Eye of Ra (11 page)

Patterson leapt off of the tackling dummy with disgusted rage written all over his face as he crouched down over Hanson.

“Don’t give me that dislocated shoulder shit you little pussy,” he snarled. “Do you know how much time, energy, and money I spent to give you a shot to be on my team? Do you know how many fucking thoroughbreds I passed up for you, and this is how you repay me? Lying here pissing and moaning about your shoulder. If you had hit the fucking bag the way you were supposed to instead of half-assing it, you wouldn’t be rolling around crying like a little bitch that got a thick stiff one up the stinkhole! Now you pay me back what I spent, get your ass up, and shake it off! Get up!”

He grabbed Hanson by the front of his helmet’s facemask and attempted to wrench him to his feet. The violent act made Hanson cry out again as he released his injured right shoulder in order to use his left hand to get to his feet. He fell back down to the ground clutching his shoulder as Patterson continued to hold him by the front of his helmet. Seeing enough, the junior lineman with number ninety-five and the name Jacobson on the back of his jersey apprehensively stepped in.

“Coach you got to stop,” he half whispered his plea. “I think he really messed up his shoulder.”

Patterson gave him a wide-eyed insane look as if he wanted to kick a hole in his chest for challenging him. He came to his senses realizing that the field had gotten quiet as everyone in attendance stood watching him abuse another player. Finally, he released Hanson’s faceplate and stepped back.

“You’re done,” he said under his breath for only Hanson and those present to hear. You’ll be lucky to take the field much less suit up with my Spartan colors this season. And next season …there won’t be a next season…not for you while I’m still breathing. You two get this worthless piece of shit off my field and to the infirmary…now.”

Jacobson and the third player named McArthur sporting number forty-five gingerly helped their teammate to his feet and escorted him off the field to the team doctor.

“Everyone back to work! And get me three more bodies who
want
to be Spartans!”

A callous Patterson leapt back atop his chariot as three more players stepped up to show him their worth.

 “Laurence Danjuma, both your pulse and heart rate have spiked to a very high level.” The familiar diagnosed.

He didn’t answer as he slowly rose to his feet with trembling fists.

 “Hey familiar,” Laurence grinded his teeth, “how ‘physically upgraded’ am I?”

“Recalculation after you almost broke free from the restructuring pod estimates that your current physiology makes you thirty-five times more powerful than the most physically fit athlete on your planet,” the familiar calculated. “Your bones and muscles are at least fifteen times denser than regular humans, making you stronger and faster than …”

“That’s all I need to know,” he cut it off.

Devoid of thought or reason, Laurence made his way down to the fifteen feet concrete barrier wall that separated the spectators from the field. Placing his foot on the edge, there was no hesitation as he stepped off and dropped to the field below. Just before he impacted the ground, he coiled his legs to lessen the blow. As he hit, his feet sunk deep into the artificial grass of the field. An ominous grin formed on his face. His bones didn’t even rattle from the drop. With a low growl he took off running.

“Oh shit! We got a runner!” Yelled one of the campus guards on his handheld CB; “We got a runner!”

 The guard’s words grossly underestimated Laurence’s physical prowess as he tore up the Astroturf, sprinting at superhuman speed. One of the assistant coaches watching the feat from the sidelines did a double take on his stopwatch in disbelief at the speeds he was generating at such a short burst. Both marveling and sensing that he could go faster, Laurence leaned forward, putting his physique on overdrive, going for the kill. The three players attacking the tackling dummy all felt the hairs on the back of their necks become petrified. In unison they all looked over their shoulders and scattered, trusting their instincts to get as far away from the vicinity as possible.

“What the fuck are you all doing?” Coach Patterson roared at the players scurrying for their lives.

It was then that his ears propped up to the sound of thunder coming in his direction. As his eyes caught what caused his players to flee the area, it was unclear if he stood rooted to the top of the tackling dummy out of fear or fascination.

“What the …?”

Patterson did not have a chance to brace himself as Laurence plowed into the tackling dummy with the force of a full size diesel powered pick-up truck going nearly seventy miles per hour. The impact of the blow destroyed the center of the tackling dummy while firing the head coach several yards across the field. He hit the Astroturf, then tumbled a couple more feet to a painful halt.

Players, assistant coaches, and everyone else stood dumbfounded as Laurence effortlessly pulled himself from out of the wrecked tackling dummy and slowly walked over to where Coach Patterson landed.

“Oh god …my back …Jesus …someone help ….my back,” he moaned.

Although wracked with mind-numbing pain, he was able to sense a shadow casting over him. Agonizingly he looked up to see the powerhouse that had brutally launched him across the field.

“Who? Why?” He asked while in a near concussive daze.

Laurence slowly removed his hood revealing himself.

“Danjuma,” Patterson uttered. “They … they… said you couldn’t run again. They said …you became a junkie …”

He didn’t utter a word to him. The look on his face said it all: “You did not break me.” He slowly threw his hood back over his head and walked away, leaving Coach Patterson in agonizing pain attempting to comprehend the phenomenon that had pulverized him.

He took his time leaving the field. He wanted everyone to take a long look and for the moment to be forever etched in their memories as he left.

“May I assume there was some therapeutic reason behind that assault?” The familiar asked.

“If you’re asking if that made me feel better,” Laurence grunted. “Yeah it did. When we get out of view, take me as far away from this place as possible. I never want to come back.”

