Perfect Fucking Greg

I came to LA to kidnap the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. Now I'm dragging him across Greg's front lawn.

The Packers are Greg's favorite football team even though he was born and raised in California. I grew up in New England, but I love the Rams. So I get Greg, and he gets me back. We have a lot in common. We're best friends, but that doesn't mean we have to like each other.

This is the first time I've seen his new house. It's perfectly American: two blue rocking chairs on the white wooden porch, a green lawn finely manicured, a brand new pickup truck in the driveway—fire engine red and freshly detailed. Everything in Greg's life is just perfect, even the weather. This morning, it's all blue skies without a muck of clouds in sight. 

All of this for perfect fucking Greg. 

So anyways, this Packers guy, let’s call him Darren Rogers—he’s twice my size and heavy as hell, but my adrenaline is soaring like a bald-fucking-eagle listening to Sabbath on acid. I have the power of ten men. No, eleven. Darren’s hands are zip-tied behind his back, and with all that formaldehyde in him, he can barely struggle.

I drag him to the middle of Greg's lawn. I hold him up by the shoulder pads like a hunter lifting the antlers of a dead buck.

"Hey Greg," I yell. "Get out here and see what I brought you!"

I can hear him rustling around inside his perfect little house, cursing my name to his girlfriend. Then, the screen door opens, and he steps out onto the porch. 

Greg is a full head taller than me, blonde, and physically fit. Probably more capable of kidnapping a professional football player than I am, too. I bet that's what he's thinking right now. He thinks he's so much better than me, but I have news for him: he's not.

So Greg is just standing there looking stupid as hell, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, awestruck, wearing only his boxers and an old Have Heart tour t-shirt—my old Have Heart tour t-shirt. I thought I lost, but now I know where it went. The mother-fucking thief. 

"What are you doing here?" He asks. "Is that Darren Rogers?"

"Is that my t-shirt?"

Greg looks down and points to his chest. "This is mine."

"Bullshit!" I punch Darren in the back of the head to show Greg that I mean business.

"Why is Darren Rogers on my front lawn?" Greg asks.

I shrug. "Tradition.”

***

We love to joke around. We used to go back and forth like this when we lived in New York, these little pranks.

One time, he wrote my phone number on a Jenga block at a bar. Strangers called me at all hours for months. To get him back, I put his number on a Boston Craigslist ad saying he had an autographed Larry Bird jersey for sale. Greg hates the Celtics with a passion. That one got him good.

And once, after a night of heavy drinking, I passed out on Greg’s couch. The next morning, he stole my wallet and went on a shopping spree. He strutted back that afternoon wearing an Armani suit and Gucci sunglasses. He woke me up by slapping me across the face with my empty wallet.

I had to retaliate.

So what did I do? I broke into his apartment and took a baseball bat to all of his expensive stuff—iPad, laptop, the big TV hanging on his living room wall. Then I peed in his ice cube trays. And I cut up his mattress with a butcher’s knife and stabbed his pillow into the wall. I wrote, "WATCH YOUR BACK," with ketchup on the ceiling above his bed. He never mentioned it, and so I never told him it was me.

So you see, we've always had our little fun. 

Tradition.

***

Greg walks across the lawn and stops a few feet in front of me. Our eyes glue together. Darren writhes between us. 

"Please, buddy," Darren mutters. "You gotta help me. This guy is a maniac. He's gonna kill me."

"I'm not going to kill you," I say. "I'm only joking around."

"Let's bring him to the police," says Greg.

"So you can have me arrested? No way."

"We'll drop him off a few blocks away from the station. Then you and I can go get a beer somewhere and talk about whatever is bothering you."

"You," I say, poking Greg in the chest hard enough to hurt my finger. "You are what's bothering me! And drop this cool guy act. Stop showing off for Darren."

Greg shakes his head. "You can't keep him. You know that, right? You have to let him go eventually, bud."

"Don't call me bud."

"Here. Let’s get him to my truck. I’ll help you bring him back to the stadium.”

"Why would I do that, Greggy?” He hates when I call him that. “So the Packers can beat the Rams? Fat chance, bud. And anyway, I know what this is really about: you're afraid of losing the championship to me. Admit it."

"I don't care about fantasy football," says Greg. "I care about you. This is really bad, man."

He’s so full of shit.

***

Since the day we met, Greg and I have always been competitive. We have a fantasy football league. Now, we're the last two teams standing. Today's game will dictate the championship winner. It's either me or Greg. 

Yesterday he texted our fantasy chat and said that I suck. He said that in front of our friends, can you believe it? I can't. Some might say it was friendly trash talk. Not me, though. I know him too well. I had to retaliate. 

Greg's team is good, way better than mine. His fantasy quarterback is Darren—stupid Greg's perfect stupid little hero. The Packers are in LA to play the Rams, and kick-off is only a few hours away. If Darren doesn't show up for the game, the Packers will have no starting quarterback, and neither will Greg. He'll lose the championship, and I'll win because I have the Rams quarterback on my team. 

