Coach Mitchell Pt. 1

Prologue

THE debates about what started it all may never end in Ocala, Mississippi, but most say it started on October 22, 2009, on Cardinal Field. It was fourth down and thirteen yards to go in the fourth quarter, with a minute thirty five to go. The Ocala Cardinals were down by a field goal, and the Amasa Bulldogs were preparing to punt the ball away.
Joseph Schultz of the Bulldogs was ranked dead last in 6A division punting. The center snapped the ball, and Schultz sent the ball forty-three yards out.
James Allen of the Cardinals, the fourth best wide receiver in the state, waved his arm high and caught the ball. The referee blasted his whistle, and the play ended with the fair catch.
Carl Oakley, a five foot nine, two hundred forty six pound linebacker, ignored the whistle. He charged at Allen, and collided with him at full force. Every official on the field threw a yellow penalty flag onto the turf.
The referee stepped onto the field and struck one wrist against the other above his head, signaling a personal foul. All the players walked off the field, save for James Allen, who was still lying on the turf, screaming at the top of his lungs. It would later be learned that Oakley broke both of Allen’s legs, as well as tearing one of his ACL’s. James Allen would never play another game of football again.
The next play, the Bulldogs intercepted the ball. Three plays later, they scored a touchdown. The final score was 31-14, Bulldogs.
After the game, up and coming sports journalist Stephanie Barker approached Carl Oakley and asked him what he was thinking when he tackled Allen.
His response: “I only did what Coach Garner and Coach Mitchell told me to do.”
The next day, representatives from the Mississippi High School Athletics Association came to Amasa High School and interviewed every member of the Amasa Bulldogs football team. Most of them confirmed that head coach Chad Garner and defensive coordinator Eugene Mitchell ordered Carl Oakley to attack James Allen in order to win the game.
The reps handed both of the coaches eighteen-month suspensions from all MHSAA-sponsored activities. Two hours later, Amasa High School Principal Kenneth Nunez fired Chad Garner and Eugene Mitchell.





Chapter One

Garner and Mitchell had always been close friends, since their days at Midland High School where Garner played quarterback and Mitchell played nose tackle. Three months in to their suspension, Garner called Mitchell to talk about something that had been on his mind.
“We both lost our jobs for trying to win a football game, which is exactly what our job was. But I understand that, because we did something wrong to win. That kid still isn’t walking. But what really bugs me is that other people do a lot worse than what we did and get off Scott free because they’re paid off with the right people. Where’s the justice in that? Pisses me off.”
Mitchell audibly sighed over the phone. “Yeah, it pisses me off, too, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s a lot we can do about it. If the fuckin’ cops and the fuckin’ courts aren’t gonna do anything, then I think it’s our civic duty to take justice into our own hands. You follow?”
“Yeah. I follow.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s a bad fucking idea, is what I think. We’ve already got a record as violent people. If we got caught committing a violent crime, they’d gas our asses. The fuck’s the matter with you?”
“Eugene, listen to me. That Allen boy will never be the same again because of us. Alright? Eighteen months out of work isn’t going to make up for what we did. I for one would like to live with a clear conscience. This is how I can get one. So I’m going to ask you: Are you in or are you out?”
Not a day had gone by that Mitchell hadn’t thought about James Allen. What they did was wrong. And Garner was right: the suspension did not make up for it. Mitchell took a deep breath before answering. “Yeah. I guess I’m in.”



Lamar Coronado, a made man of the Dixie Mafia, stretched out in the back seat of his black Cadillac CTS-V. He loved the car more than he loved his children. And he did love those kids.
Jacob, his driver, said, “We gotta make a stop, boss. We’re runnin’ real low on gas.”
“That’s great. I gotta take a leak anyways.”
So while Jacob filled up the tank, Lamar went to empty his own. He was in the one man restroom for all of five seconds when the door was kicked open and a big man with square glasses entered, followed by a lanky guy that looked somewhat familiar to Lamar. He reached in his coat for his .45, and felt the gloved hand of the big guy connect with his nose. Lamar toppled on to the toilet. He instinctively dropped the gun and brought his hands to his broken nose. He saw the skinny one step towards him, with something small and shiny in his hand. Then he felt a deep, searing pain in his stomach. He watched the two men calmly walk out of the restroom, but didn’t have the energy to yell for help, or to take out his phone and call Jacob. He just sat there with the pain, helpless.
And then came the darkness.




































