November 15, 2010
The nightly frost had just started to settle on the green grass of the Boston Suburbs. Tom Brady’s BMW downshifted as he pulled into his driveway, interrupting the frozen calm. It was a long trip but he was awake and alert. The Patriots’ quarterback stepped out of his luxury vehicle and straightened the seams on his Armani suit, meticulously picking at the lint he had accumulated in his car. He swept his sandy brown hair out of his eyes. He was satisfied this night. He had just led his team to an absolute trouncing of the Pittsburgh Steelers at Heinz Field, leaving the Pennsylvania crowd stunned and upset. He took some pleasure in making all of those people feel weak and helpless. But now he was home after a flight and a short car ride.
Tom walked to his door and took a deep breath of the New England air. He felt appreciative in that moment. His life was perfect. He thought to himself, “I’m rich and famous. I’m one of the sexiest men alive and my wife is a modern day Helen of Troy. I’m a tough competitor with a track record of winning.”
He opened the door to his beautiful house and dropped his travel bag on the entryway floor. The house was dead quiet just the way he liked it. The soundproof doors were an extra precaution. There was no way that Brady’s prisoners would be heard by the outside world.
He headed straight toward the basement. He always liked to check on his pets before going to bed. Brady unlatched the heavy, lead-lined door and padded cheerily down the steps. Upon hearing their captor’s arrival, the three Emerson College sophomores screamed in unison.
“He’s coming!!! Someone help!!! Help us please!” Their cries echoed off of the cinderblock walls. They huddled together in a 15-foot pit, grasping at one another in sheer terror.
Brady chuckled as he unwound the garden hose from the wall. “Now, now,” the dashing quarterback scolded. “You girls know that I like silence in my kingdom. Your cries offend my ears and they must be drowned.”
He turned the hose on and sprayed the dark water over the edge of the pit. The groans that emanated from the well of human misery gave him great joy. He sat down on the ground and dangled his Italian shoes over the side; the Emerson students shuffled beneath him.
“You need water to live, my pretties!” Brady sternly instructed. “Stop squirming.”
“Please mister!” One of them choked. “My father is a very important man. He’ll give you all the money you want.”
“Money?” Brady repeated. “Oh, I have plenty of that. Between my contract with the New England Patriots, my advertising deal with Comcast and the extra money I bring in from the human slave trade, money is the last thing I want.”
“What…what do you want?” another weaker voice called out. It was the skinny one. He hated the skinny one. “You have everything. What could you possibly want?”
“Your skin stupid!” Brady laughed.
He thought to himself, “I’m rich and famous. I’m one of the sexiest men alive and my wife is a modern day Helen of Troy. I’m a tough competitor with a track record of winning. And pretty soon, I’ll have a brand new ball gown made from the flesh of the innocent.”
His life was perfect.