You see? It's an airtight plan. A bulletproof plan. A waterproof, fireproof, run-it-over-with-a-tank-proof plan.

***

"So what are you going to do with him now?" Greg asks. "What's the rest of your airtight plan?"

I have no idea, and I don’t like being questioned. "Stop being difficult," I say.

"You are the one who is being difficult."

"Well, you're being a bad friend."

Greg sighs and shakes his head. "I'm just looking out for you, bud."

"I'm just looking out for you, bud," I say, mimicking his dumb deep voice.

"This is kidnapping," he says. "This is a crime. If you don't get him back to the stadium, the cops will start looking for him. You're going to get busted." 

Fuck. Greg is right.

"He's right," says Darren. 

I punch Darren in the head harder than before. He passes out. I let him fall to the grass, then turn my attention back to Greg.

"You're a wuss," I say, poking him in the chest again. "And that's my t-shirt." 

"No, it isn't. Stop saying that." Greg pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales obnoxiously loud. "How about this: we'll drive him up to Runyon Canyon and drop him off on a random jogging trail. By the time he finds his way to the stadium, you'll be on a plane back home."

I hesitate, mulling over the offer. "And you won't rat me out? I won’t get sacked by the cops at the airport?"

"I'll never mention this to anyone."

"Fine." I grab Darren by the shoulder pads, Greg takes his legs, and together we carry him over the lawn to the driveway. "But I'm only doing this on one condition," I say, grunting along the way. "You have to bench Darren today. You have to play the championship game without a quarterback in your lineup."

"You're out of your mind," says Greg.

"Do we have a deal or no?"

"Hell no."

I let go of Darren. He thuds onto the pavement. "I’m afraid those are my terms."

We stand there in silence for a few minutes, staring at each other over Darren’s unconscious body. Eventually, Greg agrees. We spit in our palms and shake on it, then we load Darren into Greg's sparkly little red truck.

"What do you think of my new whip, anyway?" says Greg as he closes the tailgate.

"Stop trying to show off," I say. 

***

Darren is sliding all over the bed of the truck on the way. Greg's got a lead foot. He can't drive worth a damn. Never could. 

At the top of a random trail, we unload Darren like a sick old dog we're too afraid to shoot. We prop him up against a big rock. Joggers are passing, staring at us, so we play it cool.

“Act natural,” says Greg.

I put my sunglasses on Darren’s face to cover up his black eyes. We make small talk and pretend he’s talking back, like we’re all having the goddamn best ever weekend at Bernie's. Greg and I stand there for a little longer, smoking cigarettes, pretending to take in the view. Then, we casually get back into the truck and leave. 

No one will question what you're doing as long as you do it with confidence, even if what you're doing is dragging a pro football player out of the bed of your truck and leaving him for dead at the top of Runyon Canyon.

I learned that from Greg.

***

He drives me to LAX.

At my terminal, he gets out of the truck and hugs me. I don't hug him back.

"I love you," says Greg. "Thanks for the gift."

"What gift?"

"Today. All of it. I'll never forget the time we kidnapped Darren Rogers."

"Who's 'we'? You got a mouse in your pocket? I kidnapped Darren Rogers! You just stood there making a big damn stink about it."

"Yeah,” says Greg. He takes off his t-shirt—my t-shirt. He balls it up and hands it to me. "This is yours."

"I know,” I say.

Shirtless, Greg gets back into his truck and waves goodbye as he drives away.

***

It takes forever to get through security. I make the flight but just barely.

I plop down in my seat and check my phone—news alerts, dozens of them—articles about Darren Rogers kidnapping and information about his arrival at the stadium.

He made it in time for the game. He stumbled in on foot, disheveled and bloody. He told reporters he doesn’t remember anything about his mysterious disappearance. 

I check my fantasy football app. There is no quarterback in Greg's starting lineup. He kept his word. Darren is on the bench.

I text Greg: I love u back

Then, I fall asleep.

***

I wake up as the plane lands in New York. I turn on my phone to find hundreds of missed texts in the fantasy chat, mainly from Greg, talking shit about me, calling me a loser and a chump, saying I suck again.

What gives? I thought we were cool.

Confused and groggy, I check my fantasy app. Darren Rogers played the best game of his life, and the Packers won. The Rams quarterback didn't score a single point. 

Then, I get a text message from Greg, a link to a news article. The headline reads: LA RAMS QUARTERBACK GOES MISSING BEFORE KICKOFF.

Witnesses claim they saw a tall, shirtless, blonde man load him into the bed of a shiny red pickup truck in the stadium parking lot and drive off.

That son of a bitch. 

Now, the fantasy season is over.

I lost, and Greg won. Perfect fucking Greg, and his perfect fucking prank. 

I'll get him back, though. I have to retaliate. It’s tradition.