He became a man the day of the greatest game he ever played. Everything he ever knew about common decency and morality he learned that day in December from Alan "The Horse" Ameche; and today in the Superbowl he would earn his wings. The crowd had assembled; a crowd of America's elite. Toyata salesmen from all around the country -- orientals and even those suspected of being orientals -- stacked on the thirty yard line watching him sweat and wipe caked blood from his face. The Gallow brothers -- Ernest and Julio -- party guys who had skinned a few Mexicans and forced them to carry them on their shoulders down to the pre-game tailgate parties at the colosseum. The Pepsi and Coka Cola bottlers of America -- Coke adds life; It's the real thing -- bombarded by missiles; flying flaming matchbook covers. The waterheads from General Motors up in the top seats where they belong; getting the worst of the pollution. All sorts of weird mother****ers were at the game.
Super sunday. Dawn. My recollections of the last twelve hours are very dim. All that I know for certain is that shortly after I checked in, two third-world drug abusers dressed as hotel employees forced their way into my room; ransacked it, drank all my liquor, did all my drugs, stole my dinner. The security precautions aren't beefed up at this hotel; I'm looking for safer accomodations. It's a sad state of affairs when this reporter has to go heavily armed to breakfast
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