"Your weapons will be this ultrasonic linesman's whistle, and a package of yellow flags. They're quite special. If you find yourself in a bind, simply throw a flag. This man is odious, 007. Go stop him."

Twelve hours later, Bonf's jet touched down at SFO. "Blasted inconvenient airport," he scowled. As he crossed the San Mateo bridge, an F-4 strafed him, bullets cutting into the pavement ahead. Bonf opened the side window and threw a flag; two zebra-colored F-18's appeared, chasing the F-4 away.

In Hayward, he bought a burrito ("Whole wheat, no beans.") The server, about 25 years old, had the figure of a dancer. After a Warriors game, they made love. When he awoke, she was gone. An unspecified booby trap had been set, which he escaped.

That evening, Bonf snuck into the coliseum aboard a hotdog truck, then scaled the girders to the top. Far below, little men in black uniforms were running drills. He was then taken by surprise by two large men, who took him down to the grass.

Bonf and Davis stood in a huddle, the entire squad surrounding them. "Glad you could visit, Mr. Bonf," said Davis. The stadium lights were blinding. "This is the future, you know. A team doesn't belong to a city any more than a billboard belongs to the company running an ad. Cities pay for the right to be associated with a team. If it doesn't want to pay, some other city will. And you will not stop us."

Davis continued. "We'll give you a sporting chance, Bonf. You get the ball on your own 20. You can pick a center, a running back, and two receivers. All the other guys on the squad will be blitzing. If you can score without turning the ball over, you get to live."

The first play, Bonf was sacked hard for a loss of 15 yards. "You play rough," Bonf said, throwing a flag. Two F-18's buzzed the area, looked around, and left.

"Sorry, no linesmen tonight," said Davis, "no penalty. Second down."

The next play, Bonf blew his own whistle, but heard nothing. He threw the ball away, but still took a very late hit. "Cheap shot!" Bonf said, whistling again.

Hundreds of snarling dogs poured out of the stands. Soon, each Raider was on the ground, restrained by five or six dogs. Ten dogs surrounded a standing Davis, waiting. "Kill!" yelled Bonf; the dogs did. Now Marcus Allen owns the Raiders, and they remain in Oakland to this day.