Here's your daily link to Dave McKenna's brilliant "Cranky Redskins Fan's Guide to Dan Snyder," which we'll be posting until Daniel Snyder's dumbass libel suit is dissected in a science class on stupidity. Today, we commence our Dan Snyder group fiction. Read an explanation here, if you haven't already, then read the start of the story below and send us your followups.



In my younger and less-jaded years, I received a piece of advice from my father that I've carried with me ever since.


"Whenever you feel like judging someone," he said, "just remember that most people in the world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

My father was not given to glib communication, and his words held a powerful significance for me. They would surface in my mind at unexpected times. Like now, on a warm, spring night in the recently moneyed suburbs of Washington, D.C., outside the heavy black gates that protected a famous billionaire named Dan Snyder from a hostile public.

Snyder had made his money through telemarketing and placing miniature billboards in hospitals and daycare centers. His employees forged the signatures of thousands of telephone customers and illegally switched their service, helping Snyder cash in on a market bubble by selling his advertising empire for nearly $2 billion to the French. By 34, Snyder owned a professional sports team and soon took to stamping along the sidelines of his giant toy in rich burgundy sweaters, fists balled, furious that the success he'd had in business couldn't be replicated as easily on a field where talent held sway.


How I had come to be standing outside this man's gates, awaiting entry into his Spring Bacchanal and Cornhole Tournament, was not entirely clear. The Sergeant and Fromm had lured a Roger Goodell adjunct back to a hotel and contracted a Ukrainian for the job. After that, I don't know what happened nor do I care to. It is not my duty, after all, to be aware of such details. I have my job. Logistics has theirs. I prefer to keep the two separate.

The adjunct, at least, had been truthful about the passcodes. A small motor churned softly as Snyder's gates swung open. Beyond them, a long driveway wound into the trees. At its end, stood an enormous white building. Snyder had purchased this manor on the banks of the Potomac River from Queen Noor of Jordan. The grounds were arranged around a limestone-and-stucco mansion that resembled a chateau but, in a certain light that came off the river in the evening, could easily be mistaken for a plantation house. I noticed that many of the trees and bushes between the mansion and the river had been reduced to nubs, as if they'd been doused with a Vietnam-era defoliant. The view of the Potomac, however, was unsurpassed.

A grinning man greeted me outside the door. I took him at first for a butler. He said his name was Tony Wyllie. We shook hands in the overly firm manner of executives.

"You'll be glad you didn't bring a guest," Wyllie said, a strange tone creeping into his voice.

He opened the door and beckoned me inside. From within Snyder's mansion, a buzz of laughter and clinking glasses floated up, along with a haunting melody. I paused on the threshold, my father's mandate still echoing in my mind. I'd been raised not to judge. Unfortunately, my business required that I pass sentence on others...


The story is yours to run with from here. Anything goes. Anything at all. Dan Snyder/John Riggins slash fiction, maybe? It's up to you. Please submit entries for the next edition of "The Snydering" to