The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 11
The hotel ballroom hummed with conversation and music as the whole team was there, players scattered across tables with their wives, girlfriends, or whoever they'd brought along. Keshawn sat at a table near the back with Donovan and Deni, nursing a water bottle while they talked about something he wasn't really listening to.
His phone sat face down on the table. He'd checked it twice in the last ten minutes, even though he knew there wouldn't be anything new. Michael appeared at the table, a drink in each hand, his gaze finding Keshawn with that patented mischievous grin that reminded Keshawn of another one of his former teammates from back in college.
"What’s up, gentlemen?"
"Just chilling," Keshawn said.
"Nah, fuck that," Michael set both drinks on the table and dropped into the empty chair next to Keshawn. "It's New Year's Eve in New York City, nigga."
"I guess," Keshawn shrugged.
"You not good. You been in your head all week," Michael pushed one of the drinks toward him.
Keshawn looked at the glass, something dark with ice. "Fuck is this?"
"Do it matter, nigga?"
"I'm not trying to get fucked up before a game."
"Game's tomorrow night," Michael said. "You got all day to recover. Come on, one drink won't kill you."
Keshawn picked up the glass, the smell of brady hitting him before he took a sip. It burned going down, warm and harsh, but not entirely unpleasant. He set it back on the table.
"There you go," Michael grinned. "See? World didn't fucking end."
"You're annoying as fuck, you know that?"
"That's what you keep telling me," Michael leaned back in his chair, surveying the room. "Listen, I’m about to head over to this spot, you trying to roll?"
Keshawn shook his head automatically. "Nah, I'm good."
"Come on, man. It’s fucking New Year’s in fucking New York. We could be in like fucking Utah or some shit. The basketball gods have blessed us with this opportunity."
Keshawn took another sip of the drink, the burn less noticeable this time. His phone was still face down on the table, still silent.
"What else you gonna do? Go back to your room and watch film? Stare at the ceiling? Text your girl who ain't texting you back?"
Keshawn's jaw tightened. "Fuck you."
"I'm just saying," Michael held up his hands.
The ballroom was starting to thin out, players, coaches and trainers drifting toward the exits with their people.
"Just for a little bit," Keshawn heard himself say.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Michael clapped him on the shoulder, already standing.
…
DJ wiped his mouth with a napkin, watching the bartender pour another round for the couple three stools down. They were dressed up, the woman in a sparkly black dress, the man in a button-up. Pre-gaming before heading to wherever people went to watch a ball drop on TV.
"Appreciate you, bro," the man said, sliding cash across the bar.
DJ nodded, pocketing the bills in one smooth motion while passing the small baggie in a handshake. The couple moved toward the exit, already laughing about something, and DJ returned his attention to his plate. The wings were decent tonight, fried extra hard the way he liked them.
He checked his phone. 7:47 PM.
The bar was busier than usual, bodies packed in tight, everyone trying to get that buzz going before midnight. DJ finished the last wing and wiped his hands clean, signaling the bartender. The tab came quick, and he paid in cash, leaving enough for a tip that wouldn't be remembered but wouldn't be forgotten either.
The cold air hit him as he pushed through the door, his breath visible in the night. His car was parked half a block down, and he moved toward it with his hands in his pockets, his head down but his eyes up, always watching.
The engine turned over on the first try. DJ pulled away from the curb, merging into traffic that was lighter than he expected. Most people were already wherever they were going to be. He drove without music, just the sound of tires on asphalt and the occasional horn in the distance.
The first time came back to him in fragments. How his hands wouldn't stop shaking. How he'd gone over it in his head a hundred times but when the moment came, everything felt wrong, too fast, too slow, too real. Would it always feel like that? Would he get better at it? Would there be a time when his pulse didn't spike, when his stomach didn't twist?
He took the 10 East, exiting after twenty minutes into a neighborhood that looked like every other upper middle-class area in LA. Houses with two-car garages and manicured lawns. The kind of place where people felt safe.
DJ found a spot two blocks away, pulling into a space between a minivan and a sedan. He killed the engine and waited, his eyes on the rearview mirror. The street was quiet, a few porch lights on, but no movement. No dog walkers. No late-night joggers.
