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Stephen Garcia, in addition to his quarterbacking, has been branching out into fiction writing. He's influenced by Ayn Rand, as is clearly visible in the passage below.

They approached the stadium.

He was a tall man. His hair was long because he wanted to be because men wore their hair as they chose where came from, which is where he came from. The orange walls of the stadium looked familiar to him. That's where he had failed before on the green grass that lay out in a vast, plundered rectangle like a green unconquerable rectangle and was full of grass, thousand of blades of green failure arrayed against him like green toy soldiers following the commands of a fleshy, doughy leader urging them forward to their doom for his good, not theirs.

He would force that grass to his pleasure. And it would yield, and like it. 

"Garcia is the name," he said. The sullen, weak woman at the gate checked her mincing bureaucratic clipboard, the flimsy shield the weak took into battle against better men. 

The woman had the narrow eyes and pale, milky skin of someone who did not know sun or work. A looter. They all wore orange and blue here without an original though in their heads and wore their hair in the same way: gelled, with gel in the hair and lots of gel. Gel was the concrete that held their corrupt lazy bricks together and the sea they drowned the individual in, the medium for their failure.

Garcia's hair hung free and bold, with only a hint of a secret shampoo he mixed in his underground sex laboratory using the powers of his brain and his sex. It was where he, the man of unsoiled integrity and vision, escaped from the world to craft the things Garcia knew the world needed: sex-attracting shampoo, waterproof and bulletproof space pants to soar the skies in, motorcycles that ran on squirrels' blood, the elemental elements of the earth extracted by hands crusty from the earth pulled off its useless hide like the flakes of dandruff he turned to gold in his Dandruff-To-Gold Machine, which like his intellect and penis he hoped would survive the grasping hands of looters and those who sought to tear him and all that was precious to humanity and himself--which were in fact the same thing.

He looked around him: the cinder block walls, no doubt stolen from some lone genius's worksite where he was building a beautiful skyscraper to violate the virgin thighs of the sky--the thighs that would yield to him and his ideas alone, and perhaps in a small percentage to the illegal Mexican workers he paid to make it for him. They built if for him and were grateful for their service to his vision, since they had none and required his bold leadership to give their lives some meaning in the vast nothingness of their life of rodeo-themed clothing and collective despair.

"I'm here for the football game," he said, a look of steely determination in his eye and the grit from a rock drill in his teeth. He had grit in his teeth because he liked to drill rock because that was what men did to rock: they drilled it, and asked no questions why not concerned with what other men might think. When he was awake, he was throwing touchdowns, or drilling rock, or constructing fantastic machines, and sometimes playing video games because men of genius did what they needed to and asked no pardon, especially when Call of Duty: Black Ops had just come out a couple of days before.

(Even there, looters! Everywhere, lurking in corners with unmasculine, fey weapons like the remote controlled cars that did their bidding, or bombing away at a distance. Like cockroaches, they hid in the dark and beset the men who dared strolled unafraid through the sunny, unprotected boulevards of life.)

"You are--" He cut her off, because he was in control.

"Garcia. Stephen Garcia. You might ask: 'Who is Stephen Garcia?'"

"We know." We. They always hid behind that word, he thought.

"You said that out loud. I'm referring to my co-worker, Alice, who also handles family tickets." 

Alice waved. She, too, had the friendly, simpering air of a looter eyeing him and his hair for things to steal. 

"Where's the rest of the team?"

"Team? I am my own team, ma'am."

They smiled. They always did when confronted with a towering imperious figure of the undeniable freeman before him. It was fear-grinning like the apes of the jungle performed, a baring of the teeth he knew to be uncloaked aggression.  He didn't let them have the satisfaction of drawing him into their web of weak courtesy.

"But where's your offensive line?"

Garcia began to speak. The air was still. The people listened. They yielded to his words.

[At this point Stephen Garcia's character in the novel embarks on an astonishingly narcissistic rant of more than 30 pages in length containing a completely fictional reading of South Carolina football and indeed the history of football itself. We will spare you its content save for its final paragraph, presented unaltered here.]

"---then, after facing this team of collectivists so craven they play with three quarterbacks, three quarterbacks assuming the role played by three--is there nothing more slovenly, so demeaning to the human spirit as this, three quarterbacks?--then I shall stride down the field under my own power, driven by my own vision unaided, into the endzone. 

I will do it, and in the process save mankind. I will plunder it, yes. I will plunder it into a freedom unknown in its history."

Then he had sex with both of the women without asking, and they clambered after him gratefully as he strode on the green rectangle alone. He died on the football field that day as all those who bear the Promethean flame of wisdom do: a lone scrambling figure moving to his right, chased by odds of one to eleven, though sometimes more when Spurrier remembered to give the ball to Marcus Lattimore.