Consider this to be a test drive of the new website. I put this story out on the old Wordsushi site and as an audio file on an episode of PCH last year. I’ve decided to re-release it for those of you who may have missed it the first time.

Let’s just preface this by saying THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.

However, some of you have now wondered “What will become of Michael Vick now that he’s out of federal prison?” A lot of you have expressed anger. A lot of you have said he deserves a second chance.

Some of you think he has no place in professional football, a place where he potentially serves as a role model for impressionable youth.

Perhaps the only important issue is whether or not, by virtue of his current and future actions, he can serve as a role model of change.

I REPEAT, THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. MICHAEL VICK PAID HIS DEBT TO SOCIETY. IN NO WAY DO I CONDONE OR SUGGEST THAT ANY HARM SHOULD COME TO HIM.

Click here to hear an audio version of Judgement Day for Michael Vick

That being said, I present:

JUDGEMENT DAY FOR MICHAEL VICK

by

Mark Yoshimoto Nemcoff

GASPING FOR BREATH, his arms pumped like a frantic machine. His muscular legs propelled him across the uneven ground and Michael Vick hurdled over a fallen tree in his path with ease.

But he could hear them. His lead was dwindling.

Deeper, he dug into his mind to call upon all of his physical faculties. Now he needed them more than ever.

He had been running full out for nearly three miles. That was over fifty football fields in length.

And there was no giving up now.

His lungs burned but he kept pushing his body. Today, his physical conditioning would be put to the ultimate test. One which no gridiron matchup had ever prepared him for.

Today, he was in a fight for his life.

A fight he realized there was a very good chance of losing.

With every bit of strength he could muster, he ran like hell.

IT ALL STARTED an hour ago. The events leading up to him being here were still fuzzy in his mind. Bright light filled his eyes as the burlap bag was roughly yanked off his head. Michael Vick gasped for breath, the first fresh air he had drawn since coming to.

He tried but he couldn’t move his hands. His wrists were secured tightly behind his back. A thin nylon chord–serial killer rope as some call it, was looped around his chest. His body was tied upright to a very uncomfortable wooden chair.  The only sound he could hear was the blood rushing through his ears and the thumping of his own heart.

Where the fuck am I? Vick wondered. How long was I out?

Questions he longed to ask but was prevented from doing so courtesy of the rag stuffed into his mouth and duct taped into place over his lips.

Oh God, he thought. Someone did it. They kidnapped me.

He had been warned countless times of the dangers he faced on the outside. Enraged animal lovers had sent him countless death threats since the moment his involvement in dogfighting became public. Crazy activists out to persecute him and collect a pound of flesh on behalf of the four-legged victims who they believed never stood a chance.

But never, not for a moment, had he suspected anyone would be so bold, so outright insane as to actually do it.

Michael Vick was wrong.

And it was something he now realized with a great deal of panic and concern. He was very wrong.

I paid my debt to society, he thought. I wish none of it had ever happened.

Even so, it was obvious his past had come back to haunt him.

His heart palpitated in his chest. He could sense the stutter step of the sudden arrythmia. The feeling akin to missing your footing over and over in the tires of a training camp agility drill.

He swallowed hard. His throat burnt with dryness. Lingering in his mouth was a bitter taste.

Drugged, Vick thought. I was drugged.

Concentrating hard, he tried to remember anything that happened before blacking out. His mind was fuzzy. The throbbing in his temples pulsating like a massive subwoofer.

Think dammit…

Vick gritted his teeth. He could recall getting into the back of his car as his new bodyguard held the door open. He’d always had someone watching his back but ever since getting out of prison it had been suggested he wipe the slate clean. The new security man had been hired not only to hold crazies and groupies at bay but to keep away the bad influences of old.

Apparently, this new arrangement hadn’t turned out so well.

Vick screamed. His voice muffled against the gag. Drawing air through his nose, he tried screaming again to no avail.

It was then the bright light moved closer to him and Vick turned his face away.

“I don’t like you,” came the woman’s voice. “Not one bit.”

He caught her movement from the corner of his eye. Vick squinted to see her better but she remained out of his view, hidden by the blinding white light. He recoiled as the woman’s arm shot out.

