ANOTHER TRAGIC RESIGNATION, OR: 8 PLAYERS HEAVE A SIGH OF RELIEF
Mr. Secunda, shown above, in the only event anyone has ever had the drop on him.
After a close-call shootout in his apartment building lobby with his would-be assassin and a day or two of deliberation, ANDREW SECUNDA has decided to concede the duel to his opponent and RESIGN FROM THE COMPETITION, to gasps of shock and sighs of relief.
Forgive any typos in this dispatch, as I am unable to see my monitor through a sea of tears. JUST OVER A DAY LEFT IN THE COMPETITION, and he’s bowing out. The THIRD resignation of the game.
Why?
Could it be that Mr. Secunda’s real life, and real wife, have been nearly entirely ignored for the last 19 days, as he has alternately plotted to kill, hunted to kill, killed to win, and huddled defensively in his Brooklyn apartment, the only two thoughts in his brilliant mind a white-hot bloodlust and the chilling, lightning quick instinct of self-preservation?
Could it be that the 8 1/2 hours in my apartment building’s stairwell took its toll on Mr. Secunda’s sanity, dignity and bladder, leaving him a hollow shell, wandering Williamsburg with no taste for civilian life?
Could it be that his appetite for lies and deceit have driven him to follow in the path of Chris Gethard, where he can pull the puppet-strings of the remaining players from beyond the grave, pitting themselves against each other in increasingly elaborate schemes of cruelty?
No one can know the reason for such a disappointing and enigmatic resignation in this, the eleventh hour. But we do know this: This game has lost a badass of epic proportions, whose devotion to shooting foam darts at frightened improvisers bordered on maniacal. Winning this round just got a lot easier.
Farewell, sir. I hope your wife recognizes you through the hobo beard and bloodshot eyes that are the result of the weeks of sleepless nights and epic manhunts. May your death, poetically, return you to the land of the living.
