But I've got some good news. Right after the news about Bin Laden came out and I sorted through my feelings (I've always had a very complicated relationship with that man, even before 9/11), I set to work on a couple fan fiction novels. The premise of them all is, what would it have been like if instead of a special ops team, the assassination mission was conducted by a sports team?
I'm working on three different versions. The first involves the Duke basketball team, the second involves the Yankees, and the third involves the Boston Celtics. I can't show you guys the finished products yet, especially since I'm having a lot of problems with the details- where is Pakistan, anyway? South America?- but I can re-print the excerpt from all three where Osama finally gets taken down.
Let's check them out.
"Los Americanos!" the terrorist yelled, falling through the door to Osama Bin Laden's secret room in the back of the compound.
It would be the last words he ever spoke. As he sunk to the ground, Bin Laden saw the axe sticking out from his back. Soon, a horde of blue-clad men stormed into the room. Each of them held a machine gun, except for Seth Curry, who was trying to take the axe out of the terrorist's back.
"I told you this would come in handy," said Curry, wiping the blood off the blade.
"You could have done the same exact thing with a gun," said Kyle Singler, clearly annoyed.
"Yeah, but did you see his face when he saw the axe?" asked Curry. "Actually, it's probably pretty similar to his face right now. Hold on." Curry flipped the body over. "Oh, no. Now it looks like he's sleeping. Give me one second." He opened the terrorist's eyes and tried to open his mouth, but the jaw was clamped tight. "Forget it. But you'll have to trust me, it was awesome."
At the back of the room, Bin Laden coughed. Everyone looked up. This was the moment they'd been waiting for. It was the reason they camped out in the hills of Pakistan for weeks, training with the gauchos and camping on the Amazon.
"I am at peace with my God!" Bin Laden shouted. "Do what you will!"
Mason Plumlee narrowed his eyes. "I've got this, guys. I've got this."
He moved forward, closing to within three feet of Bin Laden. As the terrorist mumbled a prayer, Plumlee opened fire with his Heckler & Koch MP5 machine gun. The bullets rattled through the carbine, and the firing continued for two minutes before the ammunition was spent. When he was finished, a deep silence settled through the room.
"Wow," said Bin Laden. "Wow. I did not expect to be alive right now. Wow."
"You have GOT to be kidding me," said Coach K. "Seriously, Mason? Seriously?!"
"I'm not even hit," said Bin Laden. "I'm literally not hit with a single bullet. Is this a miracle?"
Behind them, Andre Dawkins began groaning. "You shot my foot, you bastard!"
"It must have been a ricochet," Mason stammered.
"But probably not," said Ryan Kelly, earning chuckles from his teammates.
"I, uh," Mason began. "I just need a few more bullets!"
"No way," said Coach K. "Nolan, finish the job."
"Done and done," said Nolan. He stepped forward and fired a single short burst from his machine gun. "That should do the trick."
Mason Plumlee's large form toppled to the ground.
"Oh my fucking God!" said Coach K. "You killed Mason! Nolan, you killed Mason!"
"Isn't that what you meant?" Nolan asked.
Coach K looked away, his face sheepish. "Yes," he quietly admitted. Andre Dawkins laughed, and soon everyone was laughing. "But come on, take care of the problem. This isn't the time for jokes."
"Fine," Nolan said. Another short burst followed from the Heckler & Koch.
Miles Plumlee's body slumped to the floor.
"Nolan!" Coach K yelled, trying hard to keep his laughter contained. "Come on, man!" The rest of the players were breaking up, and in the corner Bin Laden was still amazed to be alive.
"I don't think I can be killed!" he yelled, his body shaking with excitement. "It's a miracle. I'm divinely protected!"
"You're right. You can't be killed," said Seth Curry. He paused dramatically. "By a gun."
Osama's expression turned to surprise just before the axe split his forehead. He fell forward, his mouth ajar and his eyes wide open in shock.
"Oh my GOD!" Curry yelled, turning to his teammates. "You guys saw his expression that time, right!? Tell me you didn't miss that! Holy shit, that was awesome!"
"That was pretty cool," Singler admitted.
"Los Gringos Yanquis!" the terrorist yelled, falling through the door to Osama Bin Laden's secret room in the back of the compound.
It would be the last words he ever spoke. As he sunk to the ground, Bin Laden saw CC Sabathia riding the terrorist's back to the ground, strangling him with a hemp necklace he stole from Josh Beckett. Soon, a horde of men in pinstripes stormed into the room. Each of them held a machine gun, except for Joba Chamberlain, who held a half-eaten burrito.
"I still don't understand how that's a weapon," Girardi said to him. "Is it a poisonous tortilla, or something?"
"God, I hope not," said Chamberlain, taking another large bite.
