"Hoyt Timmerman Steals the Show": An In-Depth Look At a Life-Long Loser
Posted: Thu Feb 01, 2024 9:25 pm
Theft came naturally to Hoyt Timmerman, who spent most of his childhood leeching off others. Notorious for his deceitful behavior, Hoyt had few, if any, friends, and as a result spent the majority of his time playing with his prostate. To say that his family was poor would be a massive understatement: they were living off cigarette butts and washing their hands with urine just to save a few bucks. Hoyt's primary role in the family was the "chief thief." Wherever he went, he was supposed to come home with something of value. But soon, his duty turned into an addiction—one that only basketball could stop.
— — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — —
As he sprinted from the store, Hoyt "Wilhelm" Timmerman couldn't help but wonder why he was stealing a pair of baby diapers from Walmart—yet there he was, running not only for his life, but his criminal record as well. Within seconds of reaching his car, he was in drive and speeding off into the night. The employees, who chose to remain behind, calmly returned to the store and reported the incident because Hoyt needed serious mental help. Nevertheless, Hoyt needed these diapers. Not for his family, but for him, for it was the thrill of committing the crime that kept him coming back for more. He knew he didn't need these diapers—he just needed the rush of adrenaline that came with it. Nothing else could satisfy these cravings; and unfortunately for Walmart, Hoyt was insatiable. He was like a Viking pillaging Lindesfarne, grabbing cheap gold necklaces whilst assaulting random customers. He was a menace to society that needed to be stopped.
Fortunately for said society, when Hoyt next entered Walmart the doors slammed shut behind him. He tried opening them but to no avail: They were locked. He was stuck. They finally got him, the legendary "Wizard of Walmart."
Dropping to his knees in defeat, Hoyt "Wilhelm" Timmerman surrendered to the employees, who were already having a pretty bad day. One of the employees ran to the manager, who calmly walked over to assess the situation. As he approached the scene, he saw tears falling from Hoyt's face. Hoyt was, in all ways, emasculated.
"Ah, so it's you again," the manager said as he approached the scene.
Hoyt looked at his employee badge. "Brandon", it read. "Yes. My name is Hoy--"
"We know who you are," the big bad boss boasted. "The only thing we care about is tying you up and physically assaulting you before calling the cops and blaming your injuries on a fight with a violent vagrant. That is, unless you can step up and beat my challenge," Brandon offered.
"What are you even talking about?" Hoyt inquired.
"I've seen you playing basketball alone on the basketball court. Well guess what? You're not the only one," Brandon informed him. "I spend a great deal of time playing with the basketballs here and I'll have you know I have the finest crossover in town. If you can beat me in a game to 10, I'll let you go; but if I beat you, we call the cops. The choice is yours," he declared as a few employees gathered around him, basketballs in hand.
"I cannot believe this. This is absolutely absurd," Hoyt barked back as he knelt there in disbelief. "And where do you expect this to happen?"
"Right here, right now. There's a basketball court adjacent from the store we can use. You don't know what you're getting yourself into," Brandon replied. "Are you ready?"
When he was finally released from the bras that bound his arms behind his back, an immediate feeling of relief overcame him—but then the realization that he was in a basketball showdown snapped him back into focus. He immediately stood up to stand his ground, preparing himself for the battle ahead.
"You look a little worried, kid. What's wrong, scared?" the 300lbs manager teased. "Follow me. Right now," he instructed as he led the 16-year old, 120lbs Hoyt to the court.
"You get ball first," Brandon declared as he tossed Hoyt the ball and assumed a defensive position.
Now is my moment, Hoyt thought to himself. This is my time to shine.
Hoyt began dribbling the slightly-deflated ball, performing an assortment of tricks before driving to the basket, scoring 2. It was almost too easy: Brandon had the agility of a dumpster.
"Alright, alright. Now I'm going to show you why they called me "the Bruiser" in prison," Brandon pompously proclaimed as he began dribbling the ball in and out of his legs, with each dribble increasing in velocity.
