(Within S1:E1)

On the same Sunday afternoon that Suzze Osmond was running back up the hill, deAngelo Freeman too, was running -- for his life.

At least that’s the way he thought about it whenever he had possession. He possessed the football. The football possessed him. They were one and the same, God’s instrument unto the world.

A lot had happened in the last three seconds. He had caught the ball deep in the end zone and was crossing the twenty-yard line.

The game clock had run out.

He was down five and a touchdown would win the game.

Eighty yards to go.

Eleven big men trying to stop him from getting there.

deAngelo froze. In his mind, he froze the action around him, something he couldn’t explain but to him it seemed as if he were stopping time itself.

He spotted the defense and their positions on the field like players on a chess board.

He saw his path through the obstacles, already overcome.

His last season. Thank God. His book, Jesus in the Backfield, pulled in a six-million-dollar advance, ghost-written by the same guy who wrote for Pastor Steve. As a guest pastor, he could pull in $200k a day. Already booked a year in advance.

A split second later he turned everything back on and, jacked up on enough Equine Adderall to make a horse fly, started running again, having never paused for an instant as far as the 90,000 fans in Sun Life Stadium could see.

The multitudes flew alongside him, just a foot away, or so it seemed as they watched him on the video boards high above the stadium.

Millions more watched from screens in homes and bars across America.

And when deAngelo scored the winning touchdown, game over, just twelve seconds later, they high-fived and tossed their beers and collected their bets.

It was indeed a glorious day. Blessed indeed was deAngelo Freeman.

Victory in Christ and on the field achieved, deAngelo fell to his knees as was his custom, striking the reverent pose that was his signature move.

As the people celebrated, he, too, celebrated, tucking the football under his arm and bowing his head to give thanks to the Lord.

As he prayed, the high priests of the sports world, sitting in the press booths atop the stadium, in turn praised deAngelo, claiming with jubilation in their voices that his talents were indeed extraordinary and giving thanks that America was so blessed to have a man like deAngelo Freeman, a moral compass for other young men, a humble man, a man of family, a man of faith, a man of God.

The stadium buzzed, vibrating like bees in a hive, each on high alert, each screaming to be heard above all the others.

But deAngelo remained still - still crouching, still praying, still giving thanks - when tight end Bruce Peltski plopped on his back to bear hug him out of his trance.

But deAngelo did not move.

As Peltski stepped back, the Jumbotrons began a slow zoom towards the man in prayer, tighter and tighter, with amazing clarity, illuminated so that the image of deAngelo shone in extraordinary detail, zooming in until tens of millions of spectators could see the individual drops of sweat on the back of deAngelo’s neck, dead center, in the middle of the screen.

The zoom froze in extreme close up.

One by one, they became quiet. And one by one they started pointing, until everyone pointed to the same spot on the screen high overhead, to the drops of bright, red, sparkling blood creeping down the chin strap of deAngelo Freeman.

Medics rushed in.

The team physician released the strap and pulled the helmet away.

The video feed was cut.

The monitors in the stadium flashed off.

And all across America screens went black, replaced seconds later by a commercial for Bud Lite.

#end

Professor Popiel “P.P.” Popoff, Ph.D. was urinating in a
five-gallon bucket of tap water when he noticed a speck of red spider-web across the surface.

And then another.

Assuming it was blood, a safe assumption at his advanced age, he immediately pinched his diminutive member halting the flow in mid-stream which caused him no small amount of distress, only to see another bright red drop hit the surface and dissipate into the mixture below.

He examined the end of his manhood looking for the source of the blood only to find nothing. Then another drop. And another. A wave of nausea overcame him, then another, and another, drip, drip, drip, the pace quickening with every drop. He looked to the ceiling for the source, inadvertently letting go of his member which snapped back into his trousers, thoroughly wetting his pants.

Professor Popoff sold holy water.

He was neither a professor nor a Ph.D. but since a doctorate degree is de rigueur for any self-respecting Christian leader, he gladly accepted the honorarium when bestowed upon him by Pope Ignatius in exchange for promotional considerations for his magic mixture of tap water and piss.

Popoff had made a career of selling his concoction in quarter-ounce vials, first from newspaper ads and TV infomercials, now on the Book ($39.95 each or two for the price of one, simply pay additional shipping and handling). Throughout most of his long and storied life, he’d gotten by modestly on a few million a year, enough to keep him in vintage Cadillacs and a daily ration of equally vintage hoochie coochie girls.
His holy water had always been prized by aficionados, who swore by the rancid ammonia smell indicating that the Devil had exited the body.

Popoff struck a cross-marketing deal with the Vatican
With the advent of Exorcisms by Skype, he struck a cross-marketing deal with the Vatican and business boomed as never before, now providing a small jet, a step up to a Mercedes, and a small but opulent manse on the California coast where he could revel in the sunsets while entertaining a higher class of hooker.

But the blood was troubling. Unable to locate the source, he gazed upon his reflection in the bucket of holy water as the drips continued to pick up pace and noticed that they emanated from his left ear. He poked around with his finger, pulled it away and noticed that it indeed was covered with blood. Fighting back another wave of nausea and desperate to plug the flow, he pushed his finger deeper into his ear, and deeper still before pulling it away only to release a floodgate of blood.

Sensing his life to be in danger, he inserted his finger as forcefully into his ear as he could, whereupon it plunged through his macerated cranium, sinking all the way to his knuckle and killing him instantly, whereupon he crashed to the floor overturning the bucket of pee-water.

Five gallons of sacred juice, with a retail value of $222,272.00 (plus shipping and handling), when splashed across his body head to toe, was not enough to save him. P.P. Popoff, Ph.D. was dead to the world.

#end

Missy Swiegel and her husband the Reverend Ezekiel Swiegel of Zeke Swiegel Teleministries International were having afternoon drinks and otherwise socializing on the veranda of their Naples, Florida winter home when Ms. Swiegel noticed the Reverend’s stomach growl in an abnormally loud fashion, followed by a burp and a broad smile. Ms. Swiegel believed that the Reverend was merely smiling at the comfort he felt having just attained digestive relief. She continued to lightly converse with him but to no response. Miffed, she went inside to ask her housekeeper, Betsy Lee to prepare another Peach Daiquiri for herself and a Tom Collins, light on the gin, for the Reverend, as his was losing its frost.

She returned to find the Reverend sitting in the same position as she had left him, his big smile still present, the only difference being that something that appeared to be scrambled eggs was oozing out of the corners of his mouth.

Ms. Swiegel assumed it to be the morning’s breakfast but noticed whatever it was, was loose and runny and that the Reverend preferred his eggs well done, and that Betsy Lee knew that as well, and always prepared his eggs well done or hard boiled depending on his preference at the time.

Betsy Lee delivered the drinks and sat the Tom Collins -- light on the gin -- in front of the Reverend, expecting him to down the first half in one gulp, as was his custom. When he did not do so, Mrs. Swiegel, conferred with Betsy Lee who thought it wise to call an ambulance.

Swiegel was pronounced dead on the scene by EMS, apparently from massive head injuries.

Upon hearing from EMS that Mr. Swiegel was deceased, Mrs. Swiegel commented that she knew he must be in Heaven, having passed away peacefully, and with a smile on his face, praise Jesus.

Mrs. Swiegel is being detained for questioning.

Authorities are awaiting the autopsy report before making further comments.

#end