Operation Fu/ Jam

1.) I hate to apologize for cracking jokes. Doing so leads to a vicious cycle of wicked temptation and guilt—and that is hardly a productive way to live. All these years after I wrote “Cubs Fan Wants to Waste Time Travel,” however, I'd like to amend a swipe I took at Steve Bartman—the hapless, bespectacled bystander who became the scapegoat for the Chicago Cubs after he deflected a foul ball that the left-fielder nearly caught in game 6 of the '03 NLCS.

“Bartman deserves at least a dozen vengeance wedgies,” I wrote.

While somewhat funny, that statement is not at all true. It's hyperbole. In actuality, Bartman has suffered enough—and then some. He was simply a tailor-made target for writers; he became the source of twisted inspiration for goofy Cubs fans like me. In all sincerity, he should be forgiven and treated with immense kindness from now on. In fact, that is an understatement. We should ask him for forgiveness. On that spooky night at Wrigley Field, the fallout from Bartman's mistake was a revolting display of humanity.

When I defamed Bartman, the context of the essay was that I wanted to travel back in time to prevent him from swatting away that fateful ball that was aloft in foul ground. I cited his mishap as the absolute most vital happening in history that begs to be altered and rectified. I'm still fond of that one, but I'm no longer on-board with its premise. No. It occurs to me now that it would be petty to enact Quantum Leap redemption on something as frivolous as the outcome of a baseball game.

The time has come to let go of that senseless resentment.

The same cannot be stated, though, about Shaquille O'Neal's decision to license his name and likeness to Shaq Fu rather than the NBA Jam series for the Super Nintendo.

Let me explain.

2.) As the number one overall pick in the 1992 draft, Shaquille O'Neal was drafted by the Orlando Magic. The dominant phenom quickly established himself as a premier big-man; he went on to win the Rookie of the Year award. Shaq was and remains charismatic, disarmingly goofy, and marketable, and so in no time he was fielding offers from the entertainment industry to cash in on the craze he generated. He appeared in commercials for Reebok. He starred in movies—once as a funky genie and another time as a black Robocop. He signed a record deal and dropped an album called Shaq Diesel.

And, oh yeah, circa '94, some lowlifes as Electronic Arts convinced him to fulfill the title role of one of the shittiest video games ever made.

Shaq Fu was in the one-on-one fighter genre; it was the kind of game in which the aim is to jump around a lot and punch and kick another guy until his life-meter runs out and he keels over. To my knowledge, most of the people who actually bought a copy of Shaq Fu jumped out of second-story windows upon completion of level 2. The game was maligned by everyone who bothered to care about it. All these years later, the offending cartridges dwell near the top of a steep mound of pop-culture junk.

NBA Jam, by contrast, remains a masterpiece. The vid stripped round-ball down to a two-on-two contest—a marquee duet vs. a marquee duet. NBA Jam merged the simplistic setup and permissible violence of Nintendo’s Arch Rivals with the aerial acrobatics of a coked-up superhero. The result was an addictive frenzy of give-and-gos, glass-shattering dunks, three-balls, and brutal shoves that ranks as one of the most beloved sports titles to be found on 16-bit systems.

Now, I don't intend to express contempt for Shaq. He is one of my absolute favorite NBA legends. By the time I entered junior high school, I lost track of how many times I had cheered as I watched a beastly Shaq-dunk on Sportcenter. Over a decade later in college, I howled in a rowdy fit of joy when I saw him hoist the Larry O'Brien trophy alongside of Dwayne Wade. I never cared much for his movies or his music, but I never begrudged the man for putting some effort into something other than what he was obviously born to do—which has got to be abusing and belittling chumps in the low-post while winning scoring titles and championships.

Regrettably, Shaq's likeness never abused nor belittled chumps in the low-post in either NBA Jam title for the Super Nintendo. I have never let out a rowdy fit of joy after posterizing 16-bit Karl Malone on a tomahawk slam courtesy of 16-bit Shaq. NBA Jam and Shaq are both great, nevertheless, but they don't overlap. When he signed a contract to endorse Shaq Fu, litigious sticking points too nerdy to dwell on prevented him from appearing in the console-import of NBA Jam.

I don't despise Shaq for choosing money over merit; I'm just disappointed. Like Bartman, I just have this unwavering, dumb urge to talk some sense into him—from one mistake-prone human being to another.

