LOS ANGELES –– Hurricanes don't just come anymore. They linger. They loom. They laugh.
The Lakers are a tempest with two faces, a tsunami with twin tidal waves, and the rest of the NBA is drowning in the decadence of it all.
Los Angeles, bloated with riches, now wields a weapon so gluttonous it borders on obscene: Luka Dončić, the Slovenian sorcerer, and LeBron James, the ageless avalanche, trading roles like kings swapping crowns.
You saw it Thursday night. The Timberwolves limped into crypto.com Arena, their defensive anchor, Rudy Gobert, sidelined by injury, vanished into the Parisian fog, their swagger stripped like paint off a Minneapolis barn.
And what did they find? Austin Reaves, that baby-faced assassin, splashed a three-pointer from Chinatown like he tossed pennies into a wishing well for the game's first points.
Then came the swarm—Lakers defenders descending like Killer Bees from a Wu-Tang anthem, all sting and no sympathy. The Wolves couldn't protect their necks, as Los Angeles scored thirty-three points in the first quarter. Thirty-three. Minnesota shot 38% from the field, and its offense was as ineffective as a snowplow in July.
But the cruel twist, the dagger dipped in déjà vu: Luka was broken. Again. Six-of-20 from the field. One-of-eight from deep early, his shot clanging like loose change in a beggar's cup.
Four of his six worst shooting nights this season? All in Laker gold. Yet here they were, winning. Again. Because when the Slovenian star sputters, the King ascends.
LeBron James, 40 going on 25, floated through the game like a ghost with a grudge. Thirty-three points. Seventeen rebounds. Six assists. He didn't dominate; he curated.
No energy was wasted dribbling through double-teams, and his lungs don't burn from carrying the load.
With Luka orchestrating, LeBron prowled — cutting backdoor, feasting on mismatches, dunking on logic. He shot 52% from the field, a number that doesn't just spell doom — it writes the obituary.
And oh, the free throws—forty-six of them! The Lakers shot more freebies than a Costco sample line, 23 alone in the fourth quarter, reducing the game's final act to a foul-line fiesta.
Minnesota's Anthony Edwards, all rage and no remedy, hurled the ball into the crowd like a toddler tossing broccoli, earning an ejection and a suspension. The Wolves, already missing Gobert's rim protection, unraveled like a cheap sweater.
But let's be clear: This isn't just a game. It's a warning. A manifesto.
The Lakers, once leaning on LeBron's Herculean heartbeat, now boast a luxury no salary cap should allow: The greatest player of this millennium as a second option.
When Luka's shot falters, LeBron becomes the avalanche. When Luka's magic flickers, LeBron ignites the bonfire. And when opponents, stripped of their DPOY talismans like Gobert, dare to double either? Reaves rains threes. Rui Hachimura (before his knee sighed in protest) bulldozes the baseline. The bench mob howls.
Fourteen wins in 17 games—one loss back from the Grizzlies for the West's No. 2 seed. The Lakers aren't just surging — they're scoffing.
They're a gourmet feast in a league of fast food, their excesses as glaring as a Hollywood premiere.
But here's the rub, the question that haunts every contender's film room: How do you starve a glutton?
How do you stop a team that thrives even when its MVP candidate can't hit water from a boat? You don't. You pray. You hope Luka's 30% nights run dry. You beg LeBron's legs to betray him. You cross your fingers that the refs put their whistles away.
Until then? The storm lingers. The tsunami swells. And the NBA drowns.
A message to the NBA: protect your neck. This version of the Los Angeles Lakers ain't nothing to mess with.