Chapter Two

FIFTEEN months and nine murders later, Garner and Mitchell both received letters in the mail from the Mississippi High School Athletics Association stating that their suspension had expired and they could now once again coach for any football team in the state.
“You know,” Garner said over coffee, “That Buscher guy just left Ocala. And the D-coordinator gave his notice. He’s gone at the end of the year.”
“Yeah,” Mitchel said slowly. “But Ocala doesn’t seem like a good place for us to go. I don’t think the students would take a liking to us.”
“Half the student body from then is in college now. And besides, I think they’d love it. It’s our way of making up for the pain we caused the school. They haven’t won a single game since Oakley did that Allen boy in.”
“You and I both know that we’ve already got our method of making up for it.”
“Well, yeah, but the public can’t know about all that. This is how the public can see us make it up.”
Mitchell took off his glasses and rubbed his face. “Fine. We’ll go over there and talk to the principal, see what’s what. If he seems real interested in getting’ us onboard, then sure, I’ll give it a try.”



Glenn Deal looked about ten years younger than Mitchell knew he was. Deal was a black man with a bald, shiny head and carefully trimmed mustache and goatee. He was also very athletic. Mitchell could remember in his and Garner’s senior year they attended an eight grade game and watched Glenn Deal, most promising young running back in recent years, make three separate fifty plus yard runs.
Instead of going pro (which he certainly could have), Deal became an English teacher for Ocala. He spent fifteen years teaching in the same classroom before Principal Donald Lowery moved up in the world to become county superintendent of education, which promoted the assistant principal to principal and Deal to assistant principal. Shortly before the incident with James Allen, the principal announced that he would be retiring, so, Deal was now the principal of Ocala High School.
“Good morning, Mr. Garner. Mr. Mitchell. How can I help you?”
“Well,” Garner began, “The MHSAA never let us publicly apologize for what we did eighteen months ago. Our minds were clouded by thoughts of the state championship, and we acted stupidly. I wish we could go back in time and stop it from ever having happened. If I could I would.”
“What Chad is trying to say,” Mitchell drawled, “is that we really are sorry about what we did not just to James Allen, but to the entire school. We’ve decided that a good first step to earning forgiveness would be to get the Cardinals out of the rut that we put them in.”
Deal nodded. “Yes, the MHSAA thought it prudent to notify me that your suspensions are up.” There was a long moment of silence. “I need you to understand something. If we’d won just one game since your suspension, I’d say to hell with you, we don’t need your help. But the fact is the team is in trouble. Obviously, I can’t just say, sure, you’re hired, but I definitely think that it would be in our best interest to hire you. For now, I’ll let you lend a hand to the few trainers that we have left on staff for a couple of weeks.”
“Thank you, Mr. Deal.”
“Thank you, sir.”






























