Dan Quinn stared deeply into the darkness in his office. He spent his career trying to be one step ahead. Now he was at a loss as he rocked in his desk chair. How long had he been there thinking? Minutes? Hours? Even days? After four seasons with the Falcons, time has been less an indefinite continued progress of existence and events that occur in apparently irreversible succession from the past through the present to the future, but merely a cyclical, repeating social construct.
“It’s like a flat circle and that gets me fired up. But only because I’ve been fired up before,” Quinn thought to himself. “Then if all existence and energy has been recurring, and will continue to recur, in a self-similar form an infinite number of times across infinite time or space, then the sacrifices have already happened.” He stares intently at his wristwatch tick by second by second.
Was he bordering on an existential crisis or an epiphany? Even Quinn wasn’t sure.
“If I’m truly fast and physical, I need to embody fast and physical in every aspect of the team. Including the sacrifices,” Quinn decided. He decided he would no longer be predestined to continue the same mistakes over and over again.
He was tasked with fulfilling the ancient request for a blood sacrifice for good luck. Then he lost to the Cleveland Browns. There’s no coming back from that. Not without making a bold play. There was only one solution: more blood. Quinn was going to make it flood if he was to win a Super Bowl.
Quinn took out the roster and started circling. Player after player was circled. Then coaches. It started with Marquand Manuel, then to Steve Sarkisian, and then he moved up and down the front office and coaching staff.
“They’ll call me mad. And maybe I am a little mad. Mad to bring home the Lombardi trophy.”
With a single snap of his fingers, Quinn was ready to send everyone to the pit of fire to finally bring a perfect balance to the organization. He sat and he smiled knowing he finally made the tough decision needed to fix this team.
But who was to go? Quinn needed to talk to Director of Football Operations Nick Polk to help.
Thomas Dimitroff was alarmed seeing Quinn’s plans.
“Danny, this is too many people. I mean, how can we even replace this many people? The job market is really strong. Everyone is hiring. Even Brian VanGorder is employed!” shouted Dimitroff as he dismounted his bicycle. “You know no football decisions can be made when me and Lance are out cycling. It’s the most important rule.”
Quinn, stone-faced to Dimitroff’s protests, said, “First, did you know I hate the name Danny? That’s not really important. What is important is everyone here is on the same page.” Quinn began walking with Dimitroff through the facility. “It comes down to the very basic ideals of an organization. For instance, the shaved head is a choice. It says a lot about me and how I approach life. Those without shaved heads... well...”
Dimitroff couldn’t help but notice the strong smell of sulfur, the searing heat of the flames, and the 40-foot tall omniscient metal bird. His eyes sunk, his face went pale, but his marvelous hair remained fully intact. It must be a pomade.
Quinn smiled and pushed the team’s general manager into the flames. It was the first time Dimitroff had seen Quinn smile since the Super Bowl, perhaps more terrifying to Dimitroff than falling into the judging, paranormal fires hidden in the indoor training facility. The screams were music to Quinn’s ears.
There was no turning back. It’s the world vs. Dan Quinn. Players, coaches, and even general managers weren’t in the clear any longer. The Brotherhood is taking new applicants.
Quinn called his secretary. “Janet, is Scott Pioli bald by choice? I didn’t think so. No, you’re right, it doesn’t sound like he’s embraced the brotherhood. A true brother shaves his head. Send him to my office. And Sark. And Manuel. And Robert Alford. And half the offensive line. Send everyone.”
The flames warmed Quinn’s cold face. He was ready to push out everyone standing in his way.