Huntsville, Alabama 11:15pm

“...you know what? You’re right, to hell with all of them…” the tortoise bellowed, swinging his drink forward and spilling some onto the tablet screen he was holding in the other.

“That isn’t what I meant Bal-”

“You...you know, don’t you?” the tortoise interrupted, not bothering to wipe off the screen “I was one of the up and coming players in… in the Barca team. Played in the damn King’s Cup, and won.”

He placed the empty glass on the table and poured in more of the clear liquid from one of the half empty bottles on the table. It smelled strongly of licorice.

“Gave up University to play remember? Hah! mother had a fit, father didn't say anything, he never did actually…”

“Uh, Baltasar aren't you supposed to mix that with water or, take it in shots?” Asked the amphibian face on the screen. His large eyes getting wide in concern.

“Only thing I am good at” 

“What, getting drunk?” 

“Ha! I meant basketball, but this night? Sure, why not that too?”

He took another swig of his drink, wiping away a little drool off his beak and looked around his darkened living room, dimly illuminated by the lights of the sprawling city outside.

“I left everything behind, left mother alone with him, left Abby alone again…”

He took another drink.

“And for WHAT? Huh?”

Richter shifted uncomfortably before speaking. “Baltasar please, you’ve had enough, just put that stuff down for a moment an-”

“I’ll tell you what.”

The amphibian on the screen sighed and nodded, hoping maybe to distract the large tortoise. After all, as long as he was talking, he wasn’t drinking.

“I left it all, to get chosen fourth on draft night, and for all of about four hours man, I was... king of the fucking world…”

The tortoise stood still a moment, eyes closed, as if savoring the memory.

“I invited my whole family over, even convinced my father, my ACTUAL father to come. Him and mother haven't been in a room together in years. I spent so much time on the phone, trying to convince them and I finally did. Hell, I didn’t even complain when mother brought Roderick and Abby along.”

Richter knew what was coming next, but remained quiet, letting the reptile vent. 

“...why that night man? the very same night? Talk about cold blooded, and I AM cold blooded. Traded for the third pick. I know we as players are little more than pawns to these guys... but being reminded about it, in that way, literally on the day you’ve been picked?”

“That’s just how the FBA works man, you knew thi-”

“What the fuck is that even supposed to MEAN Richter?” T-Balt bellowed, more drink and spittle covering the screen. “How does knowing you’re just a stack of disposable numbers to these guys supposed to magically make it feel any less degrading when you're treated like one?”

The tortoise set the tablet on the table and poured himself another drink.

“We were about to leave when they told me. Literally, getting up to head on out. Abby was falling asleep. Then one of the men in suits called me, told me to walk over to the Mayor’s table for some reason...”

The tortoise remained still, gripping the glass in his huge hand, eyes cold and staring off into the window, catching the light coming off the tablet screen.

“They had me shake hands with the little cabron. Shake hands and smile… Asked me to walk over to talk with the staff from Huntsville. The fuckers even had the gall to tell me I could keep the Montana jersey and ball they gave me...hell, I almost ripped it in front of them. Tossed it in the trash on my way back. By the time I did though, mother and Roderick had already left with Abby for the hotel. There was nothing left to do but drive father back to his own hotel. We...didn’t talk much”

“Im sorry it happened that way for you mein freund, again, it is a thing that happens, but I wish it hadn't, for what it’s worth”

“That was supposed to be my night man… and those fuckers took it from me.”

“But look at you now B.!” piped up the frog, trying to lift the mood. “You’re in one of the best teams in the league now! So it worked out well for you in the end, yes?

The tortoise laughed bitterly before a loud belch escaped him, making his friend cringe as he picked up his drink and the tablet.

“Oh yeah, So began life with the Mayors and life in the FBA, a realtor got me this great little flat in Huntsville, near all the nice places and I figured… I figured I could prove my worth, make them regret trading me that soon… not give me a chance to show what I could do.”

“I don’t follow basketball that much, I admit, but from what little I see, you are doing very well, yes?”

“Oh, I am no mediocre player. As a matter of fact, I am good. DAMN good. It is not arrogance if you can show it. And yet, what is the news you hear from Huntsville? Not the new rookies on the team, hell, Greene barely even TALKS to anyone, kid is practically invisible. Think he was friends with that bird they traded for me, Ha! FBA fucked him over too…”

“What is the news then?” asked Richter, seeing Baltasar raise the glass to his beak,  sighing in relief when he set it down again to reply.

