Title: “Double or Nothing”
⸻
It starts in a warehouse that smells like old money and new sweat.
A single hanging light bulb sways overhead, cutting through the darkness in slow circles.
There’s a man tied to a chair — wrists bound, duct tape across his mouth, trembling in the spotlight. His Air Force Ones squeak every time he shifts his feet against the concrete.
Somewhere in the shadows, two men whisper in low tones:
“You sure this the guy?”
“That’s what the boss said. Owes a hundred grand.”
“He don’t look like he even owns a hundred dollars.”
The bound man tries to speak, muffled panic noises under the tape. One of the goons sighs, rips it off.
“I don’t owe anybody! I just played dice with some old heads at a restaurant! I was winning too!”
The taller goon shakes his head.
“That was his restaurant.”
The sound of sneakers squeaking echoes from down the hall.
Then — a basketball bounces once, twice, three times.
The goons stand straight, nervous. The door creaks open.
And in steps HIM —
6’6”, bald, immaculate sweatsuit, gold hoop earring catching the light.
He’s carrying a Spalding under one arm and a cigar in the other.
His presence shifts the entire air in the room — like gravity just decided to play defense.
He exhales a slow puff of smoke.
“Somebody in here been rolling sevens against the house?”
The man in the chair blinks. “Wait… is this about the dice game? Bro, I thought that was for fun!”
The legend chuckles. It’s the kind of laugh that sounds friendly, but makes you check if your kneecaps are still attached.
“Fun?” he says. “Fun’s for people who don’t know how to win.”
He sets the basketball on the floor, lets it roll until it bumps the man’s shoe.
“You lost a hundred grand.”
“But… I didn’t mean to lose it!”
“Nobody means to lose,” he says, crouching down eye level. “That’s why they do.”
He pats the man’s cheek — gently, almost affectionately — then straightens up.
“So here’s the deal. Double or nothing.”
The man squints. “What?”
“You hit one free throw. Just one. You walk outta here clean. You miss…”
He looks at the goons. “Well. You won’t walk outta here.”
A hoop slides down from the ceiling like some god-tier Bond villain trap — a rim, net, and backboard illuminated under the hanging bulb. A single basketball rolls toward the man’s feet.
He’s shaking so hard he almost misses grabbing it.
“My hands are tied—”
“Untie him,” says the legend. “Can’t say I don’t give people chances.”
The ropes drop. The man stands, knees wobbling.
He looks at the hoop, maybe twelve feet away. It might as well be on Mars.
He takes a breath, shoots.
THUNK. The ball rattles, spins — and drops in.
For a second, nobody moves.
Then the legend smiles.
Slow clap.
“See? All you needed was motivation.”
He tosses the cigar to the floor, stubs it out with the same shoe that once dunked on Ewing.
“Now get outta here before I change the spread.”
The man stumbles out, gasping daylight like he’s reborn.
The goons look at each other.
“Boss, you really gonna let him go?”
“Yeah,” he says, picking up the ball. “I covered the bet.”
He walks to the hoop, one smooth motion — jumps —
and dunks so hard the light bulb explodes.
