It’s not an easy task to carry Magnum Shott from the bar area, down a narrow hallway, and into one of Tony’s spare rooms. We’re on either side of the football player and practically drag him by his shoulders and arms. He feels like a giant bag filled with mud, heavier than f**k. It looks like a scene out of horror movie. Mag’s head hangs low, his entire body is slumped and gel-like, and his feet drag over the floor, spread this way and that way. I admit, Nevin’s stronger than me and doesn’t seem to have as much problem.
“Work with us, buddy,” Nevin coaches.
Mag mumbles something neither of us can understand. It sounds like a jumble of vowels, pre-kindergarten verbiage.
Once inside the illuminated room, I tell Nevin, “Let’s put him on the bed and take his shoes off.”
“Good idea.”
I don
