Free Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller by Tim Young

breath and tried to calm himself.
    The television flashed a series of highlights from the Georgia Bulldogs game earlier in the day, a humiliating home loss to rival South Carolina that dropped the Dawgs’ record to 0-2. “Ouch,” an announcer said. “Just look at this bone-crushing hit Georgia quarterback Buck Welch suffered in the third quarter.” On the screen, a player lay motionless on the turf, surrounded by coaches and trainers. Blake mashed his teeth and was tunnel-visioned into the player’s helmet as if he had taken that hit. His shoulders cringed, and he dropped his eyes to the bar. “Sort of reminds you of that career-ending hit that Blake Savage took several years back,” the announcer said as a picture of Blake flashed on the screen.
    Blake jerked his head to the screen and then looked around to see if anyone took notice. No one cared. He continued stirring his drink counterclockwise and lost himself in the eye of the swirling martini. His mind returned to his days at Rabun County High School, where he had poor grades, a penchant for beer, and one hell of a throwing arm. That throwing arm landed him a football scholarship at UGA and an unheard of starting role as the Bulldogs quarterback in only his sophomore year. Athens went crazy for Blake—“Blakemania,” the media called it, as fans body painted themselves while he led the Bulldogs to a 7-0 start. Then, on a crisp October Saturday, a safety from Vanderbilt shattered both his knee and his collegiate career on a blind-side blitz. In an instant, Blake’s future was ruined. With their hero wounded and evidently quite mortal, the legion of Blake fans faded back onto campus and awaited their next hero. Blake lay in the hospital for twenty-six days, increasingly irrelevant in Athens with each passing moment.
    Blake raised his glass, took a long sip, and savored it as he drowned himself in misery.
    At first he had just denied the extent of the injury. As the reality set in, he focused his anger squarely on the running back that failed to pick up the block on the safety that put an end to his shot at the NFL. Then the blame shifted to the safety, who later became a first-round draft pick and claimed his fortune with the Baltimore Ravens. Then the doctors and therapists were to blame. Surely it was someone’s fault. Somebody had to be accountable for costing Blake the only future he had planned on.
    “I tell you, the Dawgs could sure use someone like Blake Savage these days,” the announcer said. “But, I believe Blake is now residing in the ‘where are they now’ category”. Blake turned his attention back to the screen. He raised his hand at the waitress.
    “Hey, do you mind changing the channel?” Blake asked the bartender.
    “To what?” she asked with a flirtatious smile.
    “Anything,” Blake responded. “News, whatever. Not sports.”
    “Not a sports fan, huh? Sure thing. Let’s try CNN.”
    His face remained staunch, unchanged, but his mind relaxed and the drink instantly began working its magic. Why the hell do they say alcohol is a depressant? Damn it feels so good , Blake thought to himself. He didn’t understand such notions too well, never was interested in learning about it in school or in life. Learning wasn’t his thing. Getting to the NFL was...had been. Now, he wasn’t sure what his thing was. He just stared at a crossroad every day doing what he did the day before, all the while digging himself a little deeper into a depression.
    He took another sip of the martini and peered at CNN. Most of the time, he wouldn’t have been able to hear it with all the bar chatter, but before 5:00 p.m. on a Saturday game day when most people were in sports bars, it was quiet enough, as Blake was fond of saying, “to hear a mouse pissing on cotton.” Normally Blake couldn’t care less about the news, other than ESPN, but the headline caught Blake’s attention.
    The graphic below a talking head read, “Secret Supper Clubs All The