M. Night Shyamalan pulled on his gym shorts and pushed his socks down so they bunched at his ankles, just over the lips of his high-tops. He looked at himself in the mirror. Mesh tank-top, check. Leather choker with a pooka shell embedded in the center, check. He kissed his reflection, and then M. Night Shyamalan turned sideways, and while keeping an eye on himself in the mirror, he tightened his hands into fists and gave ten pelvic thrusts as if he were fucking himself. “You like that?” he asked no one. “You like that?”

It was cool and still out on the court. The parquet floor had been recently waxed and buffed to a brilliant shine. M. Night enjoyed the squeal the rubber soles of his Air Jordans made, echoing up to the rafters, bouncing off the championship flags. M. Night Shyamalan brushed the back of his hand across his forehead even though he wasn’t sweating. He just thought it looked cool. He pretended to stretch, but he wasn’t worried. “I’m going to bury this old man,” he said. “You’re in M. Night’s house now.”

From across the court, a door opened, and Alfred Hitchcock emerged wearing a full suit and carrying a basketball tucked awkwardly under his arm.

He was even shorter than M. Night had imagined he would be, and he walked with what could only be described as a shuffling waddle. The bright stadium lights glistened off of his sweaty pate. M. Night stifled a chuckle. He liked to think of himself as a sportsman, and even if you were the most incredible sportsman that ever lived, as M. Night believed that he was, you did not laugh at your opponent. You made movies in which they were devoured by ridiculous beasts that no one could take seriously. But you did not laugh. The world was too spooky for laughter.

“Hello,” Alfred Hitchcock said, his hand extended. “I’m Alfred Hitchcock. It is an honor and a privilege to compete with you.”

“LET’S DO THIS GRANDPA,” Shyamalan shouted, smacking Hitchcock’s hand away. He lunged for the ball, but Hitchcock turned his shoulder away, keeping victory just out of reach.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Hitchcock said lazily, as if the words were too much effort. “That wasn’t very nice at all.”

What happened next was not easy for M. Night Shyamalan to accept, but it is easy to describe. He got dunked on, hard. Alfred Hitchcock cut through his defenses like water cuts through aliens. His offense gave Shyamalan vertigo. Alfred Hitchcock was sick. He dominated. “Oh,” he said, “looks like I’m taking you to dunk school,” and then he dunked again. Alfred Hitchcok was wicked good at basketball. It was a slam dunkacaust.

At 100 points to 4 (Shyamalan scored while Hitchcock took a pee break and generously told him to keep playing), Alfred Hitchcock wiped his hands against his wool trousers as M. Night stood shivering and broken on the floor. He didn’t even have the energy to pull himself up onto the bleachers. “Did you like that?” Alfred Hitchcock asked, lightly smacking M. Night Shyamalan across the face to rouse him. “Did you like that, little man?” And with that, Alfred Hitchcock walked off the court. His shoes didn’t make a sound.