Chapter Three

GARNER and Mitchell reported to the football field at 3 PM sharp. It felt a bit eerie for Mitchell, standing on the field where his life was changed eighteen months ago.
They met with the departing defensive coordinator, Paul Farrel; the D-coordinator’s assistant, a fat kid with a shaved head, unkept goatee, and charming smile named James Lambert; the offensive coordinator, Larry Whalen, a man of about sixty-five with wild hair and a neatly trimmed beard; and Whalen’s assistant, Stanley Robards, a fifty-year old man with shaved red hair and soulless blue eyes.
After a couple of minutes, the team arrived on the field, already dressed out. Whalen took charge. “Gentlemen, you may recognize these men we have with us today. For those of you that don’t, this is Coach Chad Garner, and this is Eugene Mitchell. They’re going to be spending some time with us.” He turned to Garner and Mitchell. “Anything you wanna say, fellas?”
Mitchell cleared his throat. “Men, a year and a half ago Coach Garner and I did something we shouldn’t have. While coaching for the Amasa Bulldogs, we ordered one of our linebackers to take out James Allen. He succeeded. We were suspended by the MHSAA for our actions, as we should have been. Now that our suspension is up, we’d like to take the Cardinals to where they’ve never been before: the 6A State Championship in Jackson. And if we still haven’t been forgiven, then we’ll find another way to make it up to you. To put it simple: we aren’t resting until we have each and every student of this fine school’s forgiveness.”
“Mr. Garner,” Whalen said. “You’re looking to be head coach, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then, why don’t you handle the team’s workout today? Get a feel for ‘em.”
Garner was taken aback. “Umm… sure thing, Coach.” He studied the team. He recognized a lot of faces from last year. “Alright. What kind of workout did you guys do yesterday?”
“Endurance drills.”
“Then we’ll do weights today. Let’s get to the field house.”
Once inside, Garner asked how the players at each station were chosen.
“Alphabetical order.”
“Well, that ends today. New stations for everybody. Quarterbacks at station one. Halfbacks and fullbacks at station two. Wide receivers and tight ends at station three. O-line at station four. D-line at station five. Linebackers at station six. Defensive backs at station seven. Punters and kickers at station eight.”
Mitchell spoke up. “Men, I want you to understand that unless you are being punished, we will not ask you to perform any exercise that we ourselves will not do alongside you. To evaluate your levels of fitness, however, we will take exception today.”
With that, Garner began the program. “Give me twenty five deadlifts with as much weight as you can handle and still complete the set.”
Garner and Mitchell watched them work very closely. The quarterbacks were doing ninety pounds; the running backs did one hundred thirty; receivers did one-fifty five; offensive linemen did one-ninety; defensive linemen did two-forty five; linebackers did two-twenty five; defensive backs did one-thirty five; kickers and punters did an astonishing two-thirty five.
If they could do twenty five reps at those weights, Garner wondered what their maxes were. “Twenty five reverse curls,” he called out. The entire team moved quickly with sixty five pounds. Garner nodded to himself. “One last exercise, then I’m turning you over to Whalen and the boys. Give me thirty rows.”
Quarterbacks did a hundred thirty five pounds; running backs did eighty five; receivers did fifty five; linemen did sixty five; linebackers did fifty pounds; defensive backs did one-fifty; kickers and punters did the bar.
“Oh yeah,” Mitchell said. “We’re taking these boys all the way to Jackson.”























Chapter Four

TWO weeks later, Glenn Deal called Garner and Mitchell in to his office. “Gentlemen, I’ve spoken with Superintendent Lowery and the PTA, and everybody’s on board with hiring the two of you. Lowery says this will be great positive media coverage. Chad, you’ll become the Cardinals’ head coach the moment you sign this contract.” He produced a few documents stapled together. “Eugene, you’re going to be hired as defensive coordinator this summer, once Paul Farrel leaves. For now, though, we can hire you on as an assistant to Chad.” Garner smiled at that. “There is a catch, though. Farrel teaches a boy’s weightlifting class first block, and we’re implementing a second girl’s fitness class next year. We need you two to teach the classes. You can decide amongst yourselves who gets which class.”
Mitchell answered. “Well, I’ve always been the stronger one. Meanwhile, Chad here’s always been great at conditioning players. I imagine he’ll do just as well with girls.”
Deal clapped his hands together. “Then it’s settled.”


It was an exciting summer for Ocala, Mississippi. The typical workout for the Cardinals was something like this: two mile run, twenty five pushups, twenty five pull-ups, twenty five dips, fifty sit ups, thirty second rest, twenty five pushups, twenty five pull-ups, twenty five dips, fifty sit ups, thirty second rest, twenty five pushups, twenty five pull-ups, twenty five dips, fifty sit ups, and another two mile run.
Meanwhile, a ranking member of the notorious Vice Lords was found dead in his apartment with a shattered nose, four broken teeth, and a single stab wound in his stomach, making him Victim Number Eleven for the vigilante that the media called Citizen Cop. The FBI sent two agents from the Jackson field office down there to aide Ocala’s homicide division in investigating the murders.












Chapter Five

The first day of their classes went well. Garner introduced himself to the girls, and Mitchell introduced himself to the boys. They briefly discussed what a typical day would entail for the kids. When the speeches were done, Garner let his girls chat in the bleachers of the gym, but Mitchell took his men to the varsity dressing room and had them do a workout of one hundred crunches and forty pushups.
Day damn one.


