Coach Wurlitzer was working out the details on a pad of grid paper. In three months, the Pleasure Island Derby would give a prize of two million dollars to the winning team of donkeys to pull the cart across the finish line. He'd regretted losing his star quarterback, but what the heck, he'd be able to retire with $2 million, and Dan was the best match for Todd.
The door squeaked slightly as it opened, and the sound of four hooves tapping lightly on the concrete floor went unnoticed by the coach who was engrossed in counting his imagined winnings, and in the Pink Floyd anthem blaring out of his ear plugs from the mp3 player hanging from his neck, "We don't need no education! We don't need no thought control!"
A burlap sack descended over Wurlitzer's head. Strong hairy arms grabbed him. The file cabinet drawer rattled open. A strong hand gripped the coach's crotch and ripped his pants and underwear off. Another hand clamped a damp sticky patch on the coach's balls, and another on his dick. The coach screamed into the burlap bag. He tasted something medicinal on his tongue. The smell--his consciousness faded.
Ron, the assistant coach, entered the coach's office. He dropped his clipboard, his eyes popped open-wide, and his jaw hung open. There were two muscular half naked hairy young giants holding the coach's limp body. One let go of the coach, and the other held him. The one that let go approached Ron. Ron staggered back into the corner of the office, the man coming toward him had hooves instead of feet.