Chapter 1: Exodus
The following is an e-mail sent by Staff Columnist Matt McClanahan to Sports Editor Edward Lewis. Lewis received the letter Tuesday afternoon.
Dear Edward,
I don’t know the sort of heinous things that will happen to me if I stay here much longer, and I’d rather not find out. I’m guessing I have an hour so I’ll make this quick — I still haven’t packed. I haven’t slept either.
If you’re worried that I won’t be covering San Diego State’s mammoth basketball game against BYU, relax. I’ll be in Utah Wednesday night as planned. But I’m leaving a bit earlier than expected.
Edward, I killed him. I had to. The ugly bastard wanted to come with me to Provo, but I couldn’t let him. Technically, he is coming. But he’ll remain in the trunk of my car until I find a better place. It was self -defense. It hurt me to do it.
Don’t worry. I’ll still cover the game. I’ve already booked a hotel halfway between here and Provo in a town called Las Vegas. Have you heard of the place? I’m assuming it’s a popular rest spot seeing as there are so many hotels. I could use an honest sleep right now.
Shards of glass are still on my floor. I need to leave, quickly. Someone may have seen it happen.
It was going to be him or me. I shoved him through my window and he fell two stories. To check if he was alive, I jiggled his brain with a golf club. He didn’t react. He also didn’t respond when I accidentally slammed the trunk door on his head. Jesus, he has such a large cranium. The bastard could use a hair cut, too.
In about four to six days, my carcass will begin releasing odorous hydrogen sulfide gasses known as death pheromones.
It was me that killed the doubt. I killed the part that says, “I can’t.”
Edward, I killed myself. The body in that trunk is my own. But I didn’t kill my whole self, just parts of me. Like the slothful part that would rather sit in a room and watch the clock tic down to zero than go out and do any real sort of living. Moving is living.
I also killed that part of me that likes to exhibit “better judgment.” That has no place on a trip like this.
As previously stated, I will be humping the Marriott Center tomorrow night, barring any mishaps in that sleepy town of Las Vegas.
Sincerely,
Matty Ice McClanahan
P.S. Last time I checked, I can’t go to prison for killing myself. But just in case, don’t let anyone see this letter. If someone asks where I am, like the cops or something, just act oblivious–don’t tell them I’m dead in my own trunk. I know I can trust you.
Check back soon to see if Matt, or what’s left of him, gets out of Las Vegas alive.
Facebook Comments