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August 10, 1519

Ferdinand Magellan walked into an ornate throne room to see an excited King Charles hovering over a large map splayed out on a massive oak table. He stood at the entrance and waited for the king to bid him permission to enter. After several minutes, he cleared his throat loudly.

"Oh, Ferdinand! Come in, come in. Thank you for seeing me," the King said. "Listen, I need a favor."

"Anything, your majesty. Ask, and ye shall receive," said Ferdinand, bowing deeply.

"So you know the Spice Islands, right? Well, I'm looking for someone to hop in a boat and find me a route-"

"Your majesty, one thousand pardons, but there is already a route to the Spice Islands." Ferdinand was nervous correcting the King, but he was a busy man, and didn't want to waste anyone's time. "Your sailors and merchants have made the trip countless times."

King Charles became slightly annoyed. "Yes, Ferdinand, there is already a route to the Spice Islands. I'm looking for a better route. A westward route."

Ferdinand gasped. "Such an expedition would be incredibly costly and dangerous, you Majesty. I'm not sure..."

"Hear me out. You take five ships, couple hundred sailors, all the food and ale you need to sail for as long as it takes. In return, I'll make you a governor of the islands and you'll get one-fifth of the profits."

"That's a good offer, my King," Ferdinand said as he stroked his beard. "But this is a perilous task. Surely you can sweeten the pot."

The King grinned from ear to ear. "Name your price, Commander Magellan."

"That's a fine start, your Majesty. First off, I want naming rights to anything I discover."

"I look forward to seeing a drawing of the first Magellanic bird. Next?"

"Second, I want one of the islands."

The King burst out laughing. "Ferdinand, you dog. You can have one of the smaller islands. Anything else?"

"One more thing... If, by some chance, I die, and the expedition finishes without me... I want all the credit."

"Hmm, that one is going to upset a lot of people. Ehhhh, fuck it. Deal. Now let's go look at some boats."

August 10, 1985

“Shamone-ah!”

The deal sealed with thick-as-hell wax, The King Of Pop thought it time to let his hair down but away from everyone’s drinks. He did not want a repeat of Last Thursday, when Mike’s activator activated something vile in his assistant Topaz’ gastrointestinal tract after an errant wet curl plunged into her glass of Shasta.

The brass in Workers’ Compensation were still getting a real kick out of the whole thing, last he knew.

There would be heck to pay, of that Mister Jackson was certain. The cynics and the accurate would point to his cultivation of what appeared to be genuine fellowship with Paul as a Trojan Horse, a fine how-do-you-do but also a shameful how-do-you-sleep-with-yourself. Hyperbaric-ly, a real wise guy would later interject at spritzer mixer in Midtown, to the delight of several.

“Congratulations. The ATV catalog is yours.”

“(series of indecipherable mouth clicks)”

He could now do as he pleased. He could trade “Hey Jude” for King Tut’s sex helmet, straight up. He could flip Rubber Soul for the cryogenically-preserved dodo bird rumored to reside in Qaddafi’s Quebecois mistress’ condo. He could do nothing but stare at the Purchase Agreement alone in the back of the Rolls Royce until the tears stung his irises so badly that he made his driver Searcy pull over and find a Wendy’s.

“Just need your John Hancock.”

Jacko unsheathed his right hand from its bedazzled scabbard, never able to grip a pen quite right with the bugger on. They couldn’t spring for a quill? his mind moaned, the lawyers sweaty and leering as the ink made coils on paper.

“Don’t forget this. Cold out.”

One of the suits, the one with the harelip, held up The Glove. The way the light caught it, you could have sworn it was just an Isotoner.

8/5/1888

A small but raucous crowd gathered outside the pharmacist’s shop in Wiesloch. An eerie and foul smelling fog dissipated as townsfolk buzzed about. Some trembled and muttered prayers while others bounded in sheer joy. Arnulf, a confused latecomer, scanned and spotted his friend.

“Hey, hey Franz, what is this commotion about?”

“Arnulf, my friend! We have seen a thing most unusual!”

“Well, tell me! I’m quite lost and-”

“You won’t believe me when I tell you. Promise me you’ll try to believe me.”

“Yes Franz, just tell me.”

“Well, I was just moving stones and a loud clattering sound came down the road from the forest. It grew louder until we saw, and this is crazy, but a HORSELESS MECHANICAL CARRIAGE WAS DRIVEN IN TO TOWN!”

“What do you mean horseless?”

“It had no horses! It had a loud shaking motor and these unusual wheels. There was a navigator and young passengers. It ran on some sort of tonic from the pharmacist and it was completely self propelled!”

“Yeah, what’s the big deal?”

“Arnulf! No one has seen this machine before. It ran without tracks or sails! It is a miracle!”

“Oh Franz, simple simple Franz. The world has changed so dramatically in these last few years. Science and engineering has provided us with things we never imagined possible in a short while. We have medicines and machines and factories that we could have never foreseen just a few years ago. This machine, this automatic carriage, certainly sounds impressive, but I can say truthfully it does not surprise me. Of course some genius, some grease covered wizard, has created a machine that can drive down these roads we see around us. It’ll only be a short while now where we all own one of these. I embrace our beautiful future where a machine can connect every person in every region more easily. We will be closer to one another, and what we once considered to be great and insurmountable distances will be reduced to a bat of an eye. My heart beats loudly in anticipation of a time where a machine can help us share ideas and handshakes and understanding and love to all fellow humans, near and far.”

