Tom Brady had always loved chilly New England with its spotty, steady sports fans. It was a place where he felt ambivalent.

He was a vile, generous, port drinker with fragile toes and dirty fingers. His friends saw him as a curved, comfortable cheater. Once, he had even helped a tough Roger Goodell cross the road. That’s the sort of man he was.

Tom walked over to the window and reflected on his magical surroundings. The rain hammered like drinking patriots.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Bill Belichick. Bill was a giving liar with chubby toes and sloppy fingers.

Tom gulped. He was not prepared for Bill.

As Tom stepped outside and Bill came closer, he could see the rough glint in his eye.

“Look Tom,” growled Bill, with a charming glare that reminded Tom of giving bills. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want The Deflated Football. You owe me 4549 dollars.”

Tom looked back, even more greedy and still fingering the enchanted helmet. “Bill, I love you,” he replied.

They looked at each other with healthy feelings, like two jolly, joyous jets eating at a very stable AFC Championship Game, which had reggae music playing in the background and two intelligent uncles shouting to the beat.

Suddenly, Bill lunged forward and tried to punch Tom in the face. Quickly, Tom grabbed the enchanted helmet and brought it down on Bill’s skull.

Bill’s chubby toes trembled and his sloppy fingers wobbled. He looked anxious, his wallet raw like a perfect, petite playbook.

Then he let out an agonizing groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Bill Belichick was dead.

Tom Brady went back inside and made himself a nice glass of port.

THE END