At the back of the room, Bin Laden coughed. Everyone looked up. This was the moment they'd been waiting for. It was the reason they'd trained for weeks in Pakistan, learning the ways of los campos and earning extra pesos by leading donkeys in circles around a well.
"I am at peace with my God!" Bin Laden shouted. "Do what you will!"
Derek Jeter stepped forward. "Now shooting," he began. "Number two, Derek Jeter." He unloaded the entire magazine of his Heckler & Koch, spraying the bullets toward the terrorist. When the noise settled, his lips settled into a grin. "Number two."
"Every single one of those bullets hit the ground first," Girardi said, stunned. "I mean, every single one."
"Don't look at me," said hitting coach Kevin Long. "He ignored my suggestions for holding the gun."
"Hey," said Jeter. "It got the job done. Look at his shins."
Bin Laden was writhing on the ground, holding his shins where the bullets had ricocheted off the floor. "Holy fuck, this is so painful," he screamed. "I seriously have not felt pain this bad in my entire life, and I've spent like a decade with serious liver problems."
A dumb, guttural giggle came from the back of the room. "There's beef in this burrito," said Chamberlain. "Aren't they not supposed to eat beef? Muslims? Let's make him eat beef, guys."
He walked forward with the burrito and stuffed it in Bin Laden's mouth. The terrorist screamed, but he had no choice but to swallow.
"I mean, I hate Bin Laden and everything," said A-Rod. "But that is seriously a dick move, Joba."
The rest of the team murmured their agreement.
"You are a legitimate douche," said Teixeira.
"Whatever," said Joba, tugging his pants up. "I wasn't finished anyway." He grabbed the burrito from Bin Laden's mouth and took a huge bite.
The team groaned in disgust. "Fuck, that is gross, man," said Robinson Cano.
"Can't be grosser than drinking water in the Dominican Republic," Chamberlain shot back.
"Wow, what an asshole," said Burnett.
On the ground, Bin Laden gasped in pain and held his shins as bits of beef fell from his mouth.
"Los de Boston!" the terrorist yelled, falling through the door to Osama Bin Laden's secret room in the back of the compound.
It would be the last words he ever spoke. As he sunk to the ground, Bin Laden saw Paul Pierce sullenly twisting his neck. Soon, a horde of green-clad men stormed into the room. Each of them held a machine gun, except for Kevin Garnett, who emerged in the front holding a pistol.
"No!" Bin Laden shouted. "No! This is not cool! I am at peace with my God and et cetera, but I seriously DO NOT want to be killed by Kevin Garnett!" He panted, looking at the Celtics with a plea in his eyes. "Come on, dudes. I know I'm not you're favorite guy in the world, but seriously, I hate Kevin Garnett. He is the worst. Even as his teammates, you can't possibly like him that much. I mean, he's a dick to everyone, he does that stupid barking thing, he's a total phony, and that Villanueva cancer incident? Arguably worse than 9/11, right?"
The Celtics grumbled angrily.
"Okay, tough crowd," he continued. "I was just spitballing there, I'm not married to the idea. Probably not that bad, admittedly. Just...I mean, I know I'm going to die, I'm ready for it, just please don't let me be killed by Kevin Garnett." His pleas were greeted with silence. "Fuck, what a nightmare. Please, grant me that one wish. It would really be too much to bear."
The Celtics gathered to discuss his plea. Garnett came forward. "Okay," he said. "We've agreed that someone other than me will kill you."
A huge wave of relief swept over Bin Laden's face. "Thank you," he whispered. "A warrior's life now draws to a close."
Then Kevin Garnett shot him in the stomach.
"Oh, Fuck. You." Bin Laden said, slumping to the ground. "Seriously, that is one of the all time asshole moves."
Garnett laughed to himself.
"Um, Kevin?" Doc Rivers said. "We actually agreed that you wouldn't do that."
"I know," Garnett said, still laughing. "I know it."
"Right in the stomach too," Bin Laden said. "The worst place, the most painful death. The place in the body where only a real son of a bitch shoots someone."
Garnett started barking.
"Awful. Awful awful awful." Bin Laden's eyes grew dimmer. "Just do me one favor. Don't say 'anything is possible.' I can handle this right now. Hell, I probably deserve it. But don't send me to the afterlife having heard the words 'anything is possible' from Kevin Garnett's lips.
"That's fair," said Garnett.
Several moments passed. Bin Laden was now on the ground, wheezing. His breathing became ragged and soon it stopped almost completely. The Celtics watched him slowly pass into the next world. A last whisper, some form of prayer, escaped Bin Laden's lips. The time had come.
"ANYTHING IS POSSSIBBBBLLEEEEEEE!" Kevin Garnett screamed. Bin Laden's eyes grew wide, and he died.