His phone read 8:23 PM.
At 8:41, headlights appeared at the end of the block. DJ watched the car approach, a black Escalade with tinted windows and rims that caught the streetlight. It slowed in front of the house, the garage door already beginning to rise.
DJ was out of his car before the Escalade fully stopped, his hand reaching behind him for the piece tucked in his waistband. He moved quick but not rushed, his footsteps light on the pavement. The garage door was halfway up when he ducked under it, the space dim except for the glow of the Escalade's taillights.
The driver's door opened.
DJ closed the distance, the gun already raised and aimed at the figure stepping out.
"You already know what it is," DJ said, his voice level.
The driver froze, one foot still in the car, his hands visible but not raised.
"The fuck—"
"Let me hold that on your waist," DJ cut him off. "Hand it over. Slow."
The driver's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he sized DJ up. His hand moved toward his waistband, slow like DJ said, and he pulled out a compact nine millimeter, holding it by the grip with two fingers.
"Thank you," DJ grabbed the gun from him with his free hand, sticking it into his own waistband.
"Ring cameras," DJ said. "Turn them off."
The driver sucked his teeth, the sound sharp and dismissive. "Man, fuck you—"
DJ swung the gun in a quick arc, the butt connecting with the side of the driver's head.
…
"I'm telling you, bro," Michael said, his words slightly slurred but his eyes bright with conviction. "You're stressing over her for what?"
Keshawn took another sip of his drink. "I'm not stressing."
"You are though," Michael pointed at him with the bottle. "You been in your feelings all week. I can see that shit. We all can."
"It's complicated."
"Nah, see, that's where you wrong," Michael leaned forward. "It ain't complicated. You making it complicated. Nigga, you’re twenty-one, making millions of dollars, playing in the fucking NBA. You really think you need to be locked down right now?"
Keshawn didn't respond, just watched the crowd below, bodies moving in waves to the music.
"Listen to me," Michael continued, settling back into the booth. "You know what we are? We're like... we're like warriors, bro. Like the conquerors from back in the day. Genghis Khan and shit. Alexander the Great. Julius Caesar."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about history, nigga," Michael took a long pull from the bottle. "Those dudes? They conquered the world. They took what they wanted. They enjoyed the spoils of their victories. That's what we are. We're modern day warriors, and the world is ours to enjoy."
Keshawn couldn't help but laugh. "Nigga, you’re drunk as fuck."
"I'm enlightened," Michael corrected. "There's a difference. Think about it. You work your ass off all season, dealing with injuries, practices, media, all that shit. You deserve to enjoy yourself. You deserve to have options."
"Options."
"Exactly," Michael nodded enthusiastically. "That's what I'm talking about. Having a roster is the way to go. You enjoy women in the way they're intended to be enjoyed, and nothing more. No drama. No expectations. No fighting about who called who back or whatever the fuck."
Keshawn stayed quiet, letting Michael talk. The alcohol made it easier to just listen, to not engage with the part of his brain that knew this was probably bullshit.
"I got a whole system," Michael said, pulling out his phone. "Depending on what city I'm in, I got someone on speed dial. Miami? Got my girl down there. LA? Got two out there. Houston? Phoenix? New York? All of them, bro. It's like having a network."
"You're a fucking idiot."
"I’m a fucking savant at this shit," Michael gestured toward a group of women in the section adjacent to theirs. "See them? Called them as soon as we landed. And if I didn’t want to? Guess what? I don’t. No questions asked. No arguments. Just fun, bro."
Keshawn followed his gaze to the three women, all looking over at their section with calculated interest.
"Speaking of which. You and that girl that I met when we were in LA. Gloria?"
The name sobered Keshawn up a bit. "What about her?"
"Just wondering," Michael shrugged, a smile playing at his lips. "Would you mind? She seems like fun."
Keshawn took another drink, buying himself time to think, process whatever it was that he was feeling.
"That’s the home girl," Keshawn said finally, shrugging to convince himself. "It wasn’t anything like that. We just messed with each other in college and shit."
Michael laughed, slapping Keshawn's shoulder. "I'm just fucking with you, bro. I would never do that to a teammate."
