4.6 seconds left. Down by two. Enough time to set up and shoot. Enough time to win. Enough time to tie. But there's the split second and the chance to pull this one out, so the ball is launched beyond three point land. It looks true or at least true enough, but the bounce off the far end of the rim proves false. The time is gone. The game is gone. The championship is gone. And the year is almost over.

There was so much joy a minute ago and now--at least we're in Vegas. Everyone's a winner and a loser in Vegas. It all hinges on the split second timing. A minute ago I was up and now the minute is over.

They live five blocks away from the park. So they drive for 30 seconds, get out, sit in a semi-circle, light the small pipe as their eyes flicker around at potential witnesses and inhale the smoke. The dog pile-ons have a local stench, but the pipe overpowers in seconds and the semi-circle expands a bit as they fall back and enjoy a bit of the afternoon. Soon it will be time to leave. Being outside at the park isn't as interesting as sitting at home playing video games. And with all the dogs and dog owners skirting the edges, it's just not as comfortable as a couch. But at least, for a moment, the world is enjoyed. The small parcel of land set aside for "quality of life" so many years ago. It doesn't resemble the wild of nature in any real way, but it's as much nature as most asphalt dwellers can take. There are only a few choices here, enough to seem free but not enough to feel inundated by the sheer expanse of life. Another week will pass and the cycle will repeat. Maybe next time they'll sit on the other side of the park.

Did you hear the one about the guy who's holding a piece of steaming dog shit and says, "Look what I almost stepped in." The whole things smacks of the XFL, if you ask me.

The land is rushing up to meet you. It seemed like the right thing to do a minute or so ago. Falling out of the big hole in the plane. Everyone was doing it. And what was that shout at the end? What were they trying to say? A quick look at the needle on your arm tells you it's time. Pull the trigger. Pull the string. Save the world--or at least yourself. And then, something is wrong. It's happened again. You fell out of the plane without the parachute. A minute or so later the land has stopped rushing. The world is at a standstill. Or at least it is for you. The only thing you can be thankful for is that it didn't take long. It was all over in a few ticks on the old clock.

Another one for the list. Best ways to die. Heroin overdose. Jumping from a plane without a parachute. There's got to be another cool way to go out.

The woman gets out of the decapitated Camaro that's been dragged for a half a mile by a semi. She has minor scratches. She proclaims that her size (she's under 5 feet tall) has saved her life. If she'd been any taller the cops would be looking for her head in about the same place the top of her car resides. She knew that there was a good reason God made her so short. And here it was. Here's the proof. If she was any taller (and hadn't freaked out, lost control of her car when the tire blew and dived down below the windshield and let her car run under the semi) she'd be dead now. But God knew what he was doing when he cut her height short at four-eleven. And now she gets to be on all the local TV news shows (at both five and ten, even). It's like a dream come true.

Insurance takes care of the money issues. Maybe there will be talk shows. Maybe there will be book advances (but I can't really write--that's okay, it just has to have your name and picture on it, nothing even has to be really true, just have the illusion of truthfulness).

Maybe this will never end. But it will.

He's taken the rifle off the hooks in the garage many times. His dad taught him how to clean, load and shoot the weapon when he was six years old. If there were any little critters in the five mile radius slab of concrete world he calls home, they'd be dead. But since no wildlife (other than rats) would live in such a pre-fab world with fake plastic trees and rubber food, he has to find something else to aim at. Something else to put between the crosshairs. The list was started back in third grade. Many names have been added, and, to be honest, quite a few have been crossed out as well. Some moved away, some proved him wrong and others just became shadows like the rest of them. It's not really the shadows that freak him out so much. There are still a good thirty names on the list. Too bad he only has seventeen shots.

It's not my fault. I didn't start this. Nothing can be done. It's all taken care of, sir. Please sit down and try not to disturb anything. Everything is proceeding just like we told you it would. When we make these 10-year budget projections, we take every possibility into account. And then add a couple zeros.

Matt Worley isn't really here. This isn't happening.