Damian Lillard was Buried Alive


Damian had on his Adidas, and all day he had dreamed about something: a matching track suit. This would all be so much cooler with a matching yellow and black track suit, only less yellow and more red.

They must have hit him from behind with a shovel. Whatever happened to the days in Portland when ‘Sheed simply pelted players with the ball and cackled? Somehow shit had gotten much more serious.

Damian was flat on his back; the space tight and immensely dark. When he breathed, the warm air hovered above him like a cloud of smog over a Chinese city. He had recently been overseas to sell shoes. Was that why they had all turned on him? Were they jealous of his shoe deal?

He found the coffin’s velvet ceiling with his fingertips, and he did what anyone would do: he played his motherfucking part.

It only took forever to punch through the wooden lid, and it only took longer to worm his way towards the surface.

He gasped for air. He stood on trembling legs. He looked around him. A streetlight flickered. They hadn’t even bothered to bury him in the desert. “Amateurs.” They were in for it now. He was going to Kill-arcus LaMarcus. “Idiot. Name doesn’t even rhyme.”

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