuck, Marty?”

***

Hensley emailed Marty the next day, formally notifying him that he was suspended and the game and series were lost, on the grounds of Marty having, “engaged in improper tactics or conduct in connection with the game of bowling.” Hensley cited the rule book. The league’s board of directors would make the final decision in an emergency meeting. Hensley’s cronies all, so the prospect offered no hope to Marty. Beyond that, Hensley advised, Marty still could appeal to the national bowling congress if he so wished.

BeeBee called, no doubt reacting to the CC that Hensley had sent her.

“You’re off the team,” she said. “We voted last night that if you got suspended, we were going to replace you with Tatiana’s ex, Keith Sprague.”

“Sprague? He sucks. He’s barely a one-fifty-bowler. Hold on, BeeBee. Take the absent bowler’s scores. I’ll be back. I’ll appeal to national. I’ll win.”

“No one wants to bowl with you, Marty. Anyway, Grover said to tell you he’s banned you from Muskrat-Vu Bowl. So, yeah.”

Marty called Tatiana, but she let it roll to voicemail.

“Don’t be a coward, Tatiana. Call me back and talk to me.”

She did seconds later.

“You think you can call me a coward and get me to come to your side?”

“Tatiana, this is all blown out of proportion.”

“I can’t be with a guy who pisses away a perfect game for the fun of it.”

“How do you know I did it on purpose? I never said so.”

“Now who’s the coward? Stand by what you did. Salvage the only shred of dignity you might have left.”

“Keith Sprague, seriously?”

“We’ve been talking again lately. He’s got a new truck, a Gladiator.”

“So dumping me was in the works, regardless?”

“Goodbye Marty. Lose my number, loser.”

He and BeeBee worked together at Tofino’s Fine Foods and Spirits. A shift manager, Marty was next scheduled to work on Saturday. He had to prepare for an awkward new working relationship. When he arrived Saturday morning, though, he was immediately directed to the office of General Manager Howard Jenkins. He never saw BeeBee.

“I have to let you go, Marty,” Jenkins said.

“What? Are you kidding?” Marty raised his voice. “Why?”

Jenkins was pudgy, with greasy, dyed-black hair, pencil-thin mustache, pressed white shirt, and yellow Tofino’s tie. He swiveled his computer toward Marty. A full-screen video frame showed Marty standing in front of the bowling lane, back to the camera.

“Come on, Howard. You can’t fire me for what I do in my private life. I was playing a sport, for God’s sake. I was bowling.”

“I look at that video, and you know all I see is? ‘Tofino’s Turkey Tossers’ written across the back of the latest viral buffoon. And you stood there a good ten seconds to make sure everyone could read it. You made a mockery of this company.”

“I missed my last shot. That’s all I did.”

“I got a call from a Daily News reporter trying to track you down. The whole damn world is identifying what you did with this company. Mrs. Tofino called, too. She’s furious. She said she cried when her nurse showed her the video.”

“Mrs. Tofino was furious and cried when she discovered we had gay employees handling the produce. She’s even less stable now.”

“Leave quietly and I’ll make sure you get severance.”

Leaving quietly was easier promised than done.

The Daily News reporter ambushed Marty just outside. He looked barely out of college.

“Are you stalking me?”

“It’s called a stakeout. You’re Marty Richardson, aren’t you? I’m Corky Carmichael from the Daily News.”

“Corky? Seriously? Corky? Do you have a grown-up name, or just Corky?”

“I just want to ask a couple quick questions.”

“No comment.”

“I’ll walk you to your car. You’re becoming troll food online, you know. They’re eating you alive. I’m sure you’ve got your own side to tell.”

“I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“You’re not supposed to say anything? What? You’re doing all this as part of somebody’s plan?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What you’re not saying says a lot.”

“You’re giving me too much credit. I’m not that clever.”

“You were in there for fifteen minutes, and it’s not like you came out with groceries. What happened? Did they send you home?”

“Something like that.”

“What? Did Tofino’s Fine Foods sack you? No pun intended, but what a headline: ‘Tofino’s Sacks Tainted Turkey Tosser.’”

Marty reached his Kia and opened the door. “I gotta go.”

“Take my card. Call if you decide you want to tell your side.”

Marty took his card.

