am a two dimensional thing flattened by some supernal rolling pin wielded by some capricious, angry deity, curled inside out for what seems like forever and then it’s over. Hoggins sure got his math right because I am in Vince Lombardi’s back yard and rosy fingered dawn is in my eyes, almost blinding me. And rosy fingered dawn isn’t my metaphor. It’s Homer’s. I look at the radiation gauge and it says I absorbed no measurable radiation. Hoggins’ magnetic field did its job. Be nice if i’d had it the first time because then I wouldn’t be a dead man. Then I check the time and it is very early on December 31, 1967. Game day. The game that changed history in ways no one understands. Bart Starr will call a play named Brown right 32 Wedge and score a winning touchdown instead of kicking a field goal and having to play overtime. And if you don’t know that play don’t feel bad because I don’t either. All I know is that it’s a running play and the point of attack is the right side. I am so hot in all this clothing and the body armor Dilllon insisted I wear that I cant wait to get out of the ship and into the cold. Then the icy wind whips around me and I dread walking to the front door. My face mask goes awry and I curse softly. I have two tasers, a .357 magnum, and a hypo full of quick and lethal poison. I refused to take a garotte because there was no way I could take that long to kill a man when the house was full of people. The idea was disabling the people inside with a taser and then shooting a legend full of poison. I never did quite understand how this hit will erase WW III but so what? It’s the outcome of the game that is somehow involved. Green Bay wins it and I must change that. Hoggins and Dillon believed that erasing Lombardi would be maximally disruptive. They don’t even know if the game would be postponed. Dillon was sure they’d play that day rather than turn away a crowd of angry drunks. Back then men were men, Dillon had said. Softly, softly I creep around the side of the house, low and underneath the windows. I have done dry runs on a model of this house so many times I know it like someone who lives there. I reach for my lock pick and cant find it. Now I remember being distracted by an argument with Dillon and Hoggins and I just didn’t bring it. After a moment of equivocation I knock on the door, hoping that this wont become a bloodbath. She’s been drinking, alright. She looks like hell and you could use her breath for gasoline. Before she can say anything I taser her and step around her. And then out of the hall comes Lombardi in his underwear. When he stops in his tracks I quickly taser him and then I carefully unsheathe the hypo and stick him in the deltoid muscle and he stops moving and stops breathing. There’s no pulse. If he’d been standing when I gave him a shot he’d be dead before he hit the ground. I’m sorry, brother, I whisper softly. I love you. But your death could save civilization. Lombardi is dead. The legend is dead and I feel like crying but then there’s a sound. A furtive rustle like some one trying to be silent. A witness to first degree homicide but my face is covered and not recognizable. These cold weather garments are stifling. As I start to leave I happen to see a police car pull up at the curb outside. That means someone inside this house called the cops and they stopped eating doughnuts long enough to make this call. This is bad, very bad. I take cover behind a sofa. My job isn’t finished until Dallas wins and the world is saved. Now they are standing at the door with their guns drawn. I may become a cop killer and have to go straight back rather than know the outcome of the game. Some kid lets them in and I get ready to bolt pass them thru the door.