“Every. Time. Wendy. Brown. Opens. Her. God. Damn. Mouth. Or every time she and D’Angelo decide the entire world needs to know how much sex they are having. That, is what the viewers want it seems. That, and listen to a bunch of rookies strut around like they’re hot shit. Getting a rookie consistently as Player of the Game is not as good a thing as you would think. Rookies have no business being that good from the start, it does not speak well of a team to have novices so outmatch the veterans. But fine, fine, I keep my beak shut. Look out for my teammates, even when I think they’re being idiots. Because... thats what you gotta do.”

“Asking you to stop drinking or even to LISTEN to me at this point isn’t going to do a damn thing, is it?” Asked Richter, rubbing his webbed fingers against his temples. His patience was starting to wear thin on his friend, but he dared not leave the large reptile alone with his thoughts either.

“Hell, I should start... swearing on twitter as well. Make that little shit Sterne fine my shelled ass for a couple thousand dollars.”

“Who?”

The tortoise took a swig straight from the bottle this time, coughing and hacking for a moment before continuing his rant. Baltasar wasn't a heavy drinker, not that Richter recalled, but his large size meant he could drink quite a lot before it got to him. But once he did get drunk, due to his slow reptilian metabolism, he stayed drunk. A hungover tortoise was never a happy sight.

“It is insane” Baltasar finally spoke, not even looking at the screen now, but just staring out the window into Huntsville. “How much money I am making... I didnt notice it at first, you know? I just couldn't believe the size of that paycheck... Had no idea what to even spend that much money on. But then you start moving around the entire country in a single week, going from arena to arena, you start realizing… fuck, Rich, I just bounce a ball up and down… I am good at it but you see people on the street who are teachers, people sick or starving, or stuck on some bottom rung you hear about all these messed up things. What about them? I tried to not think about it at first push it out of my mind, figured that was just how it was. I started thinking there had to be a way to help… and then along came Sterne Davids, some ex-FBA head honcho appointed as a league PR nanny... fines players sums of money in a day some people don't make in years, if ever. And all over the stupidest shit Rich. I isn’t even funny how many times my jaw dropped.”

“Did he fine you or something as well?” 

“No, I am not mad about it because of that, hell I don’t use twitter enough for it to be a problem… but it is that I CAN pay up, and pay up so easily if I wanted to… Fuck, there was a point where half the players were just swearing for FUN. Can you fucking believe that? Losing... a couple thousand dollars... to some puritanical shithead on purpose… just something to do to pass the day, you know?”

Richter opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. Baltasar was starting to sway slightly from one side to the other, but he hadn’t risen the bottle up to his mouth in a while. The frog nodded and gestured for him to continue, hoping to keep him distracted. “What happened then?” he asked.

“And then Brown and Redfield, from the Dakota Bikers decide they gotta “stick it to the man”. And of course, big drama, media frenzy, suspensions… the usual … the usual”

Baltasar paused for a moment, as if remembering something.

“Actually here’s another one for ya... you… you, heard of that sick kid, fish that got dropped?”

“Oh THAT bit of news was all over!” said Richter, finally feeling he had some idea as to what his friend was talking about “I hear that bear hasn’t played since, good riddance! no?”

“That bear should never have even made it into the league in the first place, but again, he was just too juicy a prospect, all that delicious drama the media could use to whip themselves into a frenzy over. You can bet the Whips chose him precisely -because- he was a jackass… oh yeah and a basketball player too” he snorted.

Richter groaned, and leaned back on his chair. There simply was no detracting the stubborn tortoise from this rant. He quickly glanced at his wristwatch, 11:32pm...

“I’d like to wonder tho, how many of these people really give a damn in the first place.” said T-Balt pouring himself what was left of the bottle into a glass and taking a gulp. “A few of them do try, they’re into charities and stuff, and really, more power to them. But why is it always so public, huh? Giving people money and then smiling for the camera? because boy oh boy, that’s what happened when Trent… -Dropped the Bass-” Baltasar made a face in disgust at the clever headline that had been on every news site after it had happened.