When Garner and Mitchell arrived on the field at fourth block, they were surprised to find Paul Farrel waiting for them.
“Hey, guys,” he said. “I thought I’d come by and say a few goodbye words to the kids in the dressing room. Do you mind?”
They both shook their heads. “That’ll be fine,” Mitchell said.
“Thanks. You don’t need to come unless you really want to. It may be a little awkward for you.”
With that, he gave them a nod and trotted to the field house. All the other coaches followed him.
Once they were all gone, Garner spoke. “You know who lives right across the street, don’t you?”
“No, who?”
“Vincent Depalma.”
“Don’t guess I know him.”
“Number one coke dealer in the state. It’s a miracle the Dixie Mafia hasn’t done him yet.”
“If he’s such a big dealer, why’s he livin’ in such a shitty place?”
“’Cause he’s tryin’ to be fuckin’ discreet, now just tell me if you wanna do it.”
Mitchell checked his watch and glanced at the field house. “Yeah, but we gotta make it quick.”


In Vincent Depalma’s grimy driveway was a black Cadillac Escalade. Mitchell wondered what it was with gangsters and Cadillacs. The mobsters all drove around in Caddy sedans, while the street rats “pimped out” the Escalades.
Mitchell was about to kick the door in, but Garner turned the knob and, to his surprise, it opened.
Depalma sat in the den watching his flat-screen television. He looked at the coaches for a second, then his right hand with a Desert Eagle, with a bulky suppressor on the barrel.
He fired a few rounds, wide right of Garner. Mitchell charged the man, twisted the right arm in an awkward position, and punched him full in the face. He backed away, and Garner trotted up to him, slid the knife in his belly quickly, and they fled the scene, tucking away their gloves and the knife as they went.
They made it back about ten seconds before Farrel, Lambert, Whalen, Robards, and the team walked onto the field.
Garner smiled. “Welcome back, men. Today we’re gonna do eight sets of twelve rows, chinups, bench press, and squats.”


































Chapter Six

AFTER a few weeks on the job, Mitchell assigned his weightlifting class the most extensive workout yet. Five sets of three squats, four sets of eight reverse lunges, four sets of eight incline dumbbell press, four sets of ten cable abdominal pulldowns, and four sets of ten hammer curls.
He was already in a foul mood after going through some extensive interviewing from Detective Floyd Crawford and the two federal agents from Jackson concerning the murder of Vincent Depalma right across the street from Cardinal Field, and it didn’t help that he saw a few seniors doing sets of military press, when they hadn’t even gotten started on their lunges yet.
“Okay,” he yelled. “If y’all wanna get an extra workout, then I’ve got somethin’ y’all are gonna love. It’s called up downs. We’ll get to ‘em out on the football field soon as we’re all done with the hammer curls.”
Nobody ever did a lift outside the regimen again.


That night, Garner and Mitchell took a walk to discuss what to do about the feds. Near the end of the walk, they came upon a man with slicked hair and a brown business suit. He reached into his jacket and produced something small. The coaches could just barely make it out as a .38 snub nose revolver.
“Wallets, gentlemen.”
“Shit,” Mitchell said. The mugger thought this was said out of fear of being shot, but Garner knew that it was said out of annoyance that their gloves weren’t handy.
Mitchell punched the mugger, but not quite as hard as normal, to make sure that the skin around his knuckles didn’t break and leave physical evidence. The blow was still hard enough to knock the man on his ass and cause him to accidentally fire the small revolver.
Garner hastily took out his knife and stabbed the man hard. They made their way back to their houses, just a few blocks away from each other, in a hurry.










