This is what happens when Bret Bielema goes LIMITLESS and starts seeing numbers falling from the sky while "Power" plays. He kills cancer cells with Natty Light mixed with sugar-free Monster Energy drink because he just saw it working like a the pieces of a lock snapping into place around a key. He calls his broker and tells him to hedge on the Kenyan shilling dropping below 0.01 to the US Dollar before 3 p.m. His broker is a guy who details cars in Fayetteville and sells a little dank on the side, but still: He tells him to do it, because he can feel currency fluctuations in his bones now.
He makes "Power" stop playing, because he loves the classics. He closes his eyes. "Armageddon It" starts playing.
Ahhhhhh. Much better now.
He DMs a recruit, then another, and another, each with a precision and recall of their family lives creating perfectly targeted appeals to their hearts and minds. He tweets. They are fire tweets. Beyond fire tweets. Plasma tweets. All twelve commit on the spot. Five minutes have elapsed since he cured cancer. Bret Bielema calls his broker again: Hedge it all, he says. This is perfect, he thinks, watching all of John Ford's important Westerns on fast forward and understanding them in all their depth and deceptive simplicity.
He writes a quick monograph in seven minutes on the use of light and dark in The Searchers; the New Yorker offers him $15,000 for it immediately. He accepts, provided they publish it under the alias Montgomery Fouche-Racleau. They agree without further objections.
Bielema calls Charlie Strong using a phone cloned to look like a recruit's phone number on incoming calls. Strong answers.
"This is Charlie."
"Why are the Longhorns like an incontinent dog?"
"Neither one can find a yard."
He pressed "END CALL" and smiled. The ingredients sizzled in the pan: Malibu rum, Drakkar, and the glowstick he was cutting in half, dripping the fluorescent goo into the pan and smiling. He took the mixture off the stove: three minutes under high heat, no more, lest you ruin the chemical bonds that made his brain sing like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. While waiting for it to cool, he sketched out a new offense on the whiteboard: nine offensive linemen, all eligible receivers, all over 330 pounds. The math worked. He'd made the math work.
He loaded the vape pen, pouring in The Mixture through a funnel. It was a simple funnel, but it was all he could forge in the seven minutes between his morning lift and a fierce lovemaking session with his wife. He'd learned metalworking the night before, but all considered it wasn't bad. The fully detailed stages of human embryonic development he'd filigreed on the side were clear enough.
He pulled back the front of his gym shorts and snapped a picture of his genitals. He sent it through a series of relays and pipes and tubes and relays until it landed in all its glory in an inbox somewhere in Wisconsin.
He took a deep drag off the vape pen. Barry Alvarez was going to get his eyeballs extra special blessed this morning. The whole world would, in time. The Mixture filled his mind with pure lightning. He wiped the whiteboard clean and wrote "A LINEMAN WITH FIVE ASSES" on it.
Bret Bielema smiled: if he were to be the best hog he could be, he'd have to make a sty of the whole world. And he would.
Oh, how he would.
[to be continued]