When the matter of the hostages had been settled, the residents of the Grindhouse gathered round a huge glass jar, chewed certain pork rib, and spat barbeque juices into the grease jar under the kitchen sink. Yes, it was disgusting. But from this grossness the juices swirled into a divine shape, and out of the mighty glass vat rose the Danny Ainge, the spirit of collecting future knowledge. There was no question this spirit could not one day possibly answer, and no matter what he did not know today, he would one day know it, for he was always collecting future knowledge. And, in this way, he never ran dry of potential, future knowledge.
But one day, the jar containing the Danny Ainge overflowed and the keepers of the future knowledge, the experienced Tayshaun Prince and the naïve Quincy Pondexter, were drowned in the essence of greenish grease and potential, future knowledge. And, as their biscuit limbs grew soft soaking up the kitchen grease, the residents of the Grindhouse knew something must be done, so they sent Pondexter’s bones south on a river raft and Prince’s flesh north by raven. And yet, the residents of the Grindhouse feared that their present might drown in future knowledge, so Marc Gasol and Zach Randolph, the Grit and the Grind, sat in meeting with the Danny Ainge.
“We know you know the future,” said Gasol.
“Futures,” corrected the Danny Ainge. “I know all the fu-tures.”
“How the fuck do you explain more than one future?” asked Z-Bo. “Marc, why are we even talking to this comic book grease stain.”
“Because not only does he know potential, future knowledge, but he is potential, future knowledge.”
The grease stain of potential, future knowledge smiled, much like a grimacing leprechaun.
“Do you know how crazy you two sound?”
“Z-Bo, what if I left you with potential, future knowledge that has already come to be?” asked the Danny Ainge.
“I thought you only knew the future—“
“Fu-tures,” the Danny Ainge corrected Z-Bo.
“Don’t interrupt me.”
“I wasn’t interrupting. I simply knew one of the ways in which you might finish your sentence.”
Z-Bo turned to Gasol, “I hate this dude. I really do.”
Gasol leaned in close to Z-Bo and cupped a hand over his ear to hide what the words to his brother from the eyes and ears of the green grease stain.
“I already know what you might say,” said the Danny Ainge.
“Then let me say it,” countered Gasol, before turning back to his brother. “Listen, if we except potential past then we don’t have to deal with potential future. We’ll know what we are, which is all we’ve ever wanted.”
Z-Bo stared coldly into the thick pool of potential future, also known as the Danny Ainge, its green tides moving neither clockwise nor counter clockwise. “Look, I know that. I just don’t trust the guy. Everything he touches eventually dies. And I don’t want Tayshaun and Q-Pon to have lived in vain.”
“What other option do we have? If we don’t deal, we’ll drown in potential futures without ever knowing what they are.”
“Alright then,” said Z-Bo.
“We’ll do it then,” said Gasol.
“You’ll take him then?” asked the cesspool.
Gasol looked at Z-Bo, and his brother nodded. “We’ll take him,” said Gasol.
“And you’ll provide me more jars for holding potential , future knowledge?”
“Hold on now—“ blurted Z-Bo.
“It’s part of the deal,” said Gasol. Z-Bo leaned back, conceding the point, and Gasol slid a crate of glass jars towards the Danny Ainge.
“Then it shall be,” said the Danny Ainge. “Potential past will be here on the ‘morrow in the form of Jeff Green, and he will tell you what you’ve always wanted to know—he will tell you what you are—“
“Just don’t have him arriving as a fuckin’ eagle,” said Z-Bo. “I can’t deal with anymore amorphous shit. We either are or we aren’t.”
Bryan Harvey can be followed on Twitter @LawnChairBoys. Other volumes from the mythological Memphis tome are available here: The Slaying of Bryant Reeves ; Pau, Hubie, & the Painted Area; Marc Gasol, the Watchman of Memphis; and Z-Bo & the Walton Tree.