The weather outside may have been cold, but inside — more specifically, under the covers — it was broiling. Surrounded by self-drawn nude drawings of tim tebow, meph furiously jerked away. "Touchdown, Tebow," he said as he climaxed. He reached over to the orange and blue painted desk next to his bed and checked the box under a box labeled "came to tim." The column ran back more than two years, and to date every box had a check mark in it. Often there was more than one. Meph slowly rolled out of bed, and wadded up the blue and orange sock and tossed it into the pile of clothes in the corner behind his door. Now he was master of the world, and he was not quite sure what to do next. But he would think of something.