In part 2 of our saga, Auburn Intelligence Agent Ramone Jerdun was trapped in the subterranean lair of his arch-nemesis, where a false move by Saban’s henchmen proved decisive…
At last, Saban had made a mistake. McCarron was intimidating: But he’s no Jones or Fluker. Even better, he was blocking the two linemen who stood behind him in the elevator.
I made my move as we exited on the main floor. As McCarron pushed me out the door, I whirled suddenly in a spinning karate kick, planting my right foot squarely on his tattooed chest. He slammed backward violently and went down in a pile with the two massive linemen.
As any Auburn linebacker knows, Jones and Fluker take forever to recover once they’ve been taken down. And McCarron knows only how to curl up in a fetal position and wait for the whistles to blow once his protectors are neutralized. With my opportunity in hand, I bolted for the Football Complex front door, dodging machine gun fire from the elderly night watchman at the front security desk as I did so.
I knew I had to get out of Tuscaloosa and back to Auburn as quickly as possible. Luckily for me, a new Ferrari Testarossa was parked out front: In Tuscaloosa, Cadillacs are given to freshmen recruits. Juniors and Seniors who earn Saban’s trust are granted more exotic cars to drive.
The Ferrari roared to life and I screeched out of the parking lot in a cloud of white smoke as McCarron and his henchmen rushed out of the building. Clearly, McCarron’s fear of the reprisals Saban would take against his family were forcing him to ignore his terror and pursue me. One can only imagine Saban’s wrath when he learned I had escaped!
With the wind in my hair and some cool Poison jamming on the stereo, I raced down University Boulevard through the heart of Tuscaloosa at breakneck speed. There was no need to fear police involvement: UA football players often race their exotic foreign sports cars up and down these streets. The Tuscaloosa Police care only so far as to wager on which player will win these dangerous street races.
Minutes flew by before I finally approached the massive bridge spanning the turbulent Black Warrior River leading into the hellish slum of Northport. Just as I hit the bridge, a black Escalade roared up behind me spitting gunfire. It was McCarron!
Bullets whipped past my head as I floored the Ferrari and raced desperately for Highway 82. I knew from my Geography 101 class at Auburn University that following Highway 82 to Montgomery would allow me to intersect with Interstate 65 which would eventually take me back to Auburn, Alabama.
But it seemed that McCarron had used his “cellular telephone” to call ahead for backup: A new, GMC Denali filled with already-bought Tuscaloosa County High football players suddenly appeared in front of me. I locked the Ferrari’s brakes up, but it was no use: A crash was unavoidable!
Right before the Ferrari smashed into the SUV, I judo-rolled out of the car and landed spritely on my feet in the broad roadway just like a completely heterosexual male Auburn cheerleader would.
As the black Denali screeched to a halt, I took off running west through the ruins of downtown Northport.
The danger was palpable: Northport is the subjugated territory from which Saban and the metropolis of Tuscaloosa pull the wretched day laborers required to keep their evil empire running smoothly. I could expect no help from the vanquished and terrorized souls living here.
A freight train rumbled in the distance and I sprinted to reach it. Jones and Fluker had gotten winded merely by crossing the street in pursuit. McCarron was still in pursuit, spurred on by his fear – although I easily outpaced him because, as everyone knows, Alabama quarterbacks never run. Not even in practice.
I reached the train as the last car was passing by and swung up on the brakeman’s ladder. I quickly scrambled to the top of a boxcar and scanned my surroundings. The train was moving south, back into Tuscaloosa. But I felt if I laid low atop the car I’d have a good chance of passing through the city undetected. McCarron was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, a helicopter roared overhead, a spotlight stabbing down into the foggy gloom. Distracted, I didn’t see McCarron until he grabbed me from behind and spun me around. The helicopter spotlight framed us as he leveled a pistol at me.
“Going somewhere, Jordon?” he asked.
“It’s pronounced ‘Jer-Dunn,’” I corrected him. I noted the train was approaching the trestle over the Black Warrior River.
“I don’t care,” McCarron snarled. “The girl is mine! Coach will be happy! And knowing him, I doubt you’ll see your beloved Auburn again until Alabama has 20 National Championships!”
I shook my head at his fevered delusions: Everyone knows the NCAA will be stripping Alabama of its last three “National Championships” any day now.
But the train was hurtling toward the trestle. The helicopter still hovered over head. I had to act! Now!
With stunning speed, I lept up into another cool spinning kick-move.
My first kick knocked the pistol from McCarron’s hands and up into the air. My second, lightning-fast strike hit the smirking buffoon in the side of his face, knocking him off balance. Pure fear flashed in his eyes – but I knew that showing any Alabama player or fan any mercy was simply not an option.
I deftly caught the pistol with my left hand while delivering a devastating judo chop to McCarron’s neck. With a shrill, feminine scream, he tumbled off of the boxcar and plunged wailing into the dark, polluted Black Warrior below, where he surely perished.
Then I shot down the helicopter with one bullet from the pistol.
The exploding helicopter proved to be the distraction I needed to escape from Tuscaloosa safely. I rode atop the train in the frigid Alabama air until we reached Greene County, Alabama. There I jumped from the train and made contact with an undercover A2 agent at the Boligee Café, who arranged for safe passage back to the Loveliest Village on The Plains.
Where today, I wait. Because I know that Saban is still out there, vengefully plotting against Auburn. And one day soon I will face him again.