It had not occurred to Marty to read comments on any of the videos until the reporter said something about trolls eating him alive. Turned out, Carmichael was right.

Marty scrolled through comments on one video, then another, and then another. He moved to social media sites where videos were being shared. He found more comments. The most common theme was utter contempt for him, offered by scores of people who didn’t know him and never would. Marty’s blood sizzled. He scrolled on. His activity evolved from a vain search for positive comments; to depressing resignation; to self-flagellation; and finally to obsessed study of the breadth and depth of internet anger and hatred.

A common opinion was that Marty was society’s ultimate outcome of woke culture: a man so weak of self-worth that he turned away when offered greatness. As usual, spelling and grammar were optional. One poster stated it this way: “This is what you get when faggets and libs have kids.” Another declared, “Pussys like this guy are killing America.” Yet another observed, “I bet he’s a communist because real American would be ashamed.” Several posts sounded like threats, though none were concrete.

Marty occasionally saw a post from someone he knew, Ryan from the league, and Karen from down the street, which hurt double. How dare they? His emotions flashed to middle-school memory of being bullied in the corridor by Gene Pope and his buddies, and, seeing, off to the side, a girl he liked in math class, Terri Tszap, laughing about it. While being shoved around and humiliated, all young Marty could think about was, Why does Terri hate me? Years later, he didn’t give a damn about the shoves and insults, nor about Gene and his buddies, who, he assumed, were all living the crappy lives that guys like them deserved. It was Terri’s cruel, inexplicable laughter that had cut deep and left a scar.

When he’d had enough, Marty felt an urge to respond. First of all, he was neither a communist nor a pussy. No one pushed him around anymore. He spent fifteen minutes composing a response to one comment. But a wiser part of Marty would not let him post. He tried a different approach, a broader response to several comments. Again, something wiser within him vetoed.

It occurred to Marty that trolls who wrote these things probably all were Gene Pope and his buddies, or people like them—all condemned, somewhere outside the internet, to live the really crappy lives they deserved. With that, his mood pivoted. He did not stop writing, though. He found his theme, his mood. He drifted from anger to amusement. His blood stopped simmering. Marty even smiled as ideas formed.

When he had something, Marty fished out the reporter’s card and called.

“Carmichael? You were so right. Can you meet me by Muskrat-Vu Bowl in an hour? Can you bring a photographer? I’ve got a story for you. And a visual.”

***

Marty put on his weddings-and-funerals suit. He went out and bought himself a bamboo tiki torch and a plastic crown. At the library, he checked out a hardback book on the United States Constitution.

The bowling center fronted a busy, five-lane road. Marty arrived early and scouted a spot off-property, on the grassy berm, with the sun in front and the Muskrat-Vu Bowl sign behind. He cut the bamboo to make the torch hand-held size. As the reporter pulled into the parking lot, Marty put on the crown, lit the torch, raised it, tucked the book into the crook of his left arm, and posed.

As Carmichael climbed the berm, Marty yelled, “No photographer?”

“We’re short-staffed Saturdays. I do double-duty.” Carmichael held up his phone. “What’s all this?”

“It occurred to me that this stopped being about bowling the moment I released the ball,” Marty said. “It’s about liberty. It’s about freedom. It’s about a man being able to do whatever the hell he wants in a country that’s supposed to love liberty. It’s about rebellion being one of the most important things under liberty. If we can’t rebel when we feel we need to, what’s the point of liberty?”

“And you’re supposed to be?”

“Mr. Rebel. Lady Liberty’s true love. Her lover.”

“Rebel as in Confederates?”

“Jesus, no. Rebel like James Dean.”

“What is that?”

Marty held the book so that Carmichael could see the cover.

“Lady Liberty holds a poem by Emma Lazarus: ‘The New Colossus,’” Carmichael said.

“Huh. Well, this makes more sense. Get a picture.”

Carmichael obliged, taking several, showing off training and skill, moving side to side, in and out, tilting Marty’s head, raising his arm higher. He checked the photos. Then he put the phone on audio recording and produced a notebook and pen.

“Why’d you do it, Marty?”

“Who cares? The important thing is what it represents. My getting a one on that last ball has divided people, and it shouldn’t have. It should be uniting. People are angry because they think I chickened out or something. Online, they called me a lot of names that mean chicken.”

