...and having pointed his cold blue laser of truth at the rotting corpse of the NFL, Kontra lifted his fingers from post 39,407 and smiled malevolently at the computer, knowing it was one more dagger in the void that would normally contain a human heart in the chest of Roger Goodell. "Nope", he chuckled, taking a sip of coffee from the genuine NFL-licensed Patriots mug he'd received for Christmas, "they're not going to get ME!" His pleasure at the imminent demise of his enemy caused him to bump his mug against his chin, accidentally spilling some of the precious java onto his game-worn Tedy Bruschi jersey. "d%#*!@t!" he exclaimed, jumping up quickly and reaching for his authentic Patriots AFC Championship tea-towel to try to save his favorite shirt from a permanent stain. "Wish I'd had a Clown-Out towel handy."
The coffee had also spilled onto his outrageous monthly Comcast bill, a stark reminder of the lack of real choice in this Land of the Free. "Pirates" he said. Clearly something needed to be done. He immediately galvanized into action, jumping onto the 'net to research into cable-cutting alternatives. Waking up suddenly, three hours later, he realized he'd fallen asleep digging into Gronk's groin, Dorsett's knee and Hernandez' brain and had managed to slide off the chair and onto the floor, where he'd placed his trusty 30.06, his own personal peacekeeper. "Only way they're getting that signed Brady sweater is if they pry it out of my cold, dead hands", he thought, relishing the look of the potential thief as elation over a valuable prize turns to the realization that death is upon him. A brief twinge of pain caught his attention, and he realized he was sore, having slept on the gun in an awkward way, with the barrel digging into his ribs.