Chapter Seven

THREE days a week, Mitchell would let his class play football instead of lift weights. A group of six freshmen and one senior, though, never played football with the others. Instead, they’d hang out in the end zone and goof off, usually either kicking around the five pound medicine balls that littered the field, or play dodge ball with a super ball, or pull around the weighted sleds. The first day of class, Mitchell had told the entire class not to touch any equipment on the field, and that they all had to participate in whatever game was being played. So, three days a week, when those seven kids did their own thing, Mitchell would deduct a point from their average. At the rate they were going, they could end up with an average of a thirty.
In early September, the football team had been doing some tire drills. So, in first block, the group of seven decided to play with the tractor tires. They stacked up six tires in the end zone, then Kevin Nock, the senior slacker, and Andrew Adkins, freshman track star, lifted Victor Wright, a five foot one ninety five pound golfer, and placed him in the middle of the tires. They then grabbed an empty trash barrel and fit it tightly into the hole of the top tire, sealing off Wright’s makeshift prison.
Mitchell watched all of this, and felt his rage build up inside of him. He coolly walked the hundred yards that separated him from the kids. He didn’t free the pipsqueak from the tire cell when he got there, though.”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing out here?” he yelled. “This is not your goddamned football field. It’s mine. Did I fucking give you permission to use those damned tires or that damned barrel?”
Six heads moved from left to right.
“Damned right I didn’t. So you shouldn’t have fucking touched ‘em. The fuck’s wrong with y’all?” He slapped the back of Nock’s head. “And if I ever see that super ball out here again, Kevin, I’m writing you up. Dumbasses.”
Mitchell had once been a calm man, even back in Amasa when he was telling his men to send their opponents to the emergency room; even when he and Garner first began their killing spree. His entire demeanor had changed, though, ever since that mugger had caught them off guard. He now slept with gloves on, and always kept a pair in his pocket when he left the house. The worry, though, that they had unknowingly left physical evidence at the scene made haunted him constantly, and it visibly affected his demeanor. Snaps at his students like this one became far more frequent.





Chapter Eight

IT had been a daily ritual for the members of Mitchell’s first block class since August to place all cell phones, wallets, and watches in an orange bowl that read Trick or Treat. Mitchell had always called it the “Valuable Box.” Mitchell would put the bowl in the front office while they lifted or played football, then retrieve it when they were back in the gym.
In mid-September, on a day of squats, bench presses, and ten yard sprints, Mitchell followed his class back from the field house to the gym and was greeted by Andrew Adkins, one of the first guys in. “Coach, I put my wallet in the Valuable Box, and now there’s twenty bucks missing from it.”
“How’s that possible, Andrew? I haven’t even gotten the Valuable Box out of the office yet.”
“Robert got it out for us.” Robert Fisher was a senior on the power lifting team, and played center on the football team. He often acted as an assistant to Mitchell during first block.
Mitchell had Adkins double check his wallet and all his pockets, then made sure the money hadn’t fallen into the bowl. He then walked over to his class.
“Listen up, men. Andrew’s just had twenty dollars stolen out of his wallet, which was in the Valuable Box. We have to assume it was one of you. I did not believe that we had any thieves in this class, but that’s now obviously the case. Coach Garner is gettin’ Mrs. Dunn out here to handle it.” Angela Dunn was an assistant principal, with a reputation as a hardass among students. Mitchell pointed to the surveillance camera in a corner of the gym nearby. “We’ll be checkin’ the tapes to see who did it if nobody confesses. What happened was that we had somebody, thinking he was doing a good thing, get the Valuable Box before I got here. If he’d waited for me, this all could have been avoided. I don’t at all believe that he’s the thief, or that he considered the possibility that something could have been stolen. Like I said, he thought he was doing a good thing. But from now on, everybody needs to understand that they have to wait for me to get here for valuables.”
Robert Fisher addressed Adkins. “Hey, man, it’s my fault. I’ll give you the twenty bucks if they don’t catch who did it.”
“That’s decent of you, Robert,” Mitchell said as Angela Dunn entered the gym. “Gitterdunn,” as some students called her, was about sixty years old, with hair that was once jet black now graying rapidly. To look at the frail old woman, you’d never guess that she was a force to be reckoned with for the students of Ocala High School.
As Dunn gave her speech to the men, a thought entered Mitchell’s head: What would he do when they found out who the thief was? He and Garner had gone on a dry spell since the incident with the mugger, knowing that it was a miracle they hadn’t been caught for any of the murders, as carelessly as they had been done.
When Dunn was finished, Mitchell said one more thing before the bell dismissed his class. “To whoever stole the twenty dollars,” he drawled, “You are the scum of the earth, and you will be out of my class once we’ve caught you. And believe me, we will catch you.”
He would have said more, but the bell interrupted him.


