Girl 1: Who is that guy over their eating by himself? Look at him brood. He’s probably really intellectual.

Girl 2: I don’t know who he is, but I think I want to sleep with him.

Girl 1: Is he doing the crossword puzzle? I heard Tuesday’s crossword is really hard. He doesn’t even look like he’s having any trouble.

Girl 2: I heard guys who do crossword puzzles have big wieners.

Girl 1: I heard that, too. It’s like the same gene or something.

Girl 2: Look at all those plates around him; he must eat a lot. It looks like he got one of everything. That’s really impressive.

Girl 1: He must be so good at eating.

Girl 2: I think I want to sleep with him.

Girl 1: Look, he’s wearing a tie.

Girl 2: Wow, he probably has a bunch of money. He probably does really cool expensive things all the time.

Girl 1: I’ve never seen him before at any parties around campus. He must be too busy going to exclusive rooftop parties with the Knicks and also with models.

Girl 2: Girl models.

Girl 1: Uh, yeah.

Girl 2: …

Girl 1: I wonder if he’s single.

Girl 2: I don’t care. I will murder to be with him.

Girl 1: I think that’s a little extreme.

Girl 2: No. I will murder you.

Girl 1: I don’t think that would help you in any way.

Girl 2: You quiet down, Girl 1. You just quiet your damn self down.

Girl 1: …

Girl 2: …

Girl 1: Look, he’s getting up. I think he finished the crossword puzzle. Wow, look at his shirt. He spilled sauce all over it.

Girl 2: He probably did it on purpose. As part of an art project.

Girl 1: Yeah, maybe. He looks really arty. Look how tight his pants are.

Girl 2: Awfully tight.

Girl 1: Awfully tight.

Girl 2: He’s getting more food? Uhhh…

Girl 1: Hmm.

Girl 2: Look how long his hair is. Some people would say that he looks like a greasy, dirty cur, but I think it just makes him look European.

Girl 1: He looks like a European footballer. He looks like he plays for the Spanish national team and makes a hundred million Euro a year.

Girl 2: …

Girl 1: You know what, I bet he only eats once a day, that’s why he’s eating so much.

Girl 2: Wow. That’s pretty hip. I think I’ll start doing that.

Girl 1: I bet you won’t, ‘cause you’re fat as hell.

Girl 2: I have told you before that I am prepared to murder you.

Girl 1: Listen, Girl 2. I will fight you in the streets for the right to this man’s heart. I will fight you in the streets, and I will fight you in the gutter.

Girl 2: Let us adjourn, then, to a place of true reckoning, wherein we may this dispute settle. And all our yesterdays have only wrought what we have dreamt to be so, until now the end time of our suffering and our dreams. As it must be, it shall. As created, so destroyed; as forgotten, so recalled.

Girl 1: Damn you, mystery man, man of deepest mystery. The fire of your brooding, solitary mystery touches souls all ‘round you, and there is naught to be done for succor.

Reader 1: He used to be so reliable. So trustworthy. I fear that fame has turned him all topsy-turvy.

Reader 2: I heard he sits all day in the cantina, drinking Land Shark beer.

Reader 1: The Jimmy Buffett beer?

Reader 2: Yes, didn’t you click the hyperlink?

Reader 1: No, I didn’t want to leave this site.

Reader 2: Old feelings die hard.

Reader 1: Your mom dies hard.

Reader 2: What?

Reader 1: Never mind. It’s useless. Hornblower’s the only true comic voice in all the land. We need him.

Reader 2: Forget it, Reader 1. He’s gone home. To roost. We never needed him, you know. He only brought us down. We’re better off without him.

Hornblower: I heard that.

Reader 1, Reader 2, God: Hornblower!

Hornblower: Aye. I be Hornblower.

Reader 1: I- I thought you were in the East!

Hornblower: Oh, foolish reader. Oh, silly little man. Ho, ho, ho. You are so jaundiced that it pains me to look at you. Put on a turtleneck.

Reader 1: I don’t have a turtleneck.

Hornblower: God, give this sot a turtleneck.

God: Okay.

Reader 1: Ugh, this isn’t real cashmere.

God: Yes it is.

Hornblower: Go away, God.

God: Okay.

Reader 2: Why are your muscles bigger than God’s, Hornblower?

Hornblower: Because I’m more important than God. Reader 2, you are a miserable cactus flower. I wouldn’t employ you as a slave on my property, that’s how low an opinion of you I have. I will use you as a mop.

Reader 2: Stop, please. My hair! This isn’t soapy water!

Hornblower: It’s baby blood and tomato juice. And egg yolks.

Reader 1: I ate a raw egg once, on a dare. It was so gross!

Hornblower: I ate your mom’s raw egg. More than once.

Reader 1, Reader 2, God: He’s back all right!

Hornblower: I thought I told you to leave, God.

God: Sorry. I left my toothbrush.