“I’ve seen them, yeah.”

“Well, what I did really represents just the opposite, courage. It represents saying, ‘I don’t care what you demand of me. I’ll do what I want, and I won’t apologize for it, just so long as I don’t hurt anyone. What I did represents sticking it to the man. Rebelling against Big Bowling. Rebelling against Big Sport. We don’t have to achieve in sport. We can do it for fun.”

“Is that why you did it?”

“Again, who cares? I bowled the game of my life. I topped my old best game by thirty-five pins. I bowled my first-ever seven-hundred series. Why should Big Bowling, or Big Sport, or my former teammates, or my former league, or my former friends, or my former boss, or the whole damned internet tell me that’s not good enough? Huh?”

“So now are you rationalizing what you did?”

“Rationalizing? No. Bigger. I’m finding purpose. Meaning. What if it was a little act of rebellion against Big Bowling? Big Sport? Society’s expectations? What if it wasn’t? Does it matter?

“Look, nine more pins wouldn’t have made any difference in whether we won or lost. We won. Or we shoulda. The only one it would have made any difference to is me. What if I was making a statement, rebelling against the man? Or what if it meant a lot to me to be the only person I ever heard of who ever bowled a 291? Maybe that’s worth something. To me.

“Are we such a rigid society that if Big Bowling tells us we must do better, that we should be ashamed or something? Because I am not ashamed. And I am not a pussy.”

“Not a pussy. Sure.”

“I’m not a communist either,” Marty said, shaking his torch at Carmichael as if encouraging him to write that down.

“Look, everyone, out there. I’m talking to you. If you bowl a one on your last ball, my torch of rebellion says that’s OK. If you miss a free throw, or drop a fly ball, or don’t stick your landing, my torch of rebellion says that’s OK. You have the right to have fun, anyway. You have the right to rebel if they tell you you can’t.

“And all those people out there who say this is somehow un-American or something? Look! You are un-American! One day, my torch of rebellion will burn your anti-liberty asses to the ground. People who want other people to live their lives the way those people want people to live, instead of how those other people want to live, they will burn.”

“Wait. Which people will do what? You lost me on that one,” Carmichael asked.

“People who try to say how someone is allowed to have fun, they will burn. Burn, baby, burn! They’re all going to burn! All the haters. And then liberty and rebellion will coexist in their ashes, laughing at the fools.”

Marty pointed the torch at Muskrat-Vu Bowl as he said that. Carmichael shot another picture.

A few hours later, Carmichael’s story was up online, leading the Daily News’ website, headlined, “Bowler Says Imperfect Game a Strike for Liberty.” Beneath that was the subhead, “‘Burn, baby, burn!’ viral star warns critics.” And of course, the displayed picture was of Marty pointing his torch at the bowling alley.

That evening, Marty felt so good about what he had said, and about what the reporter had written, that he fantasized about a new direction for his life. Turning point time. Yes sirree. He was a rebel with a cause now. He needed to own that. He’d find a new job, doing something cool. Maybe in an exciting new city. New friends with adventurous spirits. New girlfriend who actually likes him. Hot new car. No. Not a car. A motorcycle. He could start right there. Trade in. He looked out the bay window at the wimpy Kia parked in the dark of his driveway. He looked just as someone ran from it and jumped into the passenger side of a white pickup truck, which sped away, roaring all eight cylinders.

Then Marty’s car exploded.

***

Marty awoke to paramedics adjusting an IV in his arm. They wheeled him away on a gurney. Outside, he saw firefighters drenching the smoldering car frame that was his Kia.

Doctors cleaned and stitched lacerations, salved burns, ran a CT scan, and performed other tests. Marty waited hours for results before the doctor could discharge him. Meanwhile, detectives interviewed Marty. They seemed as interested in the threats they suggested he had made in the newspaper story as in the fact that someone blew up his car and almost killed him.

By the time Marty ride-shared home, it was the wee hours. Police had hauled off what was left of his car. Someone had boarded up the bay window. Inside reeked of oily smoke. Mostly, he didn’t sleep, and what little sleep he got was uneasy.

Demonstrators woke him before 8 a.m. anyway.

