Never mind which level of Hell they’re on…
“Ah,” said Joe Paterno. “I see you’re awake. Here, let me help you.” The former head football coach from Penn State helped his assistant from the exam table in the locker room.
“Joe?” replied Jerry Sandusky, “What are you doing here? I thought you were dead!”
“I am!” said the former legend whose record was wiped out as a result of Sandusky’s heinous acts and the subsequent coverup which Paterno himself participated in. “And so are you! Look more closely.”
Sandusky, the convicted child molester, focused his eyes and everything came into view with a crimson tint. “Oh…my G-”...and his head was immediately hit with a debilitating pain. He started to scream, but was cut off.
“Careful! You can’t say that word here. Let’s just say that he’s now our…Opponent. You can deal with that pretty well, can’t you? After all, you worked for me up top, and you work for me here too.”
“How’d you manage that?” asked Sandusky.
“I’ll show you in just a moment. How does the rest of you feel?”
“Well…considering I got anally assaulted nearly every day I was in prison.” The pedophile assistant coach got up and began to walk. “Strange…my rectum doesn’t feel sore at all!”
“That’s because the boss granted a special request from me to recruit you to help put together a football team here.”
“In Hell? You gotta be kidding me!”
“Nope,” Paterno shook his head. “Let’s go outside and I’ll show you what I mean.”
The two coaches walked from the locker room to the outside field. Sandusky gasped and smiled, “Why, it’s an exact replica of Beaver Stadium!”
“Only here, it’s called ‘Crappy Valley!’”
The arena was empty, with crisp, burnt red air…and a solitary, fedora-wearing figure up in the stands near the 50-yard line. On the field was something quite different, as clanking figures lined up for scrimmage, eleven per side. “What the Hell are those?”
“Why,” said JoePa matter-of-factly, “that’s our team: the Cylon Raiders! It’s White Squad versus Black Squad. I’ve been working with them, courtesy of our boss up there.” He pointed to the lone figure, who waved back. “Let’s go down to midfield and show these Toasters…”
“Yeah, you’ll see….”
Just then, the lone figure got up and joined the two former Penn State Coaches. “Hello Joe. This must be your assistant, Mr. Sandusky.” He nodded and extended his right hand. “Cavil. John Cavil.”
For once, Sandusky was taken aback. “Are you the…Owner?...of these Raiders?” The Number One Cylon snickered. “I’m certainly not Al Davis, am I? Here! Let’s go meet them Up Close and Personal, shall we?”
The three of them made it to midfield and stood at the line of scrimmage; both squads were lined up for a play. They all rose from their respective stances to pay homage to their leader for 150,000 years.
Meanwhile, up in the stands, Charles Johnson attempted to sell concessions to the fans who were trickling in to see the brawl, with his punishment battalion of seventy-two copies there to make sure he actually performed his duties, lest he be disemboweled again.
The bicycling blogger muttered his breath, “F**k f**k f**k f**k,” then yelled out loud, “Get your Cheetos and Mountain Dew right here! Ten-credit combo!” No one was buying. “S**t s**t s**t s**t,” he muttered again.
“OK RAIDERS!” yelled Paterno. “Time to show Cavil here what you all can do! Line up! Whites, run the basic Up-The-Middle play.” He slammed the ball into Sandusky’s gut, who obliged and amazingly felt as if he were 22 all over again!
Sandusky couldn’t figure out why, but he found himself being taken over by…something. He tossed the ball to the quarterback who resembled a Roman soldier. The cadence began, uttered in an unearthly buzz tone: “RED-FIFTEEN! BLUE-TWENTY-SEVEN! HUT-HUT-HUT!” The quarterback backed away from center, turned and handed the ball to Sandusky, who obligingly ran toward the line of scrimmage. The convicted pedophile then saw the Centurion nose tackle extend his left arm straight out, with his gladius automatically protruding from the forearm. It was aimed directly at Sandusky’s neck! There was no way to stop the play. The running back’s head cleanly severed from the rest of his body and flew several feet into the air, then plopping right beside his now-slumping figure. He remained conscious long enough to see it happen.
Paterno waved his hands over his head and blew the whistle, then ran up to Sandusky as he was dying. “There, that clothesline wasn’t so bad was it! So long as you work for me, you won’t be subjected to the demon with the anvil-shaped genitalia!”
“Got...it….” croaked Jerry Sandusky as he terminated, soon to be resurrected for the first of an endless cycle of deaths.
Three hours later, the carnage of the match was cleaned up from Crappy Valley. 46,284 screaming fans went home satisfied. The Number One Cylon turned to Joe Paterno. “And now…it’s your turn.”
Paterno nodded and sighed; he knew what he had to do. “Centurions…execute.” The twelve remaining Bulletheads who did not play in the game piled on top, crushing him to death.
Cavil sighed. “I miss Pyramid.” He then noticed the two mysterious figures in the southeast corner, who saw all that transpired. He waved, then flipped his middle finger at them.
The female sarcastically frowned. “Nice to know he still cares about us.”
“Indeed,” said the male; the two then vanished.