“Rex!” someone called from the other side of the door. “Are you in there? Are you decent? Please tell me you don’t have a dead hooker in there! Open this up or I’m gonna break it in! Rex! Rex!”
Okay, Rex tried to say, and no sound came out of his mouth. His lips had dried and gummed shut. Nevertheless, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was Bisciotti.
“Rex? Oh, fuck.” This last was in a lower I’m-trying-to-have-a-rational-discussion-with-Joe-Theismann voice of futility, and was followed by a thump as Bisciotti threw his shoulder against the door.
Rex got to his feet and the whole world wavered in and out of focus for a moment. He got his mouth open at last, his lips parting with a soft rip that he felt rather than heard.
“That’s okay,” he managed. “That’s okay, Steve. I’m here. I’m awake now.”
He went across the room and opened the door.
“Christ, Rex, I thought this was San Felipé all over again…”
Bisciotti broke off and stared at him, his brown eyes widening and widening until Rex thought: He’s going to run. You can’t look that way at anyone or anything and not take to your heels as soon as you get over the first shock of whatever it was.
Then Bisciotti kissed his right thumb, crossed himself, and said, “Are you gonna let me in, Rex?”
—
Bisciotti had brought better medicine than Dr. Chao’s – Chivas. He took the bottle out of his calfskin briefcase and poured them each two fingers worth. He touched the rim of his plastic motel tumbler to the rim of Rex’s.
“To the big dance,” he said. “How’s that?”
“That’s just fine. Sure hope to get back someday,” Rex said, and knocked the shot off in one big swallow. After the explosion of fire in his stomach had subsided to a glow, he excused himself and went into the bathroom. He didn’t need to use the toilet – he’d dropped a burrito-size growler an hour ago – but he thought out of respect for his visitor it was time to finally flush it down.
“What did he do to you?” Bisciotti asked. “Did he poison your locker room?”
Rex began to laugh. It was the first good laugh in a long time. He sat down in his chair again and laughed until more tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I love you, Steve,” he said when the laughter had tapered off to chuckles and a few shrill giggles. “Everyone else, including Michelle, thinks I’m crazy. Even Rob! Do you know how far gone you must be when Rob is telling you that you’ve gone off the deep end? The last time you saw me I was eighty pounds overweight and now I look like I’m trying out for the part of the scarecrow in the gritty reboot of The Wizard of Oz and the first thing out of your mouth is ‘Did he poison your locker room?’ ”
Bisciotti waved away both Rex’s half-hysterical laughter and the compliment with the same impatience. Rex thought, Ike and Mike, they think alike, Izdik and Bisciotti, too. When it comes to vengeance and counter-vengeance, they have no sense of humor.
“Well? Did he?”
“I suppose that he did. In a way, he did.”
“Like what happened in Tampa?”
“No, not exactly.”
“How much weight have you lost?”
You runna my team inna the groun’, fat man, he heard Izdik say, I never take it off you.
“How much weight, Rex?” Bisciotti repeated. His voice was calm, gentle even, but his eyes sparkled in an odd, clear way. Rex hadn’t seen a man’s eyes sparkle in quite that way since his own dad’s did, that winter afternoon after Gilbride’s chuck and duck antics against the Jets had cost the Oilers defense a pair of players, and it made Rex a little nervous.
“When this began – when I came out of the team facility in Florham Park and that bastard touched me – I weighed three hundred and fifty pounds. This morning I weighed in at two hundred and sixteen just before lunch. That’s what … a hundred and thirty-four pounds?”
“Jesus and Mary and Joseph the carpenter from Brooklyn Heights,” Bisciotti whispered, and crossed himself again. “He touched you?”
This is where he walks out – this is where they all walk out, Rex thought, and for one wild second he thought of simply lying, of making up some mad story of a MRSA outbreak. But if there had ever been a time for disguising your blitz package, it was gone now. And if Bisciotti walked, Rex would walk with him, at least as far as Bisciotti’s car. He would open the door for him, slap him on the ass, hard, and thank him very much for coming. He would do it because Bisciotti had listened when Rex called in the middle of the night, and sent his rather peculiar version of a doctor, and then come himself. But mostly he would perform those courtesies because Bisciotti’s eyes had widened like that when Rex opened the door, and he still hadn’t run away.
So you tell him the truth. He says the only things he believes is that defense wins championships, and that’s probably the truth, but you tell him the truth because that’s the only way you can ever pay back a guy like him.
He touched you? Bisciotti had asked, and although that was only a second ago it seemed much longer in Rex’s scared, confused mind. Now he said what was the hardest thing for him to say. “Not like, a Trestman or Childress touch. It was just a caress on the cheek. But he didn’t just touch me, Steve. He cursed me. And he didn’t just curse me. He cursed all of us. The whole team.”
He waited for that rather mad sparkle to die out of Bisciotti’s eyes. He waited for Bisciotti to glance at his watch, hop to his feet, and grab his briefcase. Time sure has a way of flying, doesn’t it? I’d love to stay and talk over this curse business with you, Rex, but we’ve got training camp opening up in a couple weeks, and…”
The sparkle didn’t die and Bisciotti didn’t get up. He crossed his legs, neatened the crease, brought out a package of Camel cigarettes, and lit one.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
I’ve got my fingers crossed for the beautiful irony of a cameo by Siragusa in a thing called “Thinner”, if only because he thought it was a cereal.