Two groups gathered out front, clearly on opposing sides. A frizzy-blonde-haired woman in her forties, who identified herself as Sunshine Something-or-other, rang his doorbell and asked permission for her group to sit on his lawn, like a defensive line. She was with about fifteen people, highly diverse in race, ethnicity, and clothing, who carried homemade signs. One read, “The Torch of Resistance Burns Here!”, which seemed to Marty a bit tone-deaf. The other group, also of about fifteen including children, was entirely white, much better dressed and groomed, and standing on the sidewalk. Among their signs was one that read, “Stop Disobedience.” Marty didn’t get it.

Numbers he didn’t recognize called his phone incessantly. Starting the night before, he had put it on vibrate. He sent those calls to voicemail. He always checked, though.

The next call was from his landlord, so he answered.

“Charlie?”

“How are you, Marty? Are you badly hurt? Do you need anything? Can I do anything for you?”

“Thanks. No, I’ll be fine. I’ll have some interesting scars to tell people about someday. Burns sting a bit. That’s all. Oh, and my car’s gone. But I’m OK.”

“OK, good to hear. Good. Good. Listen, Marty, I’m sorry, man. I need you out.”

“Out? What do you mean out?”

“I can’t have people blowing up bombs at my properties.”

“I was the victim.”

“On ‘Fox and Friends’ this morning, they’re saying you at least brought it on yourself. They’re even saying you might have blown up your own car to make yourself a martyr.”

“That’s not true.”

“Anymore, I don’t know who to believe. Anyway, Marty, I like you, but I can’t have leftist extremists causing trouble in my houses.”

“So you’re evicting me?”

“No. An eviction could take sixty days. I want you out now. What’ll it take, Marty? I’m prepared to give you a pro-rated refund on this month’s rent, and return your full damage deposit. Considering the damage, that’s a generous deal, Marty. Take it, man. I’m telling you that as a friend.”

“Hell no, friend. File those eviction papers if you have to.”

Seconds after Marty hung up, Tatiana called.

“How are you?” she asked, for the first time ever.

“It’s been interesting. What’s up?”

“You need a lawyer, Marty.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“I wasn’t asking. I’m telling you, you need a lawyer. A friend in the prosecutor’s office tells me police are talking about charges against you.”

“What kind of charges?”

“Don’t know yet. But you’ve let this get way out of control.”

“I guess they were talking about me on Fox News this morning.”

“They’re probably talking about you on every news show. I’m surprised they haven’t been calling you.”

“Yeah. Well, I haven’t been answering my phone much. On Fox, they said I blew up my own car to be a martyr to bowling freedom, or something.”

“That’s the theory I’m hearing, too. You need me, Marty. Now listen, I want to talk to you as your lawyer, OK?”

“OK.”

“I’m talking to you as your lawyer now, OK?”

“OK.”

“OK. Stay low. Don’t draw any more attention to yourself.”

“Too late for that. There’s protesters on my front lawn.”

“What the hell? What are they protesting?”

“I haven’t figured that out. Seems to be both sides though.”

“OK, we’ll deal with it.”

“Tofino’s fired me.”

“That was bound to happen sooner or later. From what you used to tell me, you sucked at that job.”

“Grover banned me from the bowling alley.”

“Hensley screwed you. He and Grover are friends.”

“My landlord wants to evict me.”

“What for?”

“He thinks I’m a leftist extremist.”

“All right, I’ll deal with him. Maybe you should get out of there anyway, though. Do you have any place you can go to lay low? Family? A friend with a couch?”

“Not really. Why are you being so nice to me, Tatiana?”

“I’m not being nice to you. I’m arranging a defense of my client. That’s my job. It’s what I do.”

“Is your firm going to like that you’re representing me?”

“Our managing partner is the one who suggested it. He loves high-profile clients. He even told me to take you on pro-bono.”

“So this doesn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t mean shit, Marty. But don’t worry. I do my best work representing assholes.”

“Thanks, Tatiana.”

“You’re welcome. Get out of there, Marty. Don’t talk to anyone, especially the media. When the police call, refer them to me.”

After she hung up, Marty watched news vans from both Channel 2 and Channel 7 pull up to the curb. Reporters and videographers hopped out as if they were racing. They all sprinted to his door.

The doorbell rang.

“No comment!” Marty shouted.