It seems dropping kids on TV is magic, makes quasi-millionaire players like us magically care about the world all of a sudden. Reminds us there’s actually a world out there. So long as cameras are rolling and millions of people watching, of course.

“Ok im going to stop you right there” Said Richter, now frowning himself “You can't just paint everyone with that broad a brush and say they’re doing it all for self interest. You don’t know that. And  even then, what does it matter if they do? The kids are still receiving the donations, aren't they? Isnt that what matters?”

Baltasar sat up straight again and spoke in a much clearer voice then Richter had heard so far.

"So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do on the streets, to be honored by others. Truly I tell thee, they have received their reward in full. Matthew 6:2”

“You had BETTER tell me you’re donating money yourself to this, before you go on judging others who have” Richter’s voice was beginning to rise, frustrated trying to get through to the lumbering oaf on his side of the screen.

“I did not, but I am going to”

Baltasar rose the glass to his beak again, but stopped, and put it back down. He was leaning heavily to the side again, and his accent became so thick, Richter had trouble following.

“For starters, it’s going to be a quiet affair, because you shouldn't get a pat on the back for being  decent freaking person. I also want to make it a constant thing, not these one time donations you can bet your ass a lot of these will likely be. They give to the needy with one hand and buy half million dollar bikes and pay thousand dollar fines like its chump change, with the other.”

“You mean Julian?” Richter said, remembering the thin saluki dog, Baltasar would often mention, hoping mentioning a player the tortoise spoke fondly of would turn the conversation into more pleasant waters.

“What?”

“The bike, you showed it to me, I thought you were happy for him! You told me he’s come a long way since you met him and, again, I don't follow basketball that much but I heard Hawaii won an incredible victory a few days ago!”

Baltasar remained silent, calmly pouring another drink into his glass until he filled it. And then drained almost half of it in one gulp.

“They did...against us”

“Oh…” Richter swore under his breath.

“...they won, they earned it...We...I, wasn’t good enough… but… God damn, it stings. Hawaii is not the sort of team we should have lost to. You’d never expect a team with a punk ass thug, and flower power would have such cohesion, but… hell, they got it, and they showed it.”

“You are starting to sound like a seriously sore loser, Baltasar” 

Baltasar laughed so hard the table shook, and he nearly lost his balance before he caught himself and leaned back onto his chair, taking another sip.

“Who knows? Maybe I am, and just finding out.”

He belched again and leaned towards the little screen, slurring his words so much Richter had to plug in his headphones to make him out.

“Look, I work my ass off just as much as anyone. Sandwiched between the big vets in Huntsville, I’m not going to be the one bring in the big numbers or making as much of a dent in how our games went. The day I get Player-of-the-Game will likely mean the other team played terribly and our best players were shit. And that is a bitter pill to swallow. This isn't like the EFBL, its another beast entirely... much larger, and me much smaller. But I realized that wasn't important. What was important... was that I play every game like it was a finals match. Do my bit to make Huntsville the best goddamn team I could, repay them for having chosen me”

Baltasar eyed his empty glass, pushing it around with his scaled finger and sighed heavily. When he spoke his eyes were more focused and actually looking at Richter for the first time in a while since that conversation had started.

“The way you see the papers just cheer on every time we lose, man... Honestly you’d think the only people who actually WANT Huntsville to win are ourselves. Theres a difference between being proud your team won, and being happy another lost. Even our own fans are starting to get bored, can you fucking believe it? We’re doing so… goddamn well our own fans aren’t attending games as much, because they expect us to win anyway. After these two losses? You can bet your ass the arena is going to be jam packed full of orange, fans they call themselves… my shelled ass. They are sharks, and they smell blood.