Another reason why I chose to obsess over Shaq for two weeks and write about him is that we were both born on March 6th. Sometimes non-famous people feel a weird kinship for celebrities who share their birthdays. I don't take horoscopes seriously, but by contrast, I get a quirky kick out of the notion that some weirdo who moonlights as a palm-reader gives Shaq and me the exact same advice on a daily basis.

Every time I glance at the astrologically based counsel foretold for Shaq and me in the newspaper, I expect to read, “Use your veteran-savvy to counteract the youth and athleticism of Dwight Howard. Also, you should probably scale back on making references to The Simpsons.”

That never happens, though, and so I regard astrology as an absurd but endearing footnote tacked on to the long list of faulty ways to make sense of the world.

Anyway, I hate to see my March 6th cohorts fuck up so wretchedly. Those lazy scientists still have plenty of work to do, but if, someday, those brainy pillow-humpers finally fulfill their potential by inventing a time machine, I would lobby to go Quantum Leap on Shaq for his role in the Fu / Jam debacle. What follows is an account of what would happen if only those lousy geeks who call themselves scientists would quit jerking off and get down to business.

Enjoy? Enjoy.

3.) At the culmination of an hour or so of research on Google and a week or two of stalking a video game developer with a creepy vice—as well as my main man Shaq—I'd determine the exact date and time that the Big Diesel entered the headquarters of Electronic Arts to ink the Godforsaken deal in question. A rough estimate of this date and time—to the clueless, hastily-guessing mind—is January 11th, 1994, at 9:15 a.m.

Before stepping inside of some sort of a dome-shaped, metal chamber with gamma rays and protons beams or some shit (just to give you a few ideas to build on, scientists), I'd have to visit a costume shop. Part of my master-plan involves dressing up like Luigi (Mario's brother). I'd buy a lighter and something that could harm people, too. I'll explain why later.

With a frenzied swirl of electrons, I materialize in a back alley of the Electronic Arts building—located in Redwood City, California. I straighten my tussled overalls and adjust my green cap before noticing a frumpy and astonished homeless man. Dumbstruck, he blinks at me repeatedly and then tosses his bottle of cheap whiskey in the air.

“I've had enough of this.”

I lunge and catch it before the glass shatters against the concrete.

“Are you crazy?” I scold. “There's plenty left in here and this is probably gonna be the highlight of your day.”

He considers my point, nods gratefully, and accepts the bottle as I hand it back.

I check my watch for confirmation of the date, year, and time—all precise.

“Not bad, scientists,” I say as I hustle alongside the EA building toward the entrance.

The lobby is stark but ornate. The floor is marble and the furniture, while sparsely placed, is lavish. The walls are decorated with framed posters of EA hits such as John Madden Football and NBA Live. I admire the scenery for a beat and then hurry past a burly security guard with watchful eyes and a shaved head. The secretary behind the desk is likewise suspicious.

“Can I help you?” she says. She poses her question with drawn-out uncertainty.

“Indeed you can, ma'am,” I say. “I'm an acquaintance of Mr. Chaz Flenderson, one of your most esteemed developers.”

“I see...” she murmurs, looking over my shoulder to lock eyes with the security guard.

“Yes. Could you be a dear and please tell him Luigi is here?”

“May I ask what your visit pertains to?”

“You may. Certainly. Only—Mr. Flenderson would prefer some discretion on the matter, and I simply can't breach his trust by giving you full disclosure, ma'am.”

The heavy clacking of the security guard's shoes resounds throughout the lobby. I picture him squeezing his holstered nightstick. As he approaches, I rub my mustache for a second—a nervous gesture that I quickly correct by letting my hands slink past my waist. I breath out, assuming the posture of a man with nothing to hide.

“Is that right...Luigi?” Her eyes roll. She exchanges haughty glances with the man poised to club me. “And do you have a last name?”


“Brothers,” I say, shrugging. “Trust me, he'll know who I am...ma'am.”

She grins wickedly and clicks her fingernails against the desk. Her hand inches closer to the phone. I don't turn my head but I know the security guard is really bearing down; his steamy breath seeps underneath my collar and my whole body wells up with beads of sweat.

“Well, one way or the other, this ought make for quite a show,” she says.

She grabs the phone and dials the extension number.

“George,” she says to the man lurking beside me, “If Mr. Flenderson wants nothing to do with this guy, I'm going to look the other way. OK?”

My head swivels to see George nod. He seems intent on crippling my retinas.