Hoyt kept his eyes on the ball and in one swift move, stole it.
"My ball," Hoyt puffed as he brought the ball back to the 3pt line, assuming an offensive stance. This time, I'm going to drive and shoot a jumper, Hoyt thought before driving to the basket and taking a step-back shot from midrange. All net. 4-0.
"Now you're really grinding my gears," Brandon barked as he slammed the ball down. Returning to the perimeter, Brandon bounced the ball a few times before setting up for his signature crossover, a move that he used to use on his wife before slapping her across the face.
But Hoyt came prepared. With his eyes on the prize, Hoyt calculated the speed and velocity in which the ball was moving and waited until the perfect moment to snatch the ball before racing back to the perimeter to shoot a 3. Swish! 7-0.
"What the f*ck is wrong with you? I'm just an ordinary man trying to do his job to feed his kids and you come bursting into my stor--" Brandon shouted before being grabbed from behind by IamQuailman (aka Doug, GM of the Detroit Pistons), who immediately silenced him with his palm. He wrapped his arm around Brandon's neck, locking him into submission.
"Now you listen and you listen closely," Doug whispered into Brandon's ear. "You have no authority here. This is my turf. I'm the general manager of the Detroit Pistons."
Brandon struggled to free himself but Doug tightened his grip around his neck, ensuring that he wouldn't be able to break the hold.
"Now everybody calm down," Doug shouted as he waited for Brandon to either give up or go limp—whichever came first. Brandon struggled a little longer but ultimately surrendered to the taller, leaner, meaner Doug Machiner. Doug loosened his grip around Brandon's neck, where he collapsed to his knees in hysterics. The sound of his moaning and groaning made Doug want to break every bone in his bloated body.
"I was just doing some shopping at Walmart and drove down this street only to see two punks playing basketball on my court. What are your names you little crumb-bums?" Doug demanded from them.
"Brandon," the ogre whispered with shame.
"Hoyt 'Wilhelm' Timmerman," Hoyt announced.
"Well you, Brandon, you get out of here. You're a piece of dog shit who resembles a super-sized Bruce Willis and I hate you from the inside out. But Hoyt—you stay here. I want to have a little talk with you," Doug insisted. Brandon, in complete and utter shock, shit his new pair of corduroy pants. Hoyt's adrenaline flowed like an onslaught of diarrhea fresh out of Edgardo's ass as Doug led him toward his car 2008 Honda Civic, which had a fresh pool of blood on the hood of the car as well as the front bumper. Hoyt could do nothing but stand there frozen with confusion.
"Listen kid," Doug opened up as he put his freshly-lit cigarette out on his truck, rubbing it in for good measure.
"I've seen kids like you... They walk the walk, but seldom talk the talk. But you're different. As soon as you snatched that ball out of Ball-less Brandon's hands, I knew you were special—that's why I was taking zoomed-in photos of you from afar. I'm just here to tell you that, one of these days, you're going to become a professional basketball player. And also know that, when that time comes, I will eventually sign you to a contract and you will play for me" he rudely suggested Hoyt as he gripped the young Hoyt's shoulder.
"There's absolutely nothing you can about this. Nothing you can do will change the course of fate. It is simply your destiny," Doug insisted as he eased up on the tension.
Suddenly, a flash of white light blinded Hoyt, enveloping everything around him. In a state of panic, he turned around and opened his eyes only to find that nobody was there; Doug was nowhere to be seen. In the distance, he could see Brandon wiping his ass with poison ivy. What an idiot.
As Hoyt turned to walk away, he suddenly realized how to quell his addiction to theft: Basketball. Yes, that's right, the ball that you put into the basket. That really was his fate. And in that moment, he was literally god. He was then haymakered with a barrage of visions which left him lying unconscious on the basketball court. When he woke up, it was morning—and he had wood to show for it. Wow, what a happy ending.
Brandon went on to graduate from Penn State with a Bachelor's degree in Archaeology.