At a quarter to two in the morning the next day, Mitchell’s phone awakened him.
“Hello.”
“John Gautier,” Garner said as greeting.
“Come again?”
“He’s on the FBI’s Top Ten Most Wanted Arms Dealers list. I didn’t even know they had one.
“Chad, what the fuck is this about?”
“The feds know that Gautier’s somewhere in Mississippi. Them and the Staties are looking under every rock they see for him. That’s what”
“Okay, so what’s the fucking point at nearly two o’clock in the morning?”
“The fucking point is I know where the fuck he’s staying.”
“Yeah, and where the fuck is that? Your mother’s house?”
“No, across the fucking street, dickhead.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. I saw him go in. Now get your lard ass over here, and be discreet about it.”
The line went dead.


Garner used his knife to pick the lock of the house that had been abandoned for years and found that Gautier had already furnished the place. No guns were visible, but they were both quite certain that they were surrounded by concealed weapons.
They crept up the stairs in darkness, and saw that the room behind the door directly in front of them was lighted. Garner swung the door open quickly and Mitchell charged. Smoking a cigarette while sitting on a bed in the middle of the room was an old, white haired man with a bushy mustache that Garner recognized as the notorious John Gautier. He looked at the duo and retrieved a chrome .357 revolver from his waistband.
Mitchell swung with all his might at the old man’s face, and Gautier fell to the ground as he squeezed off a shot that flew into the ceiling. Garner then did his part, stabbing the unconscious arms dealer in the gut, then they both ran out of the house, stumbling through the darkness.
When Garner was safely back in his house, he dialed 911, and reported hearing a gunshot from the house across the street. An hour later, Garner was being interviewed by two police officers and three federal agents about the incident. Garner said he saw one man leave the house. He said that the man was black, bald, appeared just shy of fifty years old, six foot six, and two hundred fifteen pounds. None of the cops and feds realized that this was a very accurate description of Michael Jordan.


































Chapter Nine

THE next day, Mitchell’s first block class voted to play kickball instead of football. The seniors played pretty well, but the others didn’t seem to know much about the game. Late in the game, sophomore David Alpert kicked the ball deep and began running hard. As Alpert ran past second, an outfielder passed the ball to second baseman Jeffrey Hall, who blocked off Alpert’s path to second base. This should have ended the play, but Alpert didn’t stop running. Alpert and Hall were about the same height, so when David sprinted directly into the second baseman, their heads collided, and they both fell to the ground.
Mitchell jogged onto the field. He looked at Hall first, who was clutching his forehead, but seemed coherent. “You alright, Jeff?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, coach.”
Mitchell turned to Alpert, and found that the boy was sprawled out on the ground, unconscious. “Robert,” Mitchell called. “Help me carry this boy to the nurse’s office.”
Alpert would eventually be taken to the emergency room, where it would be revealed that he suffered a concussion. He was absent for the next week.


In the cafeteria that day, Mitchell and Garner spoke quietly in a corner.
“Those feds are probably gonna come at you hard for a little while now,” Mitchell said. “We were right across the street from that dealer, Depalma, and you were across the street from Gautier. That’s gonna seem a bit suspicious. But as long as you cooperate with ‘em, they ought to just chock it up to coincidence.”
“Yeah. Now, I still have no plan for what have our boys do fourth block.”
Mitchell thought for a moment. “Just have ‘em run a mile. I don’t feel like dealin’ with any more injuries today.”













Chapter Ten

KOBE Raymond was the biggest joke among the members of Eugene Mitchell’s first block weightlifting class. Just hearing the name brought a smile to their faces. Raymond was five foot five, three hundred eighty pounds. More often than not, he would play football with his shirt off. When playing basketball, he would shoot from three points, screaming “Kobe!” Nine times out ten the ball didn’t sink.
One day in October, as the boys were filing out of the dressing room, getting ready to play a game of football, Raymond stopped Mitchell.
“Coach, you gonna get me a six pack?” he asked with a huge smile, showing yellow teeth.
“Well, we’re sure gonna try, Kobe.”
“CoachIwannabeacenterondafootballteam,” he made the entire sentence one quick word so that Mitchell had to stop a moment to comprehend what Kobe had just said.
When he did understand, he grinned. “Well, Kobe, I’m not gonna tell Coach Garner that ‘cause I want you over on D at nose tackle.”
The truth was that it was highly unlikely Kobe would get strong enough to make the team by spring training. As big as he was, he couldn’t even bench two hundred pounds.
“Coach, can you time me in da forty yard dash?”
“Sure thing, Kobe.”
The entire class watched Kobe Raymond give a slow sprint down the sidelines from the forty yard line to the end zone. As Raymond ran past Mitchell, he fell to the ground and lifted his shirt up, panting heavily and sweating ferociously.
Mitchell looked at the stopwatch. 11.09 was Raymond’s time. Most of Whalen’s wide receivers could walk the distance in that time.