“Yes, ma'am,” he says.

I can hear a faint dial-tone, and then another.

“Politeness,” I remark to George. “That's where it's at—am I right, George? Whatever happens, just know that I say ma'am, too.”

George says nothing, but as he continues to stare, I gather that his manners have limitations.

The dial-tone ceases. A muffled voice succinctly answers the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Flenderson. There's a man in the lobby asking for you. He doesn't have an appointment. He is dressed in green overalls like Luigi and he refers to himself as such. He says you're expecting him...”

The voice reprimands the secretary. Her bemused expression turns somber; she becomes like a misbehaving beast getting whipped by its master.

“Sir, you don't have to hiss at me,” she says, flabbergasted. “Your wife and kids? What do they have to do with this?” Her glower is more wrathful than George's when her eyes meet mine. “OK...OK. I'll send him right up.”

She pump-fakes a slam of the receiver, thinks better of it, and then sets it in place with delicacy. She engulfs her elfish face in her hands. George gets the hint, exerts a let-down grunt, and backs off. I'm exhaling with so much relief that I nearly forget to breathe in. The secretary gestures toward the elevator without making a peep.

“Much obliged, ma'am,” I say.

I press the “Up” button and tap my feet anxiously as I wait. For the first time I become aware of the barely audible radio. It's a hit by Nirvana that I remember and love. Despite my better judgment and in too ominous a tone, I sing along loud enough to be heard.

“Well, I swear that I don't have a gun,” I sing. “No, I don't have a gun...”

A ding echoes throughout the lobby and I board the elevator.

Outside the window-plated lobby, a sleek limousine pulls up. The Superman logo is emblazoned on the side of the back-right door. A behemoth athlete steps out, one incredibly long leg at a time. He is dressed casually, in a black shirt and blue jeans, and is soon accompanied by another passenger from the limo—a tuxedoed man much burlier and darker than George.

Shaq lets his bodyguard lead the way. Once inside headquarters, Shaq nods respectfully to George. His pearly grin vanishes as his ears perk up; he shakes his head and struts toward the secretary.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” Shaq says with a wink. “With all due respect, it's cool if you like grunge. However, I'm kind of an important client, and while I'm here, I'd prefer to listen to something with a bit more flavor.”

He leans his 7'2” frame over the desk and presents to her a CD. In an instant the rancor I stirred in her is gone.

###

Having endured the humdrum piano twinkles of the elevator music, I step off hoping to hear Cobain's vocal-mimicking solo. No such luck. The Notorious B.I.G. has overtaken the stereo system.

“What gives?” I wonder aloud.

A lanky, pale man with thinning hair charges down the hallway to accost me.

“I could ask you the same damn thing,” Flenderson says.

He latches hold of my shoulder and roughly shepherds me into his office. He bristles with contempt and agitation as he points his finger to my forehead.

“What gives? I specifically told the agency not to send me any guys while I'm working! I never know when my wife's gonna stop by to nag my ear off. Put yourself in my shoes, numb-nuts. How would it look if she caught me with a male prostitute in my office?”

My cheeks flush and I stammer, unprepared for the most unsavory part of the mission.

“My bad. Um, afterward, I can give you some sort of a...coupon.”

“You're gonna have to do better than that, slim!” he shouts. “And you're not even tall and sculpted like the other Luigis. Christ. What do you weigh? A buck thirty-five?”

“That's a remarkable guess."

“Shut up! Do you even have a big penis?”

“Meh,” I shrug.

He stomps toward the phone atop his desk.

“That's it. I'm calling security.”

“You didn't let me finish,” I blurt out. “I was going to say, 'Meh. It's big enough.'”

He slams the receiver down. In a 180-turn of emotions, he approaches me and swats my butt.

“Great answer! Confident but nonchalant. That's what I like to see. Put a positive spin on the manorexia and I'm sold, blue eyes.”

My eyes narrow as I gaze at the carpet. I scratch my mustache.

“Um...don't think of me as...manorexic. Look at this way: I've got the... metabolism of—uh--a marathon runner?”

He clasps onto my slender jawbones and smooches my cheek. It's revolting. There is no cause for tongue when kissing someone on the cheek.

“Brilliant! Now do me a favor. Shut up and wait in my office or else I'll kill you. I've got an important meeting with a major client. Shouldn't take longer than 20 minutes, and after that, Luigi, we'll bang one out to celebrate.”