/great shit
The next “Thinner” will be a sermon delivered by Mike Mayock.
Bleth you.
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True Biscotti story:
Wife’s friend is getting a manicure. Manicurist looks out door. Rolls Royce comes screaming into parking lot. Parks in front of shop.
Manicurist says to wife’s friend, “Please get up right now.”
A tanned Bisciotti rolls into the salon. Sits down. Gets manicure.
Pays manicurist $500 cash.
C.R.E.A.M.
That could easily fit in the narrative.
$500 cash to us means something different; me: new microwave for the house and booze with what is left over (would not heat booze).
I don’t care how lower-class it makes me- heated sake is delicious
I’ve had warm that I like, but by far the best to me was cold (and a bit pricey) at the former Naked Sushi in Marina Del Rey. An advantage of warm sake is that YOU HAVE TO DRINK IT RIGHT NOW AT THIS TEMPERATURE OR IT TASTES LIKE SHIT. Some people would see this as a disadvantage.
Also I would stove heat sake, not microwave it.
Heated sake is intended to only be had during the winter, which, from my understanding of the Buffalo climate, is “most of the time,” so you should be good.
Yeah, but the rest of the year qualifies as “winter of discontent” so you’re pretty much good to go year-round.
Not after you’ve had ….14.
?w=1000
So is it a shoe-in or a mortal lock that the Ryan brothers refer to him as Biscotti?
No, but it’s a good description of how he looks in Reid-o-vision…
Damn you; beat me to it.
It’s such a highbrow concept; I expect this image to appear on NFLMemes within the hour.
“Excuse me, but there are already plenty of images of me on that page.”
— Joe Flacco
Here you go:
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Outtake:
Bisciotti paused to light another cigarette and then said matter-of-factly through the smoke: “I can get Ray to hit him, you know.”
“No, that won’t w-” Rex began, and then his mouth snapped closed. He’d had an image of Ray Rice getting into an elevator with Izdik and the door closing. Then suddenly he had realized that Bisciotti was speaking of a different Ray, and something much more final. “No, you can’t do that,” he finished.
Lewis or Carruth? Damn, football-playing Rays are assholes.
McDonald: Hey, I’m a terrible person too!
Great stuff.
Now I have to re read Thinner.
My second favorite Bachman book behind The Regulators which was completely badass.
I think for me it’s a three-way tie between Thinner, Rage, and The Long Walk. I still think they could make decent movies out of the latter two.
The Long Walk could be the most badass, gut wrenching movie ever.
Long Walk was awesome.
Too bad they fucked up Running Man…that could have been epic if done correctly.
I wouldn’t say they “fucked up” The Running Man (I think that movie is just so damned fun), but they certainly shouldn’t have called it “The Running Man”. It had about as much in common with the Bachman book as “The Lawnmower Man” movie did with the short story. It must be pretty sweet for Stephen King to cash the rights checks for those ones, knowing that he got paid exorbitant amounts of money for producing nothing other than a title.
Your assessment is considered: Reasonable.
I just really dug the whole tie-in between King’s Desperation and Bachman’s Regulators.
Old Stevie is never afraid to blow away the children.
Always an endearing trait in my book.
In no particular order, Thinner, The Long Walk, The Regulators for me. But then there really is no wrong answer. I just hope they don’t fuck up the Dark Tower movie.
And great work, RTD.
Man, the whole Dark Tower thing really bums me out. The Waste Lands was one of my favorite King books of all time, and put the gang in such a wonderful “how the fuck are they getting out of this one?” cliffhanger predicament, and then, well, then things just fell off the proverbial cliff.
This, this, this a million times this. I read the last three books in an increasingly cold fury at how he was fucking things up. I get it; you got hit by a car and it pissed you off and now you have a new book called ‘Insomnia’ and if I read one more word about either of those things I am going to drive up to Maine and cruise the back roads until I see you and than I am going to repeatedly run you over and no magic trumpet in this world or the next is going to save your editor-needing ass.
Haven’t read anything by King since.
You know, I hadn’t really thought about it before, and this may not be entirely true, but I don’t think I’ve read anything by King since either.
I just found out that Idris Elba is playing Roland in the Dark Tower movie.
I endorse this selection.
Yeah, I definitely have no beef with that.
Sploosh.
McConaughey as Flagg is good too – I mean, it’s got potential, so I’m cautiously optimistic.
/is worried Elba won’t be gritty enough
That’s like casting Samuel L Jackson and worrying he won’t be shouty and awesome enough.
(was going for a PFTCommenter-type “grit” joke since Elba is of a certain race…failed miserably)
No; I liked it. He also isn’t a high motor actor and takes scenes off. Potential…….. character issues.
It really bugged the hell out of me when…
[SPOILER]
King started turning every character into Flagg. Walter o’Dim – turns out that was Flagg. Marten Broadcloak? Also Flagg! That guy holding an Amoco pump like it was his penis? Sure, why not, Flagg again! The big Nazi? Ol’ Skunk Pelt Steve? Hollerin’ Ron? Each and every one of them, Flagg in disguise!
He seems to ‘street’ to play Roland…
Regulators!!!!!
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