He realized he had to go. Yet he had no place to go and no way to get there, assuming ride-share drivers would see the circus out front, say, “Oh, hell no,” and keep driving.

He called Carmichael.

“Carmichael, I need you to come get me!”

***

Marty packed a bag. He pushed a bathroom curtain back to peek out a high window. TV crews, having given up on his doorbell, were interviewing protesters. There were three crews now.

Finally, Carmichael’s car pulled up two doors down. Marty exited through the kitchen door into the carport. With dark glasses on and the bag hanging from his shoulder, he ran hard across his neighbor’s lawn. No one would catch him. By the time Marty got in, Carmichael had the car in reverse. He squealed into a driveway, turned, and gunned away.

“I was about to call you when you called me,” Carmichael said.

“I can’t talk to you.”

“What the fuck, Marty?”

“I get that a lot. Look. I just hired a lawyer. It’s gotten that crazy. She told me not to talk to the media. But I promise you. As soon as I can talk, you get exclusives. Everything, as soon as I can.”

“So what are we doing here?”

“I need a ride to the bus depot. I figure you owe me.”

“Sorry, pal. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Well then just do it to be nice. I need someone to be nice to me.”

“Those TV guys saw me drive away with you. Guarantee you, they shot it and guarantee they’ll air it. My editor will know. I have to give her something.”

“Tell her I tricked you into picking me up, and you dumped me when I wouldn’t talk. That’s just about true.”

“That’s not a screaming match I want to have. It’s a long walk from here to the bus station, Marty.” Carmichael gave Marty a look. “You look like hell. Can I write about that at least?”

“Fine,” Marty said. He sighed. “If you can make it from an unnamed source, though, not me.” Carmichael nodded. “Burns and cuts on my face, arms and chest, black eyes, thirty-some-odd stitches, bandages. Concussion. Ringing in my ears. And my car’s totaled.”

“Got it. And the lawyer thing. You hired a lawyer. I assume that means the cops are after you.”

“No comment.”

“I’ll take that as confirmation. You’ll stop me if I’m guessing wrong, right? Thanks, unnamed source.”

At the depot, Marty caught a bus toward the airport, getting off just short, where there was a cluster of hotels and restaurants. He counted on people there being from out of town, and so not likely to know anything about him. However, he didn’t factor the hotel desk clerk, a pretty, young Latina with sparkly, observant eyes and an inquisitive mind.

“You’re that bowler who got his car blown up, aren’t you?” she asked.

Marty said nothing. He took off his sunglasses so he could plead with his eyes. Her eyes turned to minding her own business. She processed his booking.

“Room 217,” she said.

Marty spent a couple hours in his room stirring his blood again. He surfed more online discussions. He had the TV on too and caught a few minutes of talking-head chatter about himself on a couple of networks.

The bombing only served to amp-up suspicion and hostility toward him. He was a mysterious troublemaker who needed to be put in his place, a deserving foil for everyone’s self-righteous anger. He was either an evil mastermind of a plot or a foolish pawn of a conspiracy. Regardless, Marty was assumed a vanguard for some sort of movement to discredit bowling integrity, good sportsmanship, a society built on shared values and expectations, American exceptionalism, all that was right, and God.

Not all hatred was directed at Marty. He had been adopted as a cause by some liberals who were convinced he was a dissenter against oppression. Rebellious bowlers demanding freedom to bowl as they pleased were not all that different from resistance activists for racial equality, women’s rights, LGBTQ+ concerns, humane treatment of animals, or environmental protection. Marty was likened to someone climbing into a redwood to protect it from saws—some sort of radical hero, now on a national scale.

Truthfully, though, Marty had never felt or acted very political, and it never occurred to him that he must associate with a side. He just accepted some things as fact, or as the right things to do, things that, in a hyper-divisive time, he supposed now, became de facto political commitments. Nonetheless, he fretted that his unsolicited allies misunderstood him as much as his critics did, and that they only managed to widen the public-opinion crevice.

Where were people who got him?

This time, Marty fought back online, Tatiana be damned. Crudely, not terribly cleverly, certainly not wisely, but in a couple dozen instances, he replied directly to trolls’ comments with his own, oaths usually, questioning individual trolls’ courage, intelligence, patriotism, or sanity, whichever seemed most appropriate.

