I can see it now:
on a run play to the left side, dominic hixon is minding his own business on the right when Johnathan Vilma channels his inner scott fulita and takes him out at the knees for no reason. A fight ensues and the Saints end up winning the game on some BS call from the refs.
Vilma is the last person out of the stadium. As he walks out of the locker room, he catches a replay of himself taking hixon out. His pants grow tighter with each angle they show. He can stand it no longer as he swiftly releases the demon in his loins by dropping trou and masturbating furiously. Greg Williams would be proud. The broadcast cuts to commercial. An ASPCA commercial with sarah mclachlan airs as images of vagrant and destitute animals flash across the screen. Vilma immediately reaches climax. After he cleans himself up, he slowly walks to the team bus completely satisfied with what has transpired on this gameday in Mexico. As he walks towards his teammates, all already on the bus, he is overcome with a sense of uneasiness. Is someone following him? He can’t be too sure. Are his footsteps echoing? Is someone following him? This is an open area… Only broken down cars and the lonely bus are littered across this seemingly empty parking lot.
With each step his paranoia grows. One step – echo. Two steps – echo echo.
Vilma, sensing he is not alone, quickens his pace. His footsteps no longer echo, instead he can now tell there is another distinct pair of feet following behind him. Vilma spins around and pulls out the knife he planned to use on the field in the day’s game, but forgot in his locker. Only shadows have been following him. His nerves slowly return to him as he scans the vacant parking lot. He turns around and continues on towards the bus. The closer he gets, the more he knows something isn’t right. Normally after a game in which they send someone to IR, there is champagne and loud satanic music coming from their team bus. But this night air is eerily cold and quiet. A sense of dread grows inside him.
He finally reaches the bus, but the doors do not open. That’s odd. All saints are used to the world catering to their biddings. When Drew brees wants a flag. A flag is thrown. When sean peyton wants the soul of an orphan, an orphan is provided. And when Johnathan vilma wants a door opened automatically for him doors are opened. With a sigh of disdain and a roll of his eyes, vilma pries the door open with the butcher knife still in his hand. He enters the bus and almost shits his pants in horror.
The entire saints team is dead. The players, the coaches, the Cajun Voodoo witch doctor, all dead. Brees lays in a pile of his own vomit and blood with what looks like a pool cue shoved up his ass. Marquis colston and sean peyton sport brand new Columbian neck ties and empty eye sockets. Rob Ryan lays in the back, pants around his ankles with a throbbing erection with what looks like the hacked off feet of jimmy graham and pierre Thomas shoved in his mouth.
Vilma lets out a blood curdling, very feminine, shriek and turns to run out of the bus – and immediately hits a brick wall. Nay, that is no brick wall, that is the barrel chest of one of the Mexican cartel. A smile creeps across the gang lords face as he softly whispers the words in a strong Spanish accent:
“No meester Jon… you come weet us”
Vilma is immediately knocked unconscious.
He comes too slowly, groggily, trying to find his bearings. What time is it? Where is he? Are they on the water? Yes it seems they are. He slowly stands up and a gun is shoved in his face.
“Not so fast dick spank” he hears a voice bellow.
Vilma’s eye is swollen shut so he can’t quite make out who said it, but the voice sounds oddly familiar to him. He rubs his eyes and what was once was a blurry mass of black and light blue begins to take the form of a cloaked figure. This man is not alone as he is surrounded by 37 members of the Mexican cartel. Vilma’s heart races and he begins to realize that this is the end.
“You shouldn’t have done that Jon.” The cloaked figure says. “We understand that you are compensated for the harm you cause others. It looks like you and I have something in common. The only difference is, there is honor in the work I do.”
Vilma’s lip begins to quiver and tears stream down his face. That voice… it’s just too familiar… who is this hooded man.
“Do you know how long it took me to create this empire here in Mexico?” the mysterious figure asks. “It actually only took me three years. Three short years to reach where I am today. And there is no way in poo I am letting you ruin this for me.”
“B- but… I just play football… I have nothing to do with you…”
The shadowy figure laughs and vilma’s testicles rescind into his body. That voice… he KNOWS that voice…
“It looks like you don’t understand Mr. Vilma. So are we. Are you familiar with the latest Monday night football game between the patriots and panthers? You are aren’t you? Well it turns out that was the highest rated MNF game in ESPN Deportes’ history. It certainly wasn’t due to the bitch boy Brady that America is gaga over for one reason or another… No… it’s due to one man… and one man only…”
The voice… the cold monotonous tone… it can’t be… it couldn’t be…
The figure reaches into his coat and pulls out a pistol and turns the barrel towards Vilma’s face. Vilma immediately shits his pants.
“What was it they called your little scandal up in New Orleans? Bounty gate? Well it looks like someone placed a bounty on your head. Consider this little incident Bounty gate 2.0”
“NOOOO!!!” Vilma shrieks, again in a prepubescent girl’s voice. “ YOU CAN’T DO THIS R-“
The bullet exits the barrel and lands right between vilma’s eyes. He drops to the deck of the boat dead.
The cartel members scoop up the lifeless body of what used to be Johnathan Vilma and wrap it in a tarp. They tie a rope and anchor around the now ragdoll like corpse and throw it over the edge. The hooded figure stands at the edge of the boat… his boat that he earned over three tumultuous years. He watches as his enemy slowly descends to the depths of the river. He removes his hood and looks off into the distance with an emotionless dead eyed stare. He opens his mouth and utters one phrase:
“No one fugs with Riverboat Ron”