[Ed. Another post written by the excellent imafreak.]

Is he Adam or Jesus? Please pick one.

 (Via. mgoblog.com)

The gaze of the full moon illuminated Tate Forcier’s slumbering face with a beautiful golden sheen that matched the maize in Forcier’s maize and blue one-piece-footie PJs. It was a marvelous early autumn night in Ann Arbor. A little cool. Just what your uncle would call, “good sleeping weather.” Normally, I’d mention a chorus of birds that were singing our cherubic hero a lullaby, but birds don’t sing at night and aren’t generally heard through a closed third story window. So, the only sounds were the snuffling and snorting that emanated from the dark corner where Forcier’s roommate wrestled with sleep. The smile on young Tate’s face momentarily disappeared as the roommate passed gas prodigiously. But it was just a passing cloud and the relaxed contentment returned to that beatific face.

The stillness of the night was rent asunder as a booming baritone voice accompanied by a pounding on the door rolled through the room like staccato bursts of thunder.

“Open in the name of the People! Comrade Forcier, the Wolverine Liberation Army requests a word with you.”

Just as Forcier’s eyes began to clear the mist of sleep, the door burst open and 3 figures dressed in black with black face masks, emblazoned with red unicorns, spilled into the room. They grabbed Forcier and pulled him towards the door.

“The WLA requests an audience with you.”

Tate, utterly confused reached out for his dresser–where he kept his brah necklaces and Live Strong bracelets.

The baritone voice again. “The Revolution is not concerned with your accessories, brah-cephus. The State will provide.” And with that young Tate’s world suddenly went black, as a canvas bag was thrust over his head.

The next few minutes were a rush of black confusion as Tate was blindly shuffled down the stairs and out into the night and then transported frantically across campus on a trio of sputtering mopeds. More shuffling, again down stairs. He felt himself shoved down into a chair. Then the baritone, this time in his ear, so close he was engulfed in a penumbra of tequila and olives, “we love you to pieces, Brah-braham Lincoln. But this is for your own good.”

And with that, there was light and Forcier could see again. He found himself in a dark room. Cinder block walls, bare concrete floor. The ceiling was obscured in a tangle of pipes—one dripped intermittently into a puddle on the floor. The only illumination came from a single light bulb swinging on a cord that grew from the darkness beyond the pipes. On the wall facing Forcier hung a propaganda picture of Rich Rodriguez gazing into the distance. Beneath the picture of the Fearless Leader sat two men at a table. The first, a man dressed in an absurd pink and green sweater bearing the crest of one of the usual Elite East Coast Private Schools and a pair of kakhis, was scribbling on a piece of paper. The second, younger man, wearing an unfortunate mustache and John Navarre Michigan jersey, looked on irritated.

PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN: Can we get started?

EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITE: Hold on. I’m just finishing up this thank you note to Charlie Weis. Did you want to sign it?

PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN: Can I sign it “Get. Fucked. You fat fuck?”

EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITE: I’ll just sign it WLA.

PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN: I think “Please kill urself” would be better.

About then Forcier coughed, if it was due to the damp basement air or to get noticed was not clear.

PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN, turned to recognize Forcier for the first time.

PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN: Good evening Comrade Forcier. I do hope that we didn’t disturb your sleep, but it was required. We have heard some disturbing stories that we wanted to verify first hand with you. We have heard that you are called The White Jesus. Are you The White Jesus?

TATE FORCIER: Thou sayest it.

PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN: Am I supposed to understand what that means? Look Comrade, we’ve heard that you claim to never get nervous. Like on every channel, you seem to be claiming this.

TATE FORCIER: I don’t even know how to get nervous.

PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN: While I’m totally sure that’s complete bullshit couldn’t you just say maybe you get a little nervous occasionally? Because, I’m thinking that probably sometime soon, you’re going to do something absurdly freshman-like, say, run out of the back of the end zone on accident. Wouldn’t it be better to just admit that maybe you get a little nervous—anxious—stressed out–before that happens and it’s completely obvious?

TATE FORCIER: Only those who have been defeated by failure need fear it.

PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN: Would it be too much to ask that you just stop talking about how un-nervous your entire existence is? Maybe just so that the superstitious amongst us can sleep at night?

Before Tate could answer a tall handsome man, wearing a dirty bartender’s apron burst into the room.

EXCITABLE LATE GUY: Hey guys, sorry I’m late. There was this babe that I was feeding free drinks to all night long so when I got off… You guys know how it is. (to PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN) well maybe you don’t. (Then to EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITE) You must. (Then, finally noticing TATE FORCIER.) Oh my God, you’re already here! Dude, you rock so hard! WE ARE GOING TO BE A MACHINE!

EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITE: Do I have to remind you why we are here?

EXCITABLE LATE GUY: (Chagrined.) Oh yeah, look dude, these guys really want you to stop telling everyone you never get nervous.

EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITE: Comrade Forcier, this was found in your bed tonight. (Holding up a stuffed, toy wolverine.) Can you explain this?

TATE FORCIER: Oh, that’s just Mr. Tickles.

EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITE glanced sideways at the others. A look of disdain on his face. Suddenly he shot up out of his chair, tearing an exquisite loafer from his foot and slamming his now barefoot onto the cool concrete.

EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITE: (now pounding the loafer on the table) DENARD WILL DEFEAT YOU!

EXCITABLE LATE GUY: Dude, you must chill. Look Tate, let me shoot something by you. I was hoping to name my first son after you. But see, the thing is, I like, well, bigger ladies. And, I’m just thinking it wouldn’t be right to name a chubby kid after yo…

EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITE: DAMN IT NINJA WOULD YOU SHUT UP!

PORNSTACHE NAVARRE MAN: Crap chitown, I thought we were trying to stay anonymous.

EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITE: Jebus, this is a fiasco. (then to no one in particular) LIGHTS!

And with that the room was plunged into complete darkness. Tate heard a strange “CAW CAW!” followed by a loud crash. Then a “DAMNIT.” Shortly after the lights came back on.

Tate sat alone again in the basement of Angel Hall.

Not the least bit nervous.