"Up to you," Keshawn shrugged again, more convincing this time.
"Although," Michael added with that same mischievious grin, "She does seem like a good time."
Keshawn didn't respond to that, just finished his drink and set the empty glass on the table.
Michael leaned back, surveying the club like a general surveying a battlefield. "Look around, 4-4. Look at all this. This is what we earned. This is what we deserve."
The music shifted, something with a heavier bass that made the whole section vibrate. The women Michael had pointed out earlier were looking over again, more obvious now, their intentions clear.
"So here's what you're gonna do," Michael said, turning to face Keshawn fully. "You're gonna stop thinking about that girl for one night. You're gonna look around this club, pick whoever you want, and take them home. Simple as that."
"Simple as that," Keshawn repeated.
"Simple as that," Michael confirmed. "You're in New York City on New Year's Eve, drunk as fuck, and the world is yours for the taking. So what's it gonna be?"
…
"You making a big mistake, homie," Trell told him. "We can work something out. Whatever they paying you, I'll double it."
DJ didn't respond, just watched as the safe door swung open.
"I'm serious," he continued, pulling out stacks of cash, jewelry boxes, other items DJ couldn't identify in the dim light. "This shit ain’t nothing compared to the shit I can get you. Set you up so you don’t gotta do these dummy missions."
"It’s more in there," DJ said.
Trell’s tone shifted, the offer disappearing. "I'm gonna remember your face, nigga. On Crip, nigga."
DJ's expression didn't change as Trell returned to pulling out items, setting them on the counter. A watch. Another watch. A chain. DJ's eyes locked on it, the gold links, the weight of it.
"Hold up," DJ said. "That one."
Trell picked up the chain, holding it out. DJ took it, examining it in his free hand. 18k gold, just like he'd been told. He held it up to the light streaming in from the bedroom, making sure.
"How come you kept this instead of giving it to one of your soldiers?" DJ asked. "Seems like the kind of thing you'd use as a reward."
Trell’s face twisted with confusion. "What?"
"The chain," DJ clarified. "Why'd you keep it? You have to feed your dogs, man."
"All this is over that stupid fucking chain?" Trell’s voice rose. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
DJ didn't answer, just kept examining the chain.
"I was gonna give that shit back to that bitch. I was just fucking with that lame ass nigga she was seeing," Trell started laughing. His fists slammed into his palm, once, twice. "Man, I can't wait till I see that bitch again. I'm gonna—"
"You won't," DJ said calmly.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, the muzzle flash bright enough to burn spots into DJ's vision. He stood there for a moment, his ears ringing. The first time had definitely been harder.
Highlight Game: January 1st, 2027 - Madison Square Garden, Manhattan, New York
(14-21) Portland Trail Blazers at New York Knicks (23-11)POR | 35 | 24 | 23 | 23 | 9 | 114 NYK | 23 | 17 | 41 | 24 | 16 | 121
Starting Lineups
Damian Lillard - G - Jalen Brunson
Shaedon Sharpe - G - Mikal Bridges
Michael Porter Jr. - F - OG Anunoby
Keshawn Chase - F - Josh Hart
Donovan Clingan - C - Karl Anthony Towns
G Damian Lillard: 17 pts, 2 reb, 6 ast, 5-15 FG, 5-10 3PT G Shaedon Sharpe: 21 pts, 5 reb, 10 ast, 7-12 FG, 2-6 3PT, 5-8 FT F Michael Porter Jr: 11 pts, reb, 4-8 FG, 3-7 3PT F Keshawn Chase: 34 pts, 22 reb, 7 ast, 15-26 FG, 2-6 3PT C Donovan Clingan: 15 pts, 17 reb, 2 stl, 2 blk, 6-7 FG, 2-4 FT
POR F Keshawn Chase: 19 Pts, 6 Reb, 5 Ast, 3 Blk, 5-13 FG, 2-4 3PT, 7-9 FT NO F Zion Williamson: 31 Pts, 6 Reb, 5 Ast, 13-20 FG, 5-6 FT
---
Upcoming Schedule vs. Los Angeles Lakers (17-19), at Utah Jazz (13-25), vs. Minnesota Timberwolves (23-16), vs. Oklahoma City Thunder (27-9) Season Stats 23.9 PPG, 10.8 RPG, 8.3 APG, 1.3 SPG, 1.3 BPG, 2.9 TOPG, 49 FG%, 26 3PT%, 81 FT%
The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 12
Keshawn almost stepped over it, his mind still back in New Orleans where the post-game activities were as compelling as the game itself. His shoulder ached from the two back-to-backs in five days, and all he wanted was his bed and maybe some ice. But something made him stop, bend down, check the label.