“Baltasar, you are talking the gibberish now, please, go to bed, sleep it off. Did you not just say you don’t want attention anyway?” Richter discreetly looked at his watch again, 11:42pm

“I DON'T I… I just don't fucking know anymore.” He banged his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands “Basketball… it is the only thing I am good at Richter... I can still remember when I started playing it, and that was years ago, you teaching me the ropes on that old court… It has all gotten so huge, so messed up… it sounds childish Rich, but this isn’t what I thought it would be at all. But I don't know what else I can do…”

“Look, it is the hollidays meine freund, a time to relax and remember the good tim-”

“Oh don't you start with that Christmas and New Years bullshit!” The tortoise snapped, grabbing the little tablet in both hands “I’ve had it up to here with those god damn promos. Fucking hell do I need that crap for? I am alone, in a foreign country, feeling that everything I do isn’t enough. And stuck watching everyone else have the best of freaking times every god damn day, but these past two weeks it’s just been fucking everywhere.  There ain’t shit to celebrate”

Richter sighed, he really had no clue what to say at that point, he felt exhausted just from listening to the big tortoise rant on and on. He checked his watch once more, 11:58pm. He looked at the reptile on his screen: His bloodshot eyes blinking slowly in the screen’s light, sitting increasingly slumped to a side, dangerously close to tipping over. This wasn’t Baltasar as he remembered back from Spain, but he was still the same person who had once helped him, so many years ago. He looked at his watch one last time but he didn't bother actually reading it, he had made his decision, he’d stay there talking to the drunk lug, at least until he fell asleep. 

“I’m sorry to hear you aren’t having a good time, T-Balt” he offered, aiming to continue the conversation.

Baltasar opened his beak to reply when suddenly another frog face,  a female’s popped into view behind Richter, she wore a pair giant tacky gasses that had a frame in the shape of a 2015. She planted a kiss on his friend’s cheek and waved at T-Balt. 

Baltasar saw Richter whisper something to her and she nodded, flashed a smile at the tortoise and wished him a happy New Year, before moving out of sight.

“Finally mustered up the courage to invite her over, didnt you?” T-Balt chuckled, he could hear the sound of people laughing and cheering in the background.

Richter blushed visibly on screen, nodding with a nervous grin.

The reptile ran a hand over his face, trying to combat his stupor. “Good. Happy for you, man. I mean it and… God I am SO sorry, Rich, fuck, you don't need this shit from me, not now. Go back to your party man, I’ve kept you long enough”

“Not a chance meine freund, I’m staying right here, the party can wait” Richter smiled and crossed his arms, determined.

Baltasar chuckled again, shaking his head and looking at his old friend on the tiny screen. 

“Happy New Year froggy. Enjoy the party”

“T-Balt come on, wait don’t!-”

But T-balt had ended the conversation and turned off the little screen of his tablet, throwing it unceremoniously onto the couch and tipping the empty bottle into his mouth, feeling the last drops burn at his tongue and throat.

He took a look around his darkened and mostly empty apartment. The noise from outside becoming more apparent, somewhere in the building or the one next to it, a group of people were singing Auld Lang Syne interrupted regularly by the deafening blasts of fireworks, casting their short lived multicolor light into  the room. The searchlights from the New Years event at the Von Braun center only a few blocks down were easily visible, pillars of light swaying in the dark.

On the table, other than the bottles, he glanced over at the two bits of mail he had received in the past two weeks. He had just left them lying there.

Months before the whole David Sterne debacle, Baltasar had paid to have one of his fathers many rejected books published using his own money and had sent him a copy as a surprise gift. He had not heard of his father since, until a package arrived a week ago. Diego had returned it. The book was untouched and still wrapped in its plastic cover. There was no letter attached. 

Baltasar tore his eyes away from it, not wanting nor able to ponder on what it meant at the moment, and his gaze fell on the other letter he had received: Even in his dour mood he managed to crack a grin. It was the most furious pink he had ever seen, and covered in stamps with the Spanish flag, he had known at once who had sent it. But he had not opened it yet. He dared not read it, couldn’t read it, not now, not like this. He took the letter in his huge hands, turning it over. For a flicker of a moment, he considered tearing it in two and just throwing it away, but the moment passed and, relieved, he dropped it onto the table again.

When Baltasar got up, he immediately began feeling queasy and he struggled to keep his balance.

A struggle he ultimately lost.

The near four hundred pound tortoise crashed to the ground, his shell scratching and denting the wooden floor.

There on the floor, in the middle of his living room, he lay still. Not really bothering to move again, or able to, had he wanted. The alcohol had finally turned his mind into an indecipherable mush, and fatigue was slowly but inexorably closing his eyes as he clumsily retracted his limbs into his shell. T-Balt thought he could still hear the sound of a firework or two going off in the distance.

“Happy New Year Baltasar” he slurred, before his eyes closed and did not open again.