His eyes flicker with panic as the elevator chimes on our floor. He shoves me onto his leather couch, hysterically hushes me, and shuts off the light as he leaves the room.

I gather my breath and blink deliberately. I will need some time to gather my composure for the next phase of Operation Fu/Jam. A moment later, I overhear Flenderson's exuberant greeting.

“Hey, Shaq-Man! How the hell are ya?!”

Shaq's relaxed baritone is much harder to translate.

“I'm good, Mr. Flenderson. This is Rodney, my associate. Please don't touch us.”

“Won't happen again, big guy! Now, follow me to the conference room. We'll get this whole thing finalized and inked.”

“All right.”

Heavy footsteps down the hallway. A door opens then shuts.

I exhale with abounding tension, get on my knees, and sign the cross. I pray to a higher power.

“Dear Batman, please bless me with the respect you displayed for Alfred, the guidance you offered Robin, and the ass-kicking prowess you showed every time you fought the Joker. Bat signal Off.”

With newfound courage, I rise to my feet. I wriggle the handle of the glass-plated door and grin wolfishly.

“Looks like someone forgot to lock the door. Heh, heh.”

In the conference room, Shaq and Rodney lounge on plush swivel chairs. A distance of roughly 15 feet away, Flenderson rests his duff on a polished desk made of redwood. The desk is flanked by a waste basket. Figures and pie-charts are drawn on a chalkboard behind Flenderson. He thumbs over his shoulder to emphasize a selling-point.

“That graph marks last year's tally of the best-selling fighting games, gentlemen--”

Flenderson stops as his ears perk and detect a calamity of glass shattering in tandem with the manliest grunt this side of the Mississippi.

“Whoa! Did you hear that?”

“No,” Shaq replies.

“Really? 'Cause I could've sworn I heard the sound of glass br--”

Rodney bolts out of his seat.

“Hey!” he barks, his fists balled. “Your biggest client just said—in not so many words—that he didn't hear shit! Now don't argue with Shaq. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Flenderson answers, meek and belittled. He clears his throat rigorously, loosens his tie.

“As I was saying,” he continues. “With the right touches of marketing and a little bit of good fortune, I promise you this: Shaq Fu is going to outsell Mortal Kombat.”

I burst through a glass-plated door again. Transparent shards rain on the carpet as I hit the floor. Flenderson gestates wildly. Shaq and Rodney stand in unison and in a heartbeat Rodney assumes the role of Hakeem Olajuwon by boxing out Shaq. The conference room resounds with shocked profanities. I groan miserably for a second before jumping to my feet. I yank a shard from my forehead. Blood geysers out at first and then seeps steadily. I point to Flenderson.

“This man is full of bull-crap, Shaq. He's a creepy shyster. Don't believe a word he says.”

Flenderson fumes in indignation.

“Neither door was locked! Jesus. What's wrong with you?”

“Shaq Fu is going to be a commercial and critical disaster. I'm telling you: It's not worth the money, Diesel.”

“Dammit. All you male prostitutes dressed like Nintendo characters are the same. Can't even wait 'til after noon to get high.”

“I'm not a male prostitute,” I declare. “You fool! You've been duped by a struggling writer from the future.”

“A struggling writer from the--” Flenderson chokes on his own acidic spit. He reaches for the phone. “I don't buy it, kid. Let's ask George for his take on the matter.”

Rodney pounds his chest once. Twice. He looks poised to trounce me.

“Na. I got this.”

“Hold on!” Shaq bellows. A moment later he's snickering, but with a trace of compassion. An odd hint of levity overcomes the hostility in the room.

“Come on,” he gestures to me. “Now, just to review: Pale Spud Webb over here just launched himself through two panes of glass, yapping about video games and how he's from the future. He's hurt. He's bleeding. You really think he needs a beat-down? That's whack. He needs a psychiatrist.”

I nod in slow repetitions. It strikes me that—regardless of its outcome—this mission won't be a lost cause.

“Mr. O'Neal, on behalf of those afflicted with mental illness everywhere...” I begin, my voice quavering. But it soon occurs to me that expressions of sentiment are wasteful at present time. “Forget it. Thanks for buying me some time.

“Listen, Shaq: You're just embarking on the start of a career that will span until 2011. You don't think I'm from the future? Well, get a load of this: You're gonna win four championships, but none with the Magic. As a free agent, you will sign with the Lakers for oodles of cash. You're gonna think your All-star shooting-guard is an asshole and he'll think the same about you, but you'll still win trophies; Phil Jackson will make sure of that. Later on you'll dunk all over Dirk and the Mavs to earn a fourth ring alongside of D-Wade.”