No return address. Just his name.
He unlocked the door and brought the package inside, setting it on the kitchen counter. The tape came off easily, too easily, like whoever packed it wanted him to open it quick. Inside, wrapped in bubble wrap and newspaper, was his chain. His watch was there too, the Rolex still ticking like nothing had happened.
Keshawn pulled the chain out, the weight of it familiar in his hands. Keshawn draped the chain around his neck, the metal cool against his skin. A smile crept across his face before he could stop it. He'd gotten his shit back. Trey had come through, just like he said he would.
…
Laroy moved across the yard with his usual gaot, hands in his pockets, eyes taking in everything without seeming to look at anything in particular. The morning sun was already brutal, the kind that made the concrete radiate heat in waves, but breakfast had been decent. Scrambled eggs that weren't completely rubber, toast that wasn't completely stale. Small victories.
He spotted Trey near the weight pile, talking to Rafael and a few other Crips, the conversation looking casual enough. Laroy waited, letting the moment develop naturally, not rushing into spaces where he wasn't invited. When Rafael dapped Trey up and moved off with his people, Laroy closed the distance.
"Y’all boys did y’all thing in the kitchen this morning," Laroy said, settling in next to him against the fence.
"Yeah, them young boys decent on the grill," Trey’s laugh was short, "Everything good?"
"Yeah, it went alright," Laroy confirmed, "That boy know how to handle himself."
"He learned from the best," Trey simply nodded, "Good looking. Everything else good?"
"Yeah, we can up the package if you want."
"Nah," Trey kept watching the game, "Not yet."
"What of our," Laroy began, "Navy friends?"
"What you think? Them boys over there gossiping like TMZ and shit."
The news had began to spread through the tier the night it went down, gaining steam with each passing hour and with it, also came conspiracies and skewed details. Some said they found the body naked. Others said his head was cut off. By the end of the week, there were ten different versions of ten different stories, none of them approaching the truth.
"I heard it was the Hoovers."
"Nah, man, couldn't be them. They don't move like that."
"Maybe it was some personal shit. You know Trell was fucking with mad bitches."
"I heard he was a fake Crip anyway. Just a rapper playing dress up."
"The fuck you mean fake? He was Rolling 20s."
"Rolling 20s don't even fuck with him like that. My cousin from that set, he said Trell was just using the name for clout."
Trey moved through the yard, his ears listening but mouth shut and face neutral. He reached the entrance, nodding at the CO who buzzed him through. The heavy door clanged shut behind him, muffling the yard noise to a dull murmur. His unit was quieter, most inmates still outside, taking advantage of the yard time while they could.
He made his way down the tier to his cell, the metal door already open. Trey climbed onto his bunk, the thin mattress barely cushioning the metal frame beneath it.
The gossip would continue all week and all month. People would speculate, point fingers, create narratives that had nothing to do with reality. The Crips would be on edge, wondering what this meant for their operation. The COs would pay closer attention for a few days, then things would settle back into routine.
But none of that mattered to Trey. What mattered was that Keshawn had his chain back. What mattered was that DJ had proven himself capable, reliable, someone who could execute on the outside just as he had done countless of times on the inside. What mattered was that the pieces were moving exactly where Trey needed them to be.
…
Keshawn glanced at the screen, saw the name, and let it ring out. The third call today, maybe the fourth.
The guilt sat in his chest, heavy and uncomfortable, but not heavy enough to make him answer. They were on a break. That's what they'd agreed to after that disaster of a Thanksgiving dinner, after the arguments that followed, after she'd told him she needed space to figure things out. Space. That's what she'd wanted, so that's what he was giving her.