Hornblower. Shut your mouth and leave. And shave your beard.

God: Okay.

Hornblower: My muscles are bigger than yours.

God: They sure are.

Hornblower: I said leave.

God: Right. Sorry.

Hornblower: I ate a raw human once, for no reason. It was your father, actually, Reader 2.

Reader 2: So that’s where he went.

God: You’re going to heaven anyway, Hornblower, don’t worry.

Hornblower: I am not worried about whether I will go to heaven.

God: Great, I mean you shouldn’t be, it’s no question, you’re in! Ha, ha, ha! Ha. Ha HA!

Hornblower: Stop laughing like that. Leave.

God: Yup.

Hornblower: When I go to heaven, you’d better not be there.

God: No, of course not.

Reader 2: I think I wet myself.

Reader 1: You certainly did.

Hornblower: I wet myself once.

Reader 1: …

Reader 2: …

Hornblower: With money!

Reader 1: What?

Reader 2: What? That doesn’t make any sense.

Hornblower: I wouldn’t expect cretins to understand.

Reader 1: When are you going to start writing again.

Reader 2: Yeah, Hornblower, I’m losing blood here. I’m losing blood.

Hornblower: That’s not your blood, that’s just the baby blood.

Reader 2: …

Hornblower: No, wait, some of that is your blood. You’re bleeding out of your temple. Where I punched you.

Reader 2: When did you do that?

Hornblower: When you blinked.

Reader 2: I haven’t blinked since we started this dialogue.

Hornblower: There’s your first mistake.

Reader 2: …

Hornblower: And your last.

…

Reader 1: Why did you kill Reader 2?

…

God: Why did you kill Reader 1? Not that you’re not getting into heaven or anything. I’m totally not judging you, I’m just curious. I think it’s kind of cool that you killed him, actually. Totally cool. I’m the cool, New Testament God, okay? Not that spiteful old codger from the old book! Gee!

…

Nietzsche: God is dead! Why did you kill God?

Hornblower: Tell the world. And tell all the people that Hornblower seeks a team of stallions. For the cornfields.

…

Hornblower: Why did I kill Nietzsche?

Reader 2: Wow, I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. Literally, not a one. Boy.

Reader 1: Where did Reader 3 go?

Reader 2: Come on, now. There was never a third reader. Hornblower’s lucky he even has us.

Hornblower: I heard that.

Readers 1 & 2: Hornblower!

Hornblower: Yeah, it’s me. Check out the muscles.

Reader 1: Wow, those are probably too big, maybe. You’re the strongest person in the Earth, I think

Reader 2: I can’t believe those are muscles and not boulders. Giant boulders under your clothes.

Hornblower: That’s enough, gentle readers. I’ve heard your murmurings for some time now.

Reader 2: Well gee, Hornblower. We just want some new posts, is all. We’re antsy.

Reader 1: Antsy, yeah. Losing sleep, Hornblower, I’m losing sleep.

Hornblower: Go on and find it, then. Go and find that sleep.

Reader 1: What?

Hornblower: …

Reader 1: What does that mean?

Reader 2: How is that possible?

Hornblower: Go, dear reader. Go on and find that sleep.

Reader 1: Um, okay.

Reader 2: What about me?

Hornblower: Shut up and stop complaining. Go read the old posts.

Reader 2: I’ve read them all. Six times each.

Hornblower: Stop crying and read them some more. Write them down in your diary. Memorize them.

Reader 2: You’re the worst person ever.

Hornblower: Listen, reader, I will grind your bones to make some bread, then I will let the bread go stale and then feed it to the ducks.

Reader 2: …

Hornblower: …

Reader 2: I don’t even like this Web log.

Hornblower: Shut up, Frightened Inmate Number 2.

Devendorf rode into Memphis alone. Griffin was already there. Devendorf spoke first, as always.

I’m here to see about a championship.

Yeah. Championship.

Oklahoma. Not too many basketballs there.

Just enough.

The Memphis air too heavy to be called air. The Orange-clad masses, faithful a thousand miles away from home. Millions of people, millions of dollars wrapped up in the muscles and tendons of teen-aged giants. Held breath.

Toss, jump, tip. Underway. Delicate power under basket, blinking speed outside. Five white and five orange run and stop and turn and throw and pursue one another and the sphere. Squeak and shout, slap and whistle. A neophyte would wonder at the sheer spectacle, but none are unaccustomed.

One always rises at these times; others fall. Dreaming keeps us guessing from where we can stand, and our hopes are tied but we know not where. Griffin shoulders a team, a state. Someone must; he does. Forty-three times the leather through the nylon for the white. Thirty-seven times for the orange. The Orange. Laid low by a multitude of tormentors, and by their own folly. Sooner raised a fist to the roofbeams.

They filed out, spent, and returned to hotel, inn, lodge, soon to continue the undetermined March — and Orange turned for home, sudden end and soft goodbye.