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When they hit the steel pole at ninety miles an hour Gibbons didn't know what hit him. John on the other hand knew one of his legs was finished. When the doctors came they called a prist from the Jesuit because Gibbons was dead until he decided not to be. "Let's drink to the rich Harry. After all it's nice to know about banks and revolution when you stand to inheart both." The pause was maybe the crash. Where the madness unfolds from an ending. "Smart, hungh Harry?" "Vicious Hanch? Vicious." Fife stood on the long green. His blue eyes were that of the black raven. The blue that has never been in water. His shoulders were that of the stories told about wild boars that leap the long run. He was from Nebraska. "Alright? Let's settle it down. Gibbons was never going to be a quarterback here anyway. He's alive. He is not coming back to us. I am going to see him. The entire team is invited except for the rest of the quarterbacks. Hit it." Fife got into a car latter than it's own time, put in a gear and drove toward the hospitle. He was deeply saddened. Fife did not like this at all. Many times he had beat men and women half to death over drinking, but maybe because he refused to deal with accidents interr- fering with his necessary madness he was twisted in his head like a grandfather wheel left to accomidate the last place where one can accomidate one's incest groves. When he got there Gibbons mother had death in her hands. Fife told her of course not and muttered on his way through the halls that "it was just a matter of time till he woke up to get worse."