Keshawn moved to his bedroom, pulling clothes from the closet. Dark jeans, a fitted black t-shirt, nothing too flashy. He fastened the chain around his neck then strapped on the Rolex. Both felt right, like pieces of himself that had been missing and were now restored.
His phone buzzed again. A text this time.
Just want to talk.
Keshawn stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could respond. Should respond. But what would he say? That maybe she was right? That maybe it wasn’t working out for neither of them? That Michael had been in his ear about bachelor life and it was starting to make sense? That he'd woken up next to someone else and didn't feel as bad about it as he probably should?
He locked the phone and tossed it on the bed.
The knock at the door came right on time. Keshawn grabbed his keys and wallet, checking himself in the mirror one last time before heading to the entrance. M
"What’s good, little nigga?" Michael greeted, pushing past him into the house. "You got the F8 gassed up, right? I’m thinking we should take the bad boy for a spin, make sure it doesn’t get rusty, you feel me? Don’t worry, I’ll drive."
Keshawn laughed, closing the door. "The fuck you are."
"Come on, man," Michael turned to face him.
"You got your own whip."
"I’m tired of driving that shit," Michael gestured toward the window, toward the garage where the Ferrari sat. "Now that? That's a whole different level of pussy magnet."
"You know that car only fits two people, right?" Keshawn grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch, slipping it on, "We both know we leaving with something. Unless you planning on making one of them sit on your lap."
Michael's laugh filled the house. "My nigga! But for real though, that's exactly why we need to get a bachelor pad like I told you, man. Like the Cowboys had back in the eighties. Just a spot where we can bring girls, no questions asked. These hotels in the city gonna get me caught up."
"They probably got a special room just for you," Keshawn shook his head.
"Exactly," Michael was already moving toward the door. "Think about it. We could split it, have it set up nice. Keep it low-key but classy. Bitches would love that shit."
"With your forty million dollar contract, you could afford damn near this entire neighborhood," Keshawn said, following him out to the garage. "Why you need me to split anything?"
"Because," Michael shrugged, "It ain’t no fun if the homie can’t have none."
The F8 sat in the garage next to the more modest Toyota Sequoia, compliment of one of the team’s sponsors.
"Every time I see this car, bro," Michael said, running his hand along the hood. "Every fucking time."
"Alright, alright," Keshawn unlocked it, the doors lifting up like wings. "You can drive. But if you fuck up my shit—"
"I'm not gonna fuck up your shit," Michael was already sliding into the driver's seat, adjusting everything before Keshawn even got in. "I’ve been driving before you had hair on your nuts, little nigga."
Keshawn settled into the passenger seat as Michael started the engine, the sound filling the garage with a growl that echoed off the walls, pulling out carefully.
"Hook my shit up," Michael said, handing his phone to Keshawn.
"You always take over the aux."
"Because you got trash taste in music," Michael scrolled through his phone as Keshawn connected it to the Bluetooth. "I'm trying to educate you."
The beat that came through the speakers was familiar, something Keshawn had heard before but couldn't place immediately.
"I can’t believe this motherfucker dead," Michael bobbed his head to the beat as he pulled out into the quiet street, "I mean, I guess I can."
"Nigga, what?"
"You didn't hear?" Michael glanced over at him. "Yeah, he got killed at his crib. Robbery or some shit."
The chain around Keshawn's neck suddenly felt heavier. His watch ticked against his wrist, each second loud in his ears despite the music. Michael kept talking but Keshawn wasn't really listening anymore.
"You good?" Michael's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Yeah," Keshawn managed. "I'm good."
But his hand had moved to the chain, fingers tracing the links, and he couldn't quite convince himself that was true.
G Damian Lillard: 17 pts, 2 reb, 6 ast, 5-15 FG, 5-10 3PT
C Karl-Anthony Towns: 32 pts, 21 reb, 5 stl, 12-23 FG, 2-8 3PT
@ 
(14-22)
@ 
(12-25)
Big Trell. Murdered because of a bitch and a bitch nigga. 
Y'all got lucky against Denver
Smacking Orlando up just to give it back to Chicago is crazy work