[Late at night, Marcus Mariota walks alone through a suburban park just outside of Nashville, Tennessee. He seems to constantly be looking over his shoulder, nervously.]
Marcus: Come on… Where is he?
[The bushes rustle loudly nearby. Marcus freezes.]
???: Quack quack quack! USC: University of Spoiled Children.
Marcus: Quack quack! Stanford is for architects.
[A large figure emerges from the bushes.]
Marcus: No, I made sure of it. It’s so good to see you, Coach.
Chip: Sssh! Don’t call me that. Not yet. No one can learn of the plan.
Marcus: Right. Of course. It’s worked just like you said though! Dazzle them to start the year, get “injured” but keep playing, and then sit while the rest takes care of itself.
Chip: Yes, I heard the news yesterday morning. Excellent work, my young Franchise Quarterback. I’m sorry you have to put up with Mike as your coach in the meantime. How many times has he said “Cut the malarkey!” since then?
Marcus: I stopped counting after ten… But what about you? How will you complete your side of the plan? All I hear from the Eagles is how much they love you.
Chip: Ha! They’re such fools! I’ve ruined this team for years to come! Have you seen the contracts I’ve negotiated? The players I’ve sent packing? What sane person would ever even consider trading for Sam Bradford?! If I hadn’t seen the X-rays myself, I would swear that both he and Ryan Mathews had bones that were made of potato chips…
Marcus: Okay, but I don’t know if one losing season is going to be enough to get you fired.
Chip: Well then I’ll just trade away Riely Cooper and a high pick for DeSean Jackson, or something.
Marcus: [Gasps] Brilliant! The fans will be screaming to use you as filler at that shit-hole, Jim’s.
Chip: Yes, exactly. Now stay vigilant; there is still plenty for you to do. You have to remain the starter ahead of that Mettenberger. I can’t have an RGIII situation going on with the fans when I arrive. Play well enough to stay competitive in games, but you have to finish at or below 5 wins for the position to be open. We can always blame the defense later.
Marcus: Got it.
Chip: Finally, it is all coming into place. Next year, Marcus, the Titans are going to win the BCS Championship!
Marcus: Don’t you mean the Super Bowl…?
Chip: Yeah, sure, whatever.
[Pete Carroll sits up in his bed, screaming.]
Glena: Are you okay, honey? Did you have another 9/11 dream?
Pete: Worse… So, so much worse…
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