Vision Quest by Terry Davis Page B

stop my stealthy crawl and pop up behind Kenny Schmoozler, our man at 133. Carla thinks Schmoozler’s name is awfully cute. She says that with a name like that, Schmoozler should be a little animal. I assure her that he is.
    â€œLewis will take you down, you let yourself get weak!” Coach yells.
    â€œI feel great, Coach.” I gleam. “That Romaine Lettuce is a doper. He won’t take me down. I’ll dance, sing, dice him, slice him. I’ll counsel him on the dangers of snorting hair straightener. His internal environment is polluted. Lettuce won’t take me down.”
    Coach covers his eyes. He knows when the team is feeling right.
    â€œDid you eat?” he growls.
    â€œI ate, I ate. Two carob bars and a can of Nutrament,” I reply. “Lean and mean, Coach! Lean and mean!” I chant.
    Otto snorts like a wild pig. “Lean and mean, lean andmean!” He’s worked his way around to Sausage and kicks him through his blankets.
    â€œLean and mean! Lean and mean!” the Sausage Man pipes.
    Now all of us are rooting around the mats on all fours, bumping into each other, grunting like frenzied swine, chanting, “Lean and mean! Lean and mean!”
    Coach lets us go for about a minute, then continues with the scouting report. We stop. We’ve got to conserve. There’s a tough practice ahead.
    Otto and I sit with our arms resting on Thuringer. He peeks his head out at Otto, then leers at me. “Don’t fuck with me,” the Sausage Man warns.
    â€œDamon,” I say. “Damon, my boy. Otto and I have only come to congratulate you on your captaincy.”
    â€œBite ass, Swain,” Sausage says. “Just bite ass.”
    Otto is offended by this unfriendliness. He tweaks Sausage’s nose and pushes his head under the blankets.
    â€œSausage Man,” Otto coos. “We know what you do under your blankies. No more hacking your lizard in the privacy of your little nest. Self-abuse saps your strength, Sausage. Take heed: thou shalt not pump thy pepperoni.”
    â€œYou fuckers better not hurt my lip. I haven’t got my mouthpiece,” Sausage informs us. Being a good flute player, Sausage really has to take care of his lip.
    â€œYour mouthpiece is in a safe place, Damon,” I reply.
    The Sausage Man groans from beneath his blankets. Heknows where that safe place is. Every chance I get I stuff his mouthpiece down my jock. He’s usually more careful with it. He must be worried about his match. He left it on the windowsill.
    Coach is demonstrating to Jean-Pierre Baldosier, our number-one man at 185, how his L.C. man likes to stack people up with a double chicken wing. We call him “Balldozer” half out of fun and respect for the way he munches people and about half because we can’t pronounce his name right.
    Coach’s arms are hooked deeply under Jean-Pierre’s armpits, and Coach has driven him forward on the mat so that his neck has bent underneath him and he is now “stacked up” on his shoulders, his feet waving in the air. Coach asks if Balldozer understands the move. Balldozer can’t breathe, let alone speak, and he tries to communicate that idea with gasps and grunts. Coach thinks he’s requesting further demonstration, so he reefs some more on the double chicken wing. Balldozer is pinned. His scapulae rest on the mat. His nose is buried in his hairy chest. Coach cinches up good on his chicken wing, scrunching Jean-Pierre even further into the shape of an upside-down question mark, and asks again if he understands. Taking advantage of Coach’s inattention, Otto flops down on Sausage, who is mashed from lump to patty. He squeals unintelligibly. Otto watches attentively as Balldozer’s head turns purple and blue, while I reachunder the blankets and pull off Sausage’s shoes and socks.
    Coach is finished with Balldozer, who gasps and nods that he understands about the