With a gloved hand she peeled away the corner of the duct tape over his mouth and ripped it off Vick’s face with one sharp yank. Vick grimaced from the pain, squeezing his eyes shut.

That’s nothing, she thought. You just wait.

She pushed backward against his forehead, tilting his face up so he could look into her angry brown eyes. Hidden behind the ski mask, he could tell nothing about her. Race. Color. All he could make out was black wool.

“I feel sorry for you,” she hissed. “I think you have a perverted sense of decency when it comes to animals because nobody has ever said no to you.”

Forcing his lips open, she pulled the dirty rag from inside his mouth. Vick coughed and gasped. He spat out small cloth fibers stuck to the surface of his tongue.

“Let me go!”

“No.”

“Give me some water, please.”

“No.” she brought her face closer to his. He pulled back as far as he could. His eyes widening. “See how that works.”

This crazy bitch is just trying to scare me, he thought.

“There’s no need to go over your crimes,” she said. He could feel her hot breath on his face. It smelled like peppermint Life Savers. “I’m not here to rehash what we already know.”

“What’d you do to my bodyguard?” he asked.

“That guy?” She twisted her face as if thinking. “Next time, you might consider hiring someone who can dodge a bullet.”

His voice came out more timid than he had intended. “What do you want?”

“The sun comes up in one hour,” she told him. “That’s when we’re gonna see how fast you really are?”

We? he wondered.

As she grabbed the lamp and swung it around Vick suddenly recognized his surroundings.

A kennel.

In the arc of the bright light he could see their glowing eyes behind chain link gates. Easily a dozen mutts, their pedigrees buried beneath countless couplings of Shepherds, Rotties and Huskies.

Stay calm, he thought. Stay in control of yourself.

Silently, they stared back at him and now he could hear their panting breaths. The quiet broken suddenly as the dogs began to bark at him.

They sounded hungry.

“Do you like bacon?” she asked. She held up a single crispy piece under his nose. The scent made his stomach growl. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d last eaten.

“It’s okay,” he answered cautiously.

In moments the dogs caught a whiff of it. They’re barking quickly went from frenzied to all out apeshit nuts.

Just then, Vick felt the warmth in his hair and down his back. He snapped his head around to see as the smell hit his nose.

“What the fuck!” he screamed.

“Bacon grease,” the woman said as the sizzling fat congealed down Vick’s back, leaving welts where it had touched his skin.

Thrashing in his chair, Vick tried to lean away but her surprisingly strong grip kept him upright and in place as she emptied the pot. As soon as it was empty, she pitched it aside. Somewhere in the dark, it clanged against a wall.

“The best way to make friends is to find something you both have in common,” the woman said. “They like bacon, too.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind!” screamed Vick.

She grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “Is it crazy to think what you did deserved more than a slap on the wrist?”

“Slap on the wrist?” he yelled back. “Lady, I lost everything.”

She opened her fingers and let go of him. “Not yet you haven’t,” she growled. Moving behind him and out of view he could hear her pick something up.

Something metallic.

Her footsteps came up behind him.

“Wait!” he shouted. He could hear the blade hiss through the air.

Vick winced expecting pain. Instead his wrists came free from the chair. The ropes binding him now severed.

He looked down at his hands then immediately shot to his feet. His legs, slightly unsteady from hours in the hard chair and whatever mickey he’d been slipped, wobbled beneath him.

Quickly, he raised a fist at the woman in the ski mask. He couldn’t make out her body in the jumpsuit she wore but given the six inches he had on her he was certain he could make it a decent fight, knife or no knife.

From her other hand she leveled a black Hechler and Koch 9mm pistol at him.

“Door’s open,” she motioned with her head to the far side of the kennel. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes head start.”

Vick knew there was no bargaining with this woman. He did not need to hear the offer twice.

As the door slammed behind him, he hit the ground outside the kennel running.

Where am I? he thought.

The sun comes up in an hour, he could remember her saying. He had gotten into his car sometime in the late afternoon.

Possibly as long as twelve hours ago.

He could be hundreds of miles away for all he knew. Light from the full moon overhead made it clear they were deep in the woods.

I can do this, he thought. I can get out of here.

Vick cocked his head. All he could hear were crickets. A symphony of them.