“Four rings?” he says with intrigue. He snickers. “Damn. Does my free-throw shooting get any better?”

“Shit, no,” I tell him. “Anyway, all this is to say that you're a legend in the making, and mark my words, Shaq Fu is far beneath the standard of excellence that you stand for. NBA Jam is a different story, though. It is NBA Jam—not this God-awful mess that will be even worse than Clayfighter—that will do justice to your Hall of Fame legacy.”

“Hmm,” Shaq considers, deep in thought. “NBA Jam. You know I'm in the arcade version of that game, right?

My reply is petulant.

“Yeah, Shaq. I get that, but I don't own an arcade machine, and I don't know anyone who does, either. Jeez. Not everyone's a millionaire or a winner on the showcase showdown.”

“What the hell is he babbling about?” Flenderson snorts.

Shaq swivels his head to address Flenderson.

“The Price Is Right, fool.” He turns back to me. “That was a solid pop-culture reference.”

“Thanks, Big Diesel.”

“No problem, Big Imagination.”

We bump fists.

Something occurs to me.

“Wait, you've played NBA Jam on the arcade, haven't you? Come on, man, you know that game is--”

“Insanely bad-ass,” Shaq finishes my sentence.

“Well, then what's the holdup?” I plead. “You know it's gotta be one or the other. Why can't you just say no to Shaq Fu?”

“For the same reason I'm gonna sign with the Lakers in a few years. The dollar signs. Plus I'm an individual. I conquer uncharted territory. I make bold decisions. Tack on the fact that I can play the arcade version of Jam. At home. 'Cause I'm a millionaire. There's your answer.”

My rhetoric is derailed. I'm on the brink of surrender until I catch sight of Flenderson's smug and triumphant smirk.

“This guy's a total weasel, OK? And weasels swindle people. Do you really want to sign that contract without having your lawyer read it first?”

“I already did, son,” Rodney chimes in.

Flenderson and I exchange looks of surprise.

“Wait. You're a lawyer?” we ask, united by bafflement.

“My lawyer-slash-bodyguard—yes,” Shaq says. “Rodney, tell these poor skeptics the definition of habeas corpus.”

“'A writ issued to bring a person before a judge or court in order to release that motherfucker from unlawful detention or restraint,'” Rodney replies, rife with righteous swagger. “Ya racist bitches.”

He points to the contract atop the desk and barks at Flenderson.

“Your secretary faxed me that shit yesterday. Get a handle on your business, ah-ite? On behalf of my client, pending his signature, we approve.”

Shaq grins wanly, but there is a hint of sadness in his eyes as he stares at me.

“Satisfied? Can we call an ambulance for you now?”

I bury my glass-slit face in my glass-slit hands for a moment. I reach into my pocket and grab hold of my last resort.

“It's a shame it had to come to this,” I say gravely.

I start to unbutton the shoulder straps of my green overalls.

“Are you undressing?” Flenderson wonders. “What's the deal? I thought you said you weren't a male prostitute.”

I reveal dinky fireworks strapped to my sweater. They're “Black Cats,” known to sparkle and cause very mild explosions. I spark the wick with my lighter and deliver my ultimatum.

“Decision time, Shaq! Tear up that stinking contract and I'll snuff out the wick. Otherwise, we all die.”

The bluff works on Rodney, at least. He gasps, screeches, and then charges past me with a shove that nearly knocks me over.

“Get the fuck outta my way, Unabomber!” he yells. “Security! Help!”

As Rodney rushes to the stairwell, Flenderson snaps out of his terrified stupor and ducks behind his desk.

“Sweet Jesus!”

Shaq merely sucks his teeth and shakes his head with equal parts mirth and disappointment.

“Unbelievable.”

He reaches across the desktop and tears off a few inches of Scotch tape from the roll. He walks up to me. With poise that almost seems eerie, he stoops over to unfasten the string of fireworks stuck to my torso. I don't try to stop him. He doesn't burn his hand as he rolls the Black Cats into a shape that approximates a sphere. He lets out a quick yawn as he applies the tape.

From a distance of roughly 15 feet, Shaq takes aim at the waste basket.

“Three, two, one...”

