“Coach… with all the respect in the universe, and I’m talking, like, ALL the respect… that’s… that’s kinda… extra. Like, Level 1000 extra, you know? Won’t that… uh… leave, like, every other pyer on their entire team just, you know, chilling in the open?
Like, inviting them over for a picnic in the park open? Isn't that kind of… pying directly into the whole… ‘other pyers scoring a million points’ situation?” Salman gestures vaguely, trying to articute the sheer strategic insanity of the pn without straight-up calling Coach a certified lunatic to his face. “Are we, like, totally sure this isn’t some eborate prank? Or maybe some kind of… performance art piece about the utter futility of human existence in the face of overwhelming talent?”
Coach Rahman nods, slowly, deliberately, like he’s a wise old redwood tree confirming the undeniable truth of photosynthesis. “Yes,” he intones, each word resonating with grim, almost theatrical finality. “It will leave other pyers open.
Obnoxiously, offensively, ridiculously open. It’s a risk the size of… well, let’s just say it’s a risk that requires its own zip code. But,” he emphasizes, holding up a finger for dramatic effect, “we must take it.
We have to sever the… the… lifeline of their offense. We must shut down their… their… central command center.” He's really leaning into the dramatic metaphors now, bless his heart, going full Shakespearean tragedy on them.
“If we allow this… phenomenon… to continue his second-quarter… antics, this game? Consider it a wrap. Game over, man, game over. We lose. Here. In our own house. In front of our moms and girlfriends.
The shame… the utter, soul-crushing humiliation…” His voice rises with dramatic fir, hitting operatic levels of despair. “We. Cannot. Let. That. Happen.” He’s practically vibrating with pure, unadulterated competitive fire now, any trace of zen calm completely evaporated, repced by raw, unfiltered determination.
He stabs a finger at Lut, then Saim, then Anderson, his eyes locking onto each pyer with ser-beam intensity, like he’s personally drafting them into a top-secret mission to disarm a nuclear bomb (said bomb being James). “Lut! Saim! Anderson!” he barks, voice sharp and commanding.
“You three. You are now… the James Containment Unit. You will be attached to him like… like white on rice at a sushi restaurant. Like a Kardashian glued to a selfie cam. Like… super glue, industrial-strength super glue. Don’t give him an inch. Don’t let him… flourish. Don’t even let him think about flourishing. Double-team? Amateurs. We’re going for gold, people. Triple-team. Is that… sinking in?” He stares at them, daring them to question his sanity, his eyes practically screaming, "Don't even think about arguing with me right now!"
Lut, Saim, and Anderson nod, real slow at first, like they're trying to process the sheer audacity, the utter bananas-ness of the pn, then with a dawning, almost resigned acceptance. That initial “WTF just happened?” look was slowly morphing into a grim, "well, guess this is our life now" kind of vibe.
It sounded absolutely bat-crap insane, straight out of a fever dream, or maybe some ridiculously over-the-top anime where the underdog team wins through sheer willpower and impossible strategies. But, and this is the crazy part, at this point? Crazy and desperate were legitimately the only two options left on the menu.
