This started out as a comment in response to the question: If Mike Woodson does get fired, then what? But it got kinda long, so now it's a FanPost. But it's not really a FanPost, and it's not really Knicktion, it's really just a long, silly comment. I'm sure you'll easily notice the distinction.
Meanwhile, somewhere else…
It was nearing the end of another dull, lazy, cold day. But that was hardly remarkable. For the last eight months, all of the days had been dull and lazy, and with the onset of winter they were only getting colder.
What was remarkable was that despite the shortening of the daylight hours as the winter solstice approached, the days seemed actually to be getting longer. Perhaps it was a consequence of the reduced daylight and reduced temperatures causing both body and mind to slow to a pace akin to that of hibernation. Perhaps it was just the cruel, irresistible march of time causing past events to fade into the background mists of history, leaving the present stricken in an expansive and ever-growing wasteland spanning the distance between the receding past and whatever may lie over the future’s ever-elusive horizon. Or perhaps it was because there are only so many days that one can spend lazing on a porch gazing absently into the depths of the encroaching forest before the unceasing sameness causes time itself seemingly to atrophy and become suspended.
Inertia had claimed him as its victim. Unexpected unemployment, a handsome stash of treats, and insuperable decrepitude had conflated to depress his spirit and grind his existence to a virtual standstill, such that the only discernible activity in his life was the gradual erosion of his stash of treats, and the weed-like creep of his decrepitude. In his present state, no scent carried on the air could rouse his hunger, no distant baying could entice him to move from his porch, and he had no master to call him forth from his torpor. And given that he lived in the wilds of Alaska — in a secluded forest neither far from, nor close to, Juneau — it would have been no small challenge for anyone to call him by any means, should anyone actually have wished to.
As it happened, he was being called by a new master. He knew something was coming long before it became visible in the narrow halo of sky between the roofline of his porch and the tips of the encircling trees; decrepit as he may have been, Marv Biscuits was still a coonhound, with a sense of smell as keen as ever, handicapped neither by the milky cataracts forming on his eyes, nor by the patches of fur falling from his hide. The scent he detected was unmistakable, as unique as any of the snowflakes which were languidly falling to rest all around; it was the scent of pigeon with distinct overtones of truck exhaust, foods from a thousand different lands and human determination in equal measure. It was the scent of New York City, with just a little bit more pigeon.
Before long, a bedraggled carrier pigeon appeared in the tiny ring of darkening gray sky above the shack, coasting on its descent towards its destination, at the end of a 2,850 mile journey. The weary bird alit on the handrail of the porch and with a deft shake of its leg released a small paper note which had been clamped thereto, the note conveniently landing in front of the nose of the uninterested and unstirring Marv Biscuits.
Without even looking at the note, Marv knew who its writer was already. The smell of money, errant barbecue sauce and meddlesome greasy little fingers told him all he needed to know; the helpful "From thɘ ƨandbox of Jamɘƨ L Dolan" written childishly in blue crayon on the rear face of the note was superfluous for a variety of reasons. The written contents of the note were similarly — and obviously — superfluous, because having already discerned the note’s writer, Marv already knew what it said. The note promised to vanquish two of the devils that had been plaguing him. Soon, his period of unemployment would be over, and his dwindling supply of treats would be supplanted by a veritable king’s ransom of the tasty delights.
Decrepit coonhound Marv Biscuits felt a stirring he had not felt since he had coached the FrostDonkeys those long months ago. He felt an invigoration that caused him to stand and stretch his legs for the first time in what seemed like weeks, and a hunger that a few seconds ago had all but succumbed to apathy. As he pondered the long journey from Alaska to New York that was ahead of him, Marv’s mind gradually turned over from a standstill, gaining momentum roughly but inexorably, like the engine of a reliable old snowplow rumbling into life for the first time of the winter. He looked at the exhausted carrier pigeon, assessed its weight against the energy required to make the long journey to New York, and knew what to do.
Taking one large bite, decrepit coonhound Marv Biscuits swallowed the poor overworked pigeon whole and, feeling energized, he started his long trek to New York City. A new job and a mountain of treats awaited.