Your support keeps me motivated to keep posting.
“Wait a minute!
Did Fresno just put an Asian player in for the second half?” “Hold on, let me check the roster.
How the hell do you even pronounce this name?” “Rex…?
Rex Valen?” Mike Breen mangled the name with maximum American awkwardness.
His partner Mark Jackson wore the expression of a man who had just bitten into something sour and shrugged.
“Cleveland must have lost his damn mind.
Down twelve at the half and he throws in a kid whose combine numbers aren’t even listed anywhere official?
And did y’all see that little interaction just now?
He grabbed Tristan Thompson by the jaw!
I don’t know what happened between those two, but it looked like they were about to share a cross-cultural French kiss on national television.” … On the floor Tristan Thompson snapped out of his daze.
Pure humiliation rocketed straight to the top of his skull.
He was Tristan Thompson.
Iron-blooded Big 12 big man.
One of the most physical defenders in the country.
And some nobody had just publicly manhandled his face?
If this clip hit social media he would never be able to pull thick girls at the club again.
“Fuck you!
I’m gonna tear this yellow monkey apart!” Thompson roared at the top of his lungs.
Rex simply released the jaw and wiped his hand on his shorts with pure disgust.
“Your breath is fucking toxic.
Brush your teeth.
Don’t pollute the air with a mouth that’s already too dirty for women to put on their bodies.” The referee blew the whistle.
Play resumed.
Fresno ball.
Thompson swallowed the rage and swore he would make Rex pay.
Paul George brought it up.
Avery Bradley stuck to him like a rabid dog.
“PG!
Here!” In the paint Rex planted that granite body and sealed Tristan Thompson behind him.
Thompson gritted his teeth and tried to fight over the top with everything he had.
The moment he slammed into Rex’s back it felt like running full speed into a loaded dump truck.
Nothing moved.
“The fuck?!” “This guy’s body is straight-up steel!” One single possession and Thompson’s confidence cracked.
Before the shock could settle, Paul George fired a high lob into the paint—slightly off target.
“MY BALL!” Thompson exploded upward, fingers reaching for the steal.
He never touched it.
A shadow large enough to blot out the sun swallowed him whole.
Rex planted one step inside the free-throw line and launched like some prehistoric beast.
Forty-seven inches of vertical plus 7’1″ of pure length put him almost level with the rim.
BOOM——————!!
A miserable scream tore out of Thompson.
In mid-air he looked like he had been hit by a 155-millimeter artillery shell.
His body flew sideways more than six feet and crashed to the floor in a pathetic heap.
Rex hung on the rim with both arms, then violently slapped the glass for emphasis.
37–47.
Silence.
The entire Kansas arena went dead.
The home crowd sat frozen, faces blank, looking like a collective cosplay of those rubber chicken toys that scream when you squeeze them.
“OH!!
MY!!
GOD!!” In the booth Mark Jackson launched out of his chair.
“Unbelievable!
Unbelievable!!
That is not science!
That is not human!
He just posterized Tristan Thompson like the man was a prop!
That power, that explosion… it felt like a bulldozer just drove over Tristan’s head!” Thompson lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
For one second he had felt a fully loaded semi-truck running him over at fifty miles an hour.
His chest screamed.
Breathing hurt.
He half-expected to look down and find his soul still stuck to the rim.
… Kansas possession.
Avery Bradley’s expression had turned deadly serious.
He glanced at the still-dazed Thompson and decided to run a set that would let his big man save face.
Bradley used a screen at the top, lost his man, and knifed into the paint.
The moment Rex stepped up to help, Bradley’s eyes lit up.
He lofted the ball high off the glass.
“Alley-oop!” Thompson rose to meet it, both hands ready to throw it down.
The two of them had been running this exact play from the Big 12 season all the way into March Madness.
It had worked every time in the first half.
Not today.
A massive body appeared in front of Thompson with zero warning.
BOOM!!
[Zeus’s Shield] domain activated.
Rex spread both arms and became a living wall of sighs, casting an endless shadow across the entire paint.
Slap!!
Two massive hands clamped onto the ball like a vice.
Two-handed rejection.
“Ohhhhhh!!!” “What am I looking at?!
pot roast just two-hand rejected Tristan Thompson!” Mike Breen had completely lost control of the mic.
“That is a two-handed catch-and-swat!
I have never seen a block like that in my life!
First two possessions and this kid has already delivered two top-ten plays!
The mysterious force has entered the building and immediately flipped the entire script!” … The game flew at warp speed.
Rex and Thompson warred for position in the paint.
Thompson had gone full desperation mode, throwing the same energy he used on cheerleaders in bed.
It did nothing.
Rex’s legs were two load-bearing pillars.
No amount of pushing, clawing, or biting moved him even half an inch.
Thompson could not even step foot in the paint.
Paul George saw the space and let a three fly from the wing.
Clang!
The ball hit the front of the rim and bounced high.
“Damn it!” Thompson completely lost position and threw himself onto Rex’s back like a koala, trying to foul him out of the air.
Then he became a cute little backpack.
KRA-BOOM——!!
Rex caught the rebound with both hands and, still carrying Tristan Thompson on his back, slammed the ball through the rim with pure violence.
At the exact same moment the referee’s whistle screamed.
Defensive foul.
Basket counts.
And-one.
41–47.
Carrying dunk.
And-1.
… “What the fuck?!” Paul George charged in like a rabid dog and locked Rex in a full-body hug, entire frame twitching with pure adrenaline.
“You just dunked with a full-grown man on your back for an and-1!
Rex, tell me right now—what kind of NASA rocket boosters are you hiding in that body?!” Rex landed, completely calm, and shrugged.
“Is it that hard, PG?
It’s just three simple steps.” “Step one: jump with both legs.
Step two: accept the passenger.
Step three: throw it down.” Paul’s grin froze.
A full row of black lines formed across his forehead.
That was the exact same logic as “How to become President of the United States.” Step one: run for office.
Step two: give speeches.
Step three: move into the White House.
“The problem, you absolute bastard, is that normal human beings cannot fucking do that!!” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Aqu_Viva Your support keeps me motivated to keep posting.