The endless lake stretched to the edge of the horizon where it met the empty black sky. A middle-aged man, shielded from the harsh winter gust by a hoodie, stared into the darkness. In his peripheral view stood a pyramid of light. The house of rhythm and blues. A gleaming structure haunted by legendary tales of men who dealt their souls for fortune and fame. This was the agreed upon meeting place, where fate and luck intertwined forming the hooded man's crossroads.
Just off the main entrance road a limousine cruised around the circle drive. The exhaust coughed, breaking the silence of the night. The headlights shone onto the hooded man, the brakes squeaked as the vehicle ground to a halt. The thud of a firmly closed door echoed off the glass pyramid.
The hooded man squinted into the blinding glare of high beams catching a glimpse of the approaching figure. The sound of heavy heels stomping on concrete then smothered by remnants of snow grew louder. A ominous figure stood in front of the lights. His face obscured by the back-lighting. "Mr. Belichick?"
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