Buzzer Beater

"It sure smells like March Madness in here," I offer with a grimace, scanning the room for the cadaver responsible for the    acrid cloud of aroma lingering. If I possessed    a machete, I would lop my own nose off, but not to spite my face. As I wonder how paint still manages to cling to these long suffering walls, I step into a brown bag of sweaty    debris while the host does his own adept bit of sleepy    dribbling, that mighty roar of a snore punctuating my discontent with affinity. I try breathing through my mouth before grabbing a longneck, tossing it down like a game-winning three-pointer with    no time left on-- the clock, on the wall, that’s it! My    lips drop a doozy of a lie as I tear past the beached flesh of my once dynamic friends.