After a couple go-rounds, Marty had had enough. He couldn’t read any more. He couldn’t write anymore. He couldn’t talk to anyone. He couldn’t relax. He couldn’t think of what to do. He couldn’t even watch TV. He went for a walk.

The hotel was off a busy road, which offered an old sidewalk built entirely too close for comfort. Rushes of wind smacked him from each passing truck, helping to harden Marty.

I regret nothing, he told himself. He bowled as he wanted. He had that right. Let the pins fall where they may. He said what he believed. He had that right. Let those pins fall where they may. If everyone else wants to disagree, well, they have that right too.

But where does that leave him? Marty tried to get back to the feeling he had the moment before his car exploded. His last thought was about buying a motorcycle. He still should, if his insurance company covers his car. If he doesn’t get arrested, he should start over somewhere. Who does he want to be?

Marty had walked about a half mile, past a gas station, fast-food restaurants, an auto-parts store and a couple of other places, when he got the feeling he was being followed. He glanced and saw three men on the sidewalk, maybe a hundred yards back. They stopped when he looked. He quickened his step. He glanced again. They paced him.

Fight or flight. On the one hand, Marty just recommitted to what he had done, and what he was doing, and the consequences. Let the pins fall where they may. Right? On the other hand, he did not relish the prospect of being gang beaten, thrown into a trunk, and then dumped in an abandoned industrial yard or a wooded swamp—which he considered plausible, given how things were going.

There were no more stores or restaurants in the next block that he might duck into, no public place where he might somehow stand his ground while reducing prospects of disabling violence. How long before they caught up with him? Marty had no idea, because he refused to turn again. He refused to run. Be ready, he told himself. Get in a punch or two. Go down swinging. His blood pounded.

And then, up ahead, just past a billboard, emerged a twenty-foot tall bowling pin, supporting a green, yellow, and blue neon sign that read, “Thunderballs Bowling Center.” To Marty, it appeared like a church steeple harkening him to refuge and salvation.

Marty was nearly home. He knew he could make it.

When he reached the entrance, he turned to the men coming his way in the middle of the parking lot. Three white guys in their thirties, short, medium, and tall, each with ball caps, beards, and bodies like bowling pins.

“Bring it, motherfuckers!” Marty yelled at them. “I’ll be inside waiting.”

***

As sliding doors whooshed, Marty dictated and sent a quick text to two recipients, Tatiana and Carmichael. It advised: “I’m about to blow it all up. At Thunderballs Bowling Center. Let the pins fall where they may.”

Florescent lighting. Scuffed hardwood floors. Cacophony of classic rock over-blaring the roar and crackle of rolling balls and scattering pins. Cold, thick air, heavy with the fragrance of scented shoe disinfectant. The scene greeted Marty as in nearly every bowling alley that had ever welcomed him. He felt safe here, strong.

He turned to see, through the doors, the ball-capped guys grouping in the parking lot. A white pickup pulled in. They chatted with the driver. He got out, no beard, no belly, but with his own ball cap. Now four, they headed for the entrance.

“Hey, look! It’s that guy who bowled a 291. He’s all over the news!”

The voice, female and screechy, came from behind. Marty turned to see several people staring at him as if he were Jeff Bridges’ The Dude character come to visit their bowling alley. He nodded. They came toward him.

“What’s going on?” asked a man with enough red hair, red beard, and bulk to be a viking.

“Got a little trouble with haters,” Marty said.

“Fuck, you say? Not in here you don’t,” said another man, black, with a hard neck, and thick, blue-framed glasses. “Read what you said about stickin’  it to the man. You said it just like it needed to be said, man.”

As the ball-capped guys cleared the second set of automatic doors, the beardless leader pointed at Marty and called to him, “You. Yeah, you.”

“Did you blow up my car?” Marty shouted back.

“I’m gonna blow you up,” replied the leader. “The fuck you get off, with all that communist crap about doing whatever you want? This is America, bub, love it or leave it. And you’re gonna leave it in a fuckin’  body bag if you don’t learn to shut the hell up.”

“Mister, I don’t think you appreciate how outnumbered you are,” said the viking-would-be. Marty turned to see that, in fact, he had drawn a crowd of maybe ten. Marty held out his palm to them. I got this.