As far as he could tell there were no road sounds. No train.

He was far from civilization. That was for sure.

Checking his pockets he found them empty. His cell phone was gone.

“Fuck!”

Fifteen minutes, he thought to himself. I can do this.

And as fast as he had ever run in his life, Michael Vick sprinted into the dark woods, trying to get as far away as possible.

The forest was thick. Instantly, he was plunged into mostly darkness under the high canopy overhead. His feet crunched against the ground.

I can’t see shit, he thought. But stay calm. Stay focused.

It was easier said than done. At best he had twenty feet of visibility in any direction.

He came to a small gully and momentarily lost his footing. Tumbling down the slight grade he grimaced as he smashed his shoulder into a tree trunk. Pain shot through him in bolts. He’d taken some shots playing ball but this was much worse than being flattened by any 300-pound defensive lineman.

It didn’t matter. He’d played through worse. He’d once taken a brutal goal line shot to the ribs from Brian Dawkins in the 2002 NFC Divisional game that nearly blown his spleen out through his asshole.

And he’d still gotten up, not about to give the Philly faithful the satisfaction.

Catching his breath, he got to his feet, scrambling up out of the gully.

Suddenly, Vick paused. In the silence he could hear it now.

Barking.

The dogs were loose and they were coming for him.

Fuck man, run… he thought. You can get away.

There was no doubt what a dog’s powerful jaws could do to flesh. Those sharp teeth could tear sinew from bone with ease.

Dirt and leaves stuck to Vick’s clothes and in his hair. He tried to brush them away but he could smell the bacon grease on his hands.

His stomach grumbled once again.

When did I eat last?

Vick couldn’t remember. He was certain though his body was running on pure adrenaline. The bacon scent filled his nose and he licked his hand, forcing down the gritty bits of twig and dirt stuck to the grease.

From the dark he could hear the dogs. Closer now. This smell was was leading them to him. He pulled his shirt up and over his head, balling it up and throwing it into the darkness as far as he could.

A slight breeze hit the perspiration on his body. Vick took off running with it at his back hoping that by staying downwind it would mask his scent.

There has to be a road, a path, something? he thought. Even out here a road might have some traffic, an emergency phone, road signs with any information as to his location. Anything.

Through the thick forest cover he could make out the thin corona of orange sunlight ready to break past the horizon. Daybreak was close.

Being able to see what was in front of him would improve his chances of survival.

But it would also make him more vulnerable.

Up ahead he could see it. A massive fallen oak. A slumbering century-old monster blocking his way. Vick grabbed the leafless branches of the deadfall and scrambled over, jumping down to the other side. His feet were moving before ever hitting the ground.

He could feel the breeze shift and corrected his course. The dogs were far enough away that he could barely hear them over the crunching of his feet against the forest floor.

Now the sunrise was on his left.

North, I’m heading north, he thought. Or is it south?

As he tried to remember the direction from which the sun rose, he lost his footing. Forward, he tumbled down a shallow embankment.

Smashing his shoulder into a large tree trunk.

It’s the same damn tree as before. He recoiled in horror from the thought. I’ve been running in circles.

This time the agony in his shoulder sung like the whole church choir. With one hand on the tree stump, he pushed himself up to his feet.

And then he heard it. Coming closer. Running.

Vick turned to the sound just as one of the dogs lept down into the gully on top of him. The force of the seventy pound beast caught him square in the chest, driving him backwards.

He rolled as he hit the ground, pushing the dog off him but the beast came at him again, its snapping jaws going for his face. Laying on his back, Vick grabbed the dog’s throat with both hands, trying to hold the angry animal at bay. He could feel the dog was wet.

And it smelled like decay and burnt fur.

The dog tried pulling away from Vick’s powerful hands and its slick coat made it impossible to hold onto. He could feel the patches of matted and singed fur slide across his fingertips.

Again, the dog lunged at him and Vick tried to push its mouth away.

But this time when the dog’s teeth clamped shut it took three of his fingers, severing them just above the joint.

Vick let loose a scream. Excruciating pain exploded in his hand and in his brain. Using all the strength he could muster, Vick threw the wet dog off him and up against the tree stump where it crumpled to the ground with a whimper.