With that, Shaq heaves the lit-sphere aloft. It arches poorly and plops down three feet away from his target. The wad of Black Cats thumps on the desk—atop the vile contract for Shaq Fu.

The (oddly long) wick vanishes and an instant later the fireworks flare, pop, and shriek in a pyrotechnic frenzy that is somewhat impressive and entirely noble. The contract is set ablaze. It crumbles with advancing blackness and disintegrates into smoldering ash. Our ears ring with the sound of a flat-lined pulse on a cardiograph. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Flenderson pokes his head up from underneath his desk and wafts away a cloud of smoke. He gapes at me and utters obscenities that I can't even hear.

Shaq bends his knees and bellows with tremulous joy into my ear.

“My God! You're right about NBA Jam. How could I ignore the signs?”

Shaq fishes for something in his back pocket. It's a newspaper clipping of some sort. Flenderson wipes his tears and stomps over to us, fuming and flabergasted.

“No, no, he's not right about anything!” he hollers. “He's a lunatic and he's going to jail. Listen, we'll reschedule the signing for tomorrow, print out another copy--”

“Pipe down, Weasel!” Shaq reprimands. He turns to me and reads with boisterous glee. “My horoscope for today: 'An unexpected encounter with a stranger from a different part of the space-time continuum may change your life for the better.'”

I laugh like the lunatic Flenderson thinks I am.

“That's my horoscope, too. We have the same birthday, Shaq!”

We bump fists again.

“Horoscopes?!” Flenderson snarls. "Do you really believe that nonsense?”

“Uhhh...” Shaq begins, mockingly. “Do you really think now is a good time to dis horoscopes?”

“I know, right? Those things are...totally legit,” I say to Shaq. “Who talks trash about horoscopes? What a lowlife.”

“Lowlife,” Shaq echoes, nodding his head. “Such a pithy and biting derogatory term for a bad person. I like it, but don't overuse it.”

“I won't,” I lie.

Down the hall, we can faintly hear a stern voice exclaim warnings.

“Security! Drop your weapons!”

It must be George. Flenderson curses us feebly as he escapes the conference room.

“So, how 'bout it,” Shaq says. “You got an escape plan, McFly?”

I snap my fingers and point to him, my thumb raised like a trigger.

“Back to the Future. Nice. Well, uh, the trouble is, in 2011, time travel is possible, of course, but the whole thing is in its infancy. Ideally, I should have leaped back once you made the decision to appear in NBA Jam...

“Oh, and can you do me a favor and box out the security guard before he gets in here and pummels the shit out of me?”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

With the bulk of his backside clogging the oblong opening in the door, Shaq plants his feet, spreads his wingspan, and acts as a blockade. George, Flenderson, and Rodney surge and grunt from the other side, trying in vain to make Shaq budge.

“Thanks. Like I was saying, they must still be working some kinks out of the time machine. The scientists, I mean.”

“Pffft. Scientists,” he scoffs.

“Oh, they're so lame and overrated!”

“Couldn't agree more,” Shaq says. “Also, I think someone's zapping me with a tazer gun.”

“And why do they wear those stupid, white lab-coats?” I go on.

Electrons gradually begin to swirl and flash about my body. My skin flickers like a strobe-light gaining speed as it rotates.

“Hey! Here we go. Finally.”

Another zap sounds and Shaq lets out a concise but agonized cry.

“Yup. Definitely a tazer gun. Vision blurring...knees wobbling...can't keep this up for much longer...”

“By the way, Shaq,” I say, oblivious to his pain, “Years from now, if you spot someone who looks a lot like me accidentally spying through your kitchen window...go easy on him, will ya?”

Shaq scowls at me, on the brink of collapse, but his ire is soon chased off by a magnanimous smirk.

“Oh, Big Imagination. I can't stay mad at you.”

“Ditto, Big Diesel,” I say. “Ditto.”

His legs give out and he slumps to one knee. Three men storm past him with intent to pulverize me.

No matter. I dodge the first punch when I Quantum Leap.

###

4.) Back at the laboratory, I emerge from the time machine and shove past gawking and applauding scientists. I give the finger to photographers and snub the president. I speed on the drive home and pay no mind to Stop signs. I lock the doors, crank up some Beastie Boys, and two minutes later, my 16-bit Shaq posterizes 16-bit Karl Malone. The glass shatters with the force of the dunk. I pause the game and touch the wounds on my face. They were definitely worth the trouble, I realize, and for awhile I feel the same way about everything else, too.