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Bow to Our Future Overlord, Fred Hoiberg

Caylor Arnold/USA TODAY Sports

It is the year 2015; humanity is no match for future Association Overlord, Fred Hoiberg. Led by the best combatants possible, the rest of the Association is cowering in fear of what is becoming… all while it has already been happening.

Hoiberg, a man who hides his overlord aspirations behind a dreamy smile, comes from a place where members of the Association giggle at whenever they attempt to make runs at becoming overlords. Yet, it hasn’t mattered. Not right now. Not while the people viewing the Association from the outside have cast their votes, declaring that Fred Hoiberg is indeed the next overlord.

“All hail, Overlord Hoiberg.” Is not even whispered anymore. Thanks to his quick work of implementing his governing style, which he previously used at a lower-level, becoming a relative success, there are few reasons to doubt him. Nevertheless, not all are as convinced that Hoiberg is fit to be the Association Overlord.

What is left of the human race has reverted to a primitive state, believing that non-Hoiberg believers are demons and methodical styles of governing are a thing of the past. It only took years of quality governing oppression; that was slightly helped by the Potentate of the Golden State, Sir Steph Curry, for the masses to see the light.

The doubters, though… the doubters continue to linger.

Yet, the story of Fred Hoiberg future Overlord does not begin with his reign of dominance. It began many moons ago, in a land far, far away. So far, in fact, that his legacy of being The Mayor of Ames seemingly holds little value to those who do not want him to sit on the throne.

*

Above, the gladiator arena’s wall stretch to near-oblivion. An opening way up there — a young man can see stars. Something dark crosses what seems to be a hole in the ceiling. A loud, buzzing sound in the distance. Wind starts to pick up. Trash is being kicked up. A sheet of something people once called newspapers wraps around his leg. He tries to kick it away repeatedly… it refuses to release its grip. He bends down, grabs it to throw it away, but something grabs his eye.

“Fred Hoiberg isn’t a very good NBA player.”

Stunned. Saddened. Shocked. Years worth of his struggle to reach his dream is going down the drain because an outdated piece of material is telling the free-world that he does not belong as a combatant in the Association. That he, an aspiring citizen of this land where people compete for rings to the delight of the masses, should simply go away. Leave the realm, never to come back.

A young, but still incredibly handsome man, Fred Hoiberg now realizes if he is to make a true impact and help those who are unaware that they need help, he will have to take the long road back home — back to the Association.

Heading home, to his loving family, he realizes he must speak with his legal partner about such a maneuver. One which might put a strain on their dream of becoming royalty. Hoiberg needs not to have fear, though, as she completely understands that sometimes the thing you want the most are the hardest to obtain. “The sacrifice of his original plan,” she states, “will get him to his proper place on the throne.”

*

“I plan to reinvent the way in which we govern the five combatants that are on the court at any given time.”

Hoibergs’ new boss, a man who isn’t from the Association, yet holds a piece of the key which will help him in his return, looks at him confused.

“Do not look puzzled, my friend. A person in your position, a mere Director of Combatants and Scheduling, should not question the brilliance that scatters about the insides of my cranium like a ballerina having such a wonderful performance that it would make the toughest man cry.”

Then, it happened. Hoiberg was anointed the Mayor of Ames. He was now going to be the leader. His first order of business was to build an army. However, his idea of an army isn’t that of the ones traditionally built like those in the Association or even that in the place where future Association hopefuls practice their craft.

There are not many men who would fit in the army which the Mayor of Ames was trying to build. To make matters even worse, he had to convince the potential warriors that they would be sacrificing their own desires for the greater good — a governing system that puts no tag on any one man’s position or slotting. It was Hoiberg’s idea, that if a man were good enough, no matter the size, speed, or even skill, he should be able to launch the ball of reckoning without their being a limit on who through it or from where.

It was in a dark, abandoned looking place that he found his first true believers. No one truly knows what happened in that room. But the facts are in the history books. Hoiberg convinced many a man to abandon his old place of skill-training and join him in the advancement of governing the world in which we live in.

One of them is a sad cautionary tale. He bought so much into The Mayor’s ideals that he could not conform when he reached the Association. Because the world had yet to believe in Hoiberg or his ideas yet, this man had to suffer because he was one of them. One of the many who believed in the wonderful governing system known as Hoiball.

The length of stay it took to reclaim a seat within the walls of the Associastion may seem short by human years, but to those who felt that Hoiball was something everyone deserved… No, needed, it felt like centuries. Not even a few hundred years. Worse. Fall Out Boy Centuries.

*

Then it happened. A man decided that he had enough of this villainous Butcher which reigned terror over the combatants he was meant to oversee, running them into the ground, costing one of them his knees and another a shot at a lengthy career, needed to go. It wasn’t true brilliance, but a fellow was forced to change course because of the Butcher’s dastardly deeds.

To give the owner of this army credit, he heard murmurs of this Hoiball dominating the lower levels. While many others were skeptical of something working in the slums of the combatant-world, this man did not. He believed in it enough to bring the man for whom that form of government was named.

“Bring in this man to see if he is worthy to be the general of my army.” Said a bloated, not at all lovable man.

A shadowy mystery man is walking through the army owner’s doors. Instead of walking, though, it looks as if he is floating through the doors, above the floors, reaching the front of the desk which the bloated man is sitting behind. Landing in front of the bloated man, he approaches, lifting his hand, inching closer and closer.

“My name is Fred Hoiberg, and one day I am going to be the Overlord of the Association. I play second-fiddle to no man. Not you, bloated man. And not any aging warriors in which you still employ. He, the combatant whose name I will not speak of, will see his time on the battlefield greatly decrease, and you will all like it.”

The bloated man has never been talked to this way before. He is baffled. He is also impressed.

“Son, I have no idea who the hell you actually are, but you got the gig!”

“My friends call me Hoilecious, but you can call me Mr. Hoiberg.”

*

That far-off land, in a time far, far away is now. It is right now. Hoiberg has yet to convince all the voting members of the Association that he should be named the Overlord, as many are still married to the idea of a Grand Wizard named Phil and some Triangle governing style that led to much success in which the realm reveled in. Except some are starting to see all the glory that could await them if they simply buy in.

The largest skeptics, naturally, are those who are given the biggest platform to doubt Hoiball. They are on humanity’s future devices, which some members of society call smartphones and mobile devices, screaming at the top of their lungs about a King in Cleveland, a Jelly Bean in Los Angeles, and a man who has a horde of Pelicans at his disposal, all supposedly being better than the devilishly, too-good-looking-for-anyone’s-own-good Fred Hoiberg.

Hoiberg sees them on the future devices. He hears them through the portable voice machines. He listens as their own ignorance is preventing them from enjoying the greatness that will certainly one day rule them all: Hoiball.

He smiles. He bides his time. He realizes his time back in the Association has been short. The road to get bet here has been a long one. Our future overlord does not mind proving himself to the most inept of thinkers. He will simply wait, smile, and kill you softly with the awe-inspiring style in which he governs.

After all, his story is still unwritten…

The End?

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