After being fired for sucking ass at coaching football, Karl Dorell, with nowhere left to go, decided to hide in the vast tunnel network under CU Boulder.

His team consistently ranked in the top 5 of the bottom 25, a list chronicling college football’s worst teams, being better than only CSU. Dorell’s commitment issues showed too, as he couldn’t decide which quarterback he wanted to play and which quarterback he wanted to just go ahead and lead this team for him so he doesn’t have to worry about all that team-building morale stuff.

But now, Karl sits curled in a fetal ball shaking and shivering as the warm fall melts into chilling autumn, wearing nothing but a black CU polo and a blank, desolate stare. Alas, when his own team suffered humiliation at the hands of HORNED FROGS, BRUINS, WILDCATS, GOLDEN GOPHERS, and THE FUCKING AIR FORCE, his face remained blank, business only, as if he were trying to impress some fictional client from a Leeds Business School Entrepreneurship Program project, but now, but now Karl shivers, says nothing, and stares all too blandly at the cold, gray, dripping tunnel wall as a horde of rats sinks their grimy teeth into his slithering flesh.

Oh the pain, he would moan, if he had the gall and the balls to speak up about any situation deemed less comfortable. Na’im Rodman, one of Karl’s victims and defensive lineman, said, “Good. Let nature reclaim the bones of the unworthy, so that the innocent can know there’s a hell, so that the innocent can understand the cosmic consequences of being a coward, so that the innocent knows that they too can become guilty and damned, lest they dare to run a screen on 3rd and 17 at their own 12 yard line.”

Soon after Karl’s exile, the loud roar of joy and victory returned to Folsom when the Buffs upset California on parent’s weekend. Students jumped from the stands as soon as the California player dropped a potential game-winning pass, absolutely jacked out of their minds on seeing their home team play real defense and not whatever the hell Karl taught them.

When the horde of students poured onto the field, Karl felt their feet shake the tunnel, and without moving a face muscle, so too felt the only horde excited for his presence: about 10,000 hungry, hungry rats looking to see if a bad football coach makes good meat.

Bite by bite Karl withers down to a skeleton, his true form, as his skin means nothing in the face of difficulty. Even now, though, he dares not say a word. For if he speaks he may tarnish his reputation and tell the truth for once, the truth that he’s front and center at the stinkiest shitshow, and that it’s his fault to bear, whether silent on the sidelines or stoic in the depths of the tunnels.