Burned

I used this Florida Weekly Challenge prompt.

“Karma’s a bitch, my friend.”

Larry assessed his situation by flexing his biceps and cracking his knuckles.  Although the former quarterback had worked both sides of that causal equation, he calculated that in the end, he would have deposited more in the good column than in the “bite-you-in-the-ass” column. His charity work alone had to be worth something.

But today, he wasn’t so sure. Karma had kicked his butt.

Arne nodded agreement as he popped open a couple of Funky Buddha lagers. Larry plopped onto a beach chair in front of the mansion he had called home.

Raising a thick forearm in a toast, Arne winked at Larry “Here’s to a long life and a merry one. A quick death and an easy one. A cold beer—and another one. And, of course,” he paused, “A pretty girl—and an honest one.”

Larry flashed the smile that had won—and broken—many a pretty girl’s heart.

Arne wasn’t as well-known as Larry, but then again linemen rarely are. But he held his own notoriety. With chiseled good looks and a brute strength measured in height and heft, he was Larry’s favorite right guard.

They had devised a play in college that followed them to the pros. They called it the quarterfront sneak. Even though their playing days were over, one or the other would flash a hand signal prompting a mimicked play where Larry would squeeze through a seam Arne had opened. It could be at the beach, a local children’s hospital, or a tuxedoed charity event—especially a tuxedoed event.

“Just dogging your crack,” Larry would smirk.

“You said crack,” Arne would cackle, playing Butthead to Larry’s Beavis. It was like they had never grown up. But then again, old football players never do—they just pass away.

With their playing days behind them, the jocks had no curfews, weigh-ins, or mandatory reps. The new rhythm blessed them each with extra pounds and slower reactions. Sure, they worked out—that’s what jocks do. To amuse their fans, Arne would slam a 400-pound truck tire with a sledgehammer, while Larry sprinted, cut, and shuffled.

“Are you a football player?” a toned young woman once asked Larry. “Or are you just built like one?” He promptly asked her out.

As right guard, it was Arne’s job to protect the quarterback. Not only did he bankroll his own multi-million nest egg covering Larry on the field, but he scored bonuses off the field, as well. Larry bought him a fully-loaded Jeep Wagoneer for paving the rocky roads the playboy created when playing with more than one toned young woman.

“Running interference,” they called it. Because he towered over any scene, Arne could spot trouble before she arrived. Despite his size, Arne was quite graceful. During his pro days, he kept his feet nimble with ballet. After a career-ending injury, he took up ballroom dancing. Nothing flatters—or runs interference—like a well-executed swing bounce.

 “May I?” Arne would offer his Super Bowl–ringed hand to an incoming ingénue. An invitation to join the gentle giant on the dance floor would attract Larry’s attention before she could spot him.

It worked.

Until Karma arrived.

The woman was willowy and exotic. Drop-dead gorgeous. Her fashion line, dHarma Rta, raked in more than Larry was worth. Its slinky lines defied the common concept of dharma. There was nothing virtuous in its translucent saris, jama coats, and kurtas. She likened her product to the Buddhist meaning—phenomena.

The one-name icon knocked the has-been off his game, and to everyone’s astonishment, they got married. The ceremony, with the bride adorned in dHarma Rta style, surpassed phenomenality. As did their charmed life, with time split between an Aspen chalet, a Manhattan condo, and the Vanderbilt Beach house. 

Larry, however, slipped one night when Karma arrived at a gala and Arne missed a block. Slower reaction times, you know. She broke through the line and sacked the quarterback. The play ended in divorce.

Evicted, Larry called his wingman. Arne showed up with beach chairs and a cooler of Funky Buddhas. They crashed in front of the mansion.

“What are you gonna do, man?” Arne handed Larry a lager, then leaned back to catch some rays.

“Don’t know. Karma’s a bitch. And her dharma just ran over my dogma.” He flexed his biceps, cracked his knuckles, and sank his head into his right fist.  “Toss me the sunblock, will you, man? I’m burned.”