“You’re an idiot,” Marty said to the beardless leader. “I’m no communist. And I can say anything I want. First Amendment. I spoke for every American who is sick of being told by Big Whatever what’s good or bad or what they—”

“Don’t call me an idiot! Nobody calls me an idiot. I’ll kill you if—”

They were face to face now, shouting over each other’s voices.

“—think you should be doing,” Marty continued. “All I said was anyone has the right to—”

“—call me an idiot again. You need someone to tell you what’s good or bad because you are—”

“—express himself so long as he doesn’t hurt anyone else. That’s what I thought freedom was, when you—”

“—a dangerous radical who wants to destroy what’s good about this country. You don’t know shit about freedom, not like—”

With deliberate, measured steps, like boxers daring the first punch, like choreographed dancers waiting for their cue, they rotated slowly, counterclockwise. The bearded ball-cap guys and bowlers tightened around them.

“—say to hell with what society wants from me,” Marty said. “I’ll do what I want and if anyone doesn’t get—”

“—those of us who’ve spent our whole lives trying to be productive, trying to add to this country’s greatness rather than—”

“—what I’m trying to do, well, they can do their thing if they want. But that doesn’t mean—”

“—tear it down with bullshit about not having to do your part. Quitting when you’re ahead because you don’t think—”

“—you can just try to blow up somebody’s car. And by the way, your weak-ass little bomb didn’t do shit. It was like a—”

“—doing your best is important anymore. If everyone acted like you, we’d all be speaking Canadian or something. You just… Bullshit.”

“—firecracker. Started a little fire on the seat. That’s all. I barely had enough damage to get past my $500 insurance deductible. All you did—”

“Bullshit. That’s bullshit. We saw. There wasn’t nothing left of your car—”

“—was start a little fire that got put out before it did too much damage. Hell, I’m embarrassed for you. Talk about—”

“—to even tow away. They had to lift it onto a truck, like scrap.”

“—losers!” With that, Marty stopped shouting.

So did the beardless leader.

That’s when the tall bearded guy joined in, hip-hopping his motions with points and nods, in and out, like his own dance. “That’s right, asshole. You can’t bullshit us on this. We’re not the losers. We blew the shit out of your car. We watched blow up it in the mirror. And just look at your face. We fucked you up too. Oh, yes, we did. Who’s the loser? Huh? Who’s the loser?”

Behind him, two police cars, lights flashing, stopped at the entrance. The alley manager, as he routinely did whenever trouble brewed, had summoned them early. Four officers, all accustomed to responding to scenes here, entered to find bowlers encircling Marty and the ball-capped bombers.

This time one of the phone cameras had caught more than enough. The ball-capped bombers didn’t help themselves by turning on each other as they watched police watch the video. More cops came. They took the ball-capped bombers away in handcuffs.

***

By the time Carmichael arrived, and then Tatiana, Marty was being feted in the bar by new friends, Eriksen with the red beard, Willis with the blue glasses, Gail with the screechy voice, and a couple of others. Gail was the one who had shot the decisive video. She posted it online just before she gave it to the cops.

“Two-ninety-one, huh?” Eriksen asked with a conspiratorial grin and a wink.

“Come on, I didn’t bowl it on purpose.”

“Yeah, you did,” Carmichael said. “I saw the video.”

“We all did,” Gail said.

“Swear to God. I did not want to bowl a 291. I was disappointed as hell that I only got one pin on that last ball.”

“You telling us you tried to get a strike?” Gail asked. “Seriously?”

“No. No, no, no. What I tried to do, what I tried to do, was knock down two pins. You see, the rarest game in bowling is not the 291. That’s a common misbelief. The rarest game is the 292. I was trying to clip the seven pin and get it to take out the eight pin, and only the eight pin. But I failed.”

“That’s a tough shot for anyone,” Willis said.

“I’ll get it next time,” Marty said.

To that, Tatiana said the only thing she could: “What the fuck, Marty?”

THE END

***

Scott Michael Powers is a retired newspaper journalist turned novelist and short story writer. Scott has published two novels and several short stories, most recently “Versipellis Nemora” published in May 2025. More about Scott and his work can be found on his website: www.scottmichaelpowers.com.