As Laurence made his way to one of the locker room exits, he was followed at a safe distance by four security guards who had witnessed him demolish both Coach Patterson and the tackling dummy. All four came to the same conclusion that they’d be no match for the human tank that had caused such havoc. They radioed for additional back up and planned to overpower him in the hallway of the locker room with a combined fifteen-man team and the advantage of a small corridor.

A flash of light put a wrench in their plan. Seconds later, the additional eleven guards came through the entrance with the same bewildered look the other four had.

“What the hell happened?” One of the guards from the field asked. “Where is he?”

“Damn if I know,” shrugged one of the guards that exited the field entrance. “All we saw was a light.”

˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

While the campus guards stood befuddled over Laurence’s disappearing act, Danjuma re-emerged out of a portal in the middle of a field in the countryside.

“Where are we?” He looked around.

“Tuscany, Italy,” the familiar answered.

“Italy? Why the hell am I in Italy?”

“Judging by your disposition and state of mind I concluded you needed a more calming environment,” it said.   

“I don’t need to be calm!” He began to pace. “That bitch finally got what he deserved! I should have stomped a hole in his chest! I should have dragged his sorry ass all up and down that field for everyone to see!”

During his pacing rant, the familiar released itself from his arm transforming into its serpent form. It watched him continue his tirade.

“I should have ripped his fucking head off and kicked that shit out of the stadium! I should have stomped on his …”

He paused, realizing the familiar was no longer on his arm.

“Hey, how come you let go of my arm?”

“Psychological analysis dictates that one needs a more physical presence when they talk about their issues,” answered the familiar. “I also do not believe you will attempt to elude me now, especially in such a remote location and your inability to speak Italian.”

“Oh,” he nodded before going back to his angry outburst. “I should have done more than just bounced him off that dummy …so that he’d remember me forever!”

“I believe your actions will remain in his memories until his mind either fails or his life force expires,” stated the familiar. “It will be the conversation of that learning institution for quite some time.”

Laurence looked down at it and nodded as he finally felt a calm wash over him. Taking a breath of Tuscan air, he allowed his eyes to drink in all of the beauty it had to offer. He strolled over to a large tree in the middle of the field and sat in the tall grass to veg out to the scenery. The familiar attentively slithered next to him and sat dormant waiting for his next command. It would be almost an hour before he uttered another word as he sat in his thoughts.

“The night I sold you to Brick Bear,” Laurence shook his head, “I stole you from my pops.”

“Although your father is also a descendant of Amun-Ra, I still do not have record…”

“You already told me that,” he sighed. “And that’s not what I was trying to say.”

“Please proceed,” returned the familiar.

“The day… you saved me,” he fought to find the words.  “I wanted to die. I got angry with you because I wanted to bleed out on that floor and just go… but you stopped that.”

“My primary order will not allow me standby and watch you come to harm or expire without …,” it began to recite.

“Can you just …shut up …be a friend and listen to me for a minute?” Laurence asked with slight frustration.

“I cannot comprehend the concept of friendship,” answered the familiar, “but I can listen and archive.”

“I never knew my mom,” he sighed, bowing his head. “She died from some blood illness when I was a baby. So all this time, it was just me and my pop. He used to be a college professor in the field of science for the University of Addis Ababa back in Ethiopia. He said due to the constant threat of civil war, he found a way to relocate her and him to the United States for better opportunities. Unfortunately, even though he had several Master’s degrees in his field, no colleges would hire him because he never got his degrees from the US.”

“Very illogical criteria,” observed the familiar, “especially if he was proficient in his field.”

“Who you telling,” Laurence snorted.

“I am telling you,” it answered.

“That was me agreeing with you.” He shook his head. “Can I continue?”

“Please continue.”

“Anyway,” he huffed. “My dad drove taxi to make ends meet. But every day when I got off from school, he’d be there to pick me up until I was old enough to walk back and forth on my own. We didn’t have much, but he’d always make sure every night from six to nine, he was home so that we could have dinner together, and to help me with my homework. And on Saturdays and Sundays when he was off, he’d either take me to a museum, or have some cool science project for us to put together.

The coolest one I remember was shooting a rocket into the air with some seltzer water and a couple of Alka-Seltzer tablets.

He used to say, ‘Wisdom is the right use of knowledge. To know is not to be wise. Many men know a great deal, and are all the greater fools for it. There is no fool so great a fool as a knowing fool. But to know how to use knowledge is to have wisdom.’”

 “That quote comes from Charles Spurgeon,” cited that familiar, “a British Particular Baptist preacher who lived from June 19, 1834 to January 31, 1892. Spurgeon remains highly influential among …”

“Don’t want a history lesson,” he glared at it.

“Continue.”

 “I used to play football, American football,” Laurence began shifting where he sat. “And I was good at it because I had the size to take defenders head on and I had sick speed. Pee-wee, high school, I played fullback, but my main talent was wide receiver.

I wasn’t some dumb jock from the streets. I was at the top of my class and received three partial academic and two athletic scholarships.  My dad taught me the importance of a good education, and I knew as good as I was, football wouldn’t be forever, and I wasn’t guaranteed to get into the NFL. I wanted to major in business finance and computer science.

Patterson came all the way from Michigan State and did everything short of blowing me to get me to play for the Spartans. He reassured me that education was a top priority and that he provided his players with a great work-life balance to both play ball and get their education. My dad wasn’t sold on it; something about Patterson just rubbed him the wrong way. But even with a partial scholarship, taking out loans, and possibly getting a campus job …it was just too expensive to go anywhere else. Michigan State would pay for my education in full, and it was less than a one-day bus ride to go see my dad.

I took my classes seriously. I was getting good grades my first two semesters. But then everything changed.