The next Friday, Mitchell and Garner hit the boats on the coast. At one casino, a man missing several teeth approached them. “Hey, you’re the ones who did in that Ocala boy a couple years back, yeah? Thanks for that. Had two grand on Amasa winning by seventeen. Worked out perfectly. I saw y’all switched sides on us. Just as well. I’ll have to start betting in favor of the Cardinals now. Say, why don’t you two come in the back with me and the boys. We got something you might like back there.”
Mitchell and Eugene followed Toothy to a room in the very back of the casino. They entered the room just in time to see a scrawny old man shoot a pit bull in the head with a silenced .22 pistol. “Your bitch lost, Nick,” he rasped. “You owe me three hundred bucks.”
“Yeah, I’m good for it,” Toothy said. “Meet Chad Garner and Eugene Mitchell. Remember ‘em from Amasa couple years back?”
“Fuck yeah, I remember ‘em. Lost me six grand. I don’t hold a grudge though, guys.”
“Good to know,” Garner muttered.
Mitchell looked around the cramped room. Three other men were there, all clutching cash in their grimy hands. Near the dead dog stood another pit bull, with blood smeared across its face. The victor.
The group of disgusting, filthy men watched Garner and Mitchell pull on latex gloves.
“What,” the man with the gun said, “you afraid to get a little dirty?”
“Yeah,” Garner said. “That’s it.”
Mitchell swung at Toothy a.k.a. Nick’s temple with even more force than he had with John Gautier a few weeks earlier. The man fell limply to the ground, his neck broken.
“The fuck was that for?” the old one with the gun exclaimed.
“Sorry. Don’t know what got into me.”
The dirty old man raised his gun and began firing blindly. Mitchell stood there like a deer caught in the headlights until he felt a sharp pain in his left shin that caused him to double over. The muffled shooting stopped, and Mitchell blacked out.


A couple minutes, when he came to, Mitchell got to his feet slowly and looked around him. Five men littered the floor around him. All but Toothy had knife wounds. The gunner’s throat had been slashed open.
Garner stood near the door with a pained expression on his face. “We really fucked this one up, Mitch.” He raised the dead man’s gun and fired a round into the surviving dog.
Mitchell saw his own blood pouring out of his leg onto the floor. He still didn’t understand what had happened.
Garner produced a small roll of duct tape. “This’ll have to serve as a bandage for now. We’ll pull that bullet out once we’re safely outta here.”
“Bullet?” Mitchell gasped. “I got fuckin’ shot?”
“Keep your fucking voice down. It just ricocheted into your leg. Don’t worry about it.” He put a strip of tape on the exposed wound. “Now, let’s clean up your blood.” He took off his dress shirt, then his undershirt, then put the dress shirt back on. They used the undershirt as a mop for the small amount of Mitchell’s blood. “We were on the fucking cameras. Shit, shit, shit.” Garner began to panic.
“No, I watched all the cameras. There isn’t one near here. It looked like we were just headin’ to the bathroom. It’ll only look suspicious if we don’t go back out.”
So, Mitchell tucked the bloody undershirt into his pants, and they walked (or, Garner walked and Mitchell limped) right through the casino and to the parking garage.
They talked very little driving back to Ocala.


In Mitchell’s house (for fear the FBI was watching Garner’s), Chad pulled the bullet out of Eugene’s shin with a pair of pliers.
Mitchell screamed at the top of his lungs, biting down on a towel to muffle it slightly, hoping to avoid waking the neighbors.
Police never connected the killings on the coast with the Citizen Cop.