Clutching his wounded hand to his chest, Vick scrambled to his feet and ran, this time along the route of the gully.

My throwing hand! he thought. That thing fucked up my throwing hand.

Thing was exactly what he thought.

That was no dog.

To Vick, the creature smelled like death.

The topography of the gully rose to meet the ground and Vick lept up to reach it. His hand was throbbing with each beat of his heart. Even his missing fingers seemed to hurt with a kind of phantom pain.

Block it out. Block it out.

The dogs were back there. He could hear them. Now he could feel the breeze in his face. They would certainly catch scent of him downwind.

But there was another sound that caught his ear. One he recognized immediately.

Rushing water.

Pushing through a thicket with his good hand he stopped. In front of him the ground ended.

Vick stepped cautiously to the edge of the cliff as the sun broke over the horizon. Below was a river.

Some seventy feet down.

From here it looked like a tiny sliver running through the gorge. Rocks and boulders lined the banks on either side.

Can I make it? he wondered. If I jump?

Even so there was no telling how deep the river was at this point. It could be ten feet.

Or ten inches.

The cliff face was steep. No footholds to climb down.

No way, he thought. But the moment he turned back toward the thicket the remaining dogs pushed through.

Vick backed up on his heels, holding his good hand out in front of him.

“No!” he shouted with as much authority in his voice as he could muster. “Back off!”

Still the dogs slowly stalked toward him, snarling, spreading out into a semi-circle.

There in the first light of day he could see them. Their angry piercing eyes glaring back.

One held its head up awkwardly, its neck looking as it if it were stretched. Around it was a noose which hung from a severed rope.

No, thought Vick.

Yet another dragged its broken and shattered legs behind it.

No, it can’t be…

During his trial he had plead guilty to dogfighting charges. Among the testimony under oath was the revelation of the dogs who had been executed for losing or underperforming.

Dogs who were electrocuted, hung, drowned or slammed against the ground until dead.

Ten feet separated Vick from the creatures in front of him.

“I’m sorry!” he screamed. “I’ve learned from my mistakes!”

Still the snarling dogs advanced slowly. Step by step.

Vick backed away further.

“What do you want from me?” he pleaded.

But as the words came from his mouth, he felt the heel of his left foot come down into thin air.

Vick pinwheeled his arms to try and catch his balance. Instinctively, he leaned his body forward to keep from falling.

Which is when the dogs all lept at him.

And he screamed the whole way down.

There was no telling how long he had been unconscious as Vick woke to the sound of voices hovering over him. His entire body was in agony. The smallest movement felt like broken glass grinding together underneath his skin.

I must have fallen onto the rocks, he thought.

Finally he managed to open one eye. There he could see them, like angels they appeared.

Two medics frantically at work on him.

Help me, he tried saying but no sound came from his mouth. He forced himself with all his will. The feeling to do so was excruciating.

“You gotta save me!” shouted Vick.

“Calm down, sir. Calm down,” the first man told him.

Don’t tell me to calm down. Someone’s trying to kill me! Vick thought.

“Hold his arms down,” barked the second man.

Both orderlies looked down at the disoriented grey-haired senior citizen as they strapped his arms to the rails of his bed.

“This your second day here, right?” the second orderly asked as he slipped the leather restraint around Vick’s wrist.

From the bedside table came a pneumatic injector. The second orderly screwed a vial into place. “Don’t you know who this is? This is Mike Vick. Used to be a football star long, long time ago.”

“Never heard of him,” responded the first orderly.

“Guy had it all once. Now he’s just another feeble old man trapped inside the terrifying world of his own mind.”

The first orderly looked at the amount of medication being administered. “You sure that’s the right dose? We’re supposed to give him enough to block him from having those nightmares.”

“I know what I’m doing.” The second orderly pulled the trigger on the pneumatic injector. Vick’s body stiffened. The orderly ejected the vial from the injector and dropped it into the trash along with his rubber gloves. “Break time,” he uttered as he rolled up his sleeves.

The first orderly noticed his partner’s tattoo. “Nice. That a huskie?” he pointed to the handsomely inked image of a vigilant dog on the man’s arm.

“Just a mutt,” responded the orderly. “Just a mutt.”

*****

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