“I forgot to add, the person driving this thing was a woman.”

“That, my friend, I cannot believe. This was a good prank, Franz, you almost had me.”

Two years and four months later, Arnulf died of sepsis, alone and unloved.

7/23/1877

"Aloha."

"Hello? Ma'am? Can you hear me speaking to you?"

"Ma'am, how does it feel to be the first person in Hawaii to receive a telephone call?"

"What- Johnson, who am I speaking to right now?"

"Alani Haunani. She is a native of Maui."

"Does she speak English?"

"I don't believe she does."

"Why would you install the first telephone in Hawaii into the home of a woman who doesn't speak English?"

"Her house is the closest to the tower. We didn't want to run a whole lot of cable only to find out this wasn't gonna work."

"Of all the stupid-"

"Aloha?"

"Er, yes, hello, Mrs Haunani. Um... HOW DO YOU LIKE THE TELEPHONE?"

"Sir, speaking loudly isn't going to help her understand you."

"Didn't you say anything to her when you installed the telephone?"

"She didn't ask."

"She didn't ask what this crazy future machine you were installing into her home was?"

"She didn't seem interested."

"Then why did you give her a phone?"

"Again, sir, she was the closest one to the tower."

"How far is the next house?"

"About 20 feet."

"20! And who lives there?"

"Actually, it's a time-share. Year-round tourists from the states."

"Do me a favor. Go get the 20 feet of cable you saved and strangle yourself with it."

"Sorry, Mrs Haunani. I'm sorry you can't appreciate how truly remarkable this occasion is."

"Know that your tiny hut will live forever in history as- Hello? Hello? Huh. Must be a problem with the line."

July 9, 1869

"Henderson, my good man, what's that in your mouth?"

"Johnson, you old codger, surely you've seen a tobacco pipe before."

"Of course I have; I'm smoking one right now. That... thing... in your mouth is not a pipe. I daresay it is corn on the cob."

"It is, my friend, it is. It's corn, and it's a pipe."

"Balderdash!"

"Not balderdash. They call it a Corncob Pipe. It's the same as a standard pipe, only much cheaper because it is made of corn. It just came out today."

"You look like you're smoking dinner. I don't like it."

"It has so many advantages."

"Harrumph. Name one."

"Um, well... Say, you know how some people out there are worried smoking tobacco isn't actually good for you?"

"Of course I do. Philistines.”

"Indubitably. But let's say for a second they're right. If tobacco is unhealthy, but vegetables are healthy, then smoking tobacco through corn eliminates any possible negatives. It's win-win!"

"Hmm. That's a good point. I shall rummage through my wife’s garden at once."

July 1, 1984

"Thank you all for joining me today. We at the MPAA have a responsibility to deliver a ratings system that lets parents know exactly what they are exposing their kids to. We've done some good work over the years, and today I want to talk about expanding our options. Gentlemen, I give you PG-13."

The president of the Motion Picture Association of America drew back a curtain to reveal a large poster with giant red letters that read "PG-13." It was in the middle of the existing ratings. The suits at the meeting were not thrilled at the change.

A man in a dark grey suit was not pleased. "Why do we need another rating? The ones we have now fit all of our needs. G for kids, PG for teens, R for adults, and X for adult perverts." The men around the table cheered in agreement.

"The jump from PG to R is too large," the President reasoned. "Why should brief nudity move a rating straight to R? PG-13 gives us room to breathe."

"What makes a movie PG-13, then?"

"For starters, drug use is prohibited in PG films, but would be allowed in PG-13 films. Second, nudity would-"

"Nudity?! Nudity is for adults."

"Some, yes. Scenes depicting sex would still warrant an R rating. But non-sexual nudity could be viewed by teenagers. With their parents' permission, of course. And curse words should be allowed too, within reason."

"Nudity is fine, but only some nudity? This is hogwash. And what are reasonable curse words?"

"Listen, I understand there is some confusion. I tell you what, you shoot me scenarios as examples, and I'll give you the rating they would warrant under the new system."

"Recreational drug use by a woman who is topless for a couple seconds of screen time."

"PG-13."

"Two women kissing on a bed."

"PG-13."

"One of them takes their shirt off."

"R."

"But you only see one boob, and it's just for a second."

"PG-13, but they're pushing it."

"A drug dealer shoots his neighbor and tells him to 'burn in fucking hell.'"

"PG-13."

"Same scenario, but instead, he yells, 'eat shit, fucker, and burn in fucking hell.'"

"R."

"A naked man's butt."

"PG-13."

"A marijuana smoking, naked man's butt."

"Still PG-13."

"He has the word "FUCK" tattooed on his back."

"PG-13."

"He has another tattoo of two topless women making out."

"One scene, PG-13. Multiple scenes, R."

June 30, 1905

A number of functionaries, political/military/economic, of the Ukrainian state are convened in Odessa to consider options in response to another in a series of troubles with their neighbors to the east. Two of these functionaries, each without the clout necessary to actively participate in the conference, are skipping an afternoon session. They sit at the base of the grand stairs. The Russian navy has full control of the Black Sea and one says to the other, “You can smell Sevastopol from here. There's probably a junior submarine watchman that can see us through his periscope--probably a jealous little sailor.”

“I certainly hope he doesn’t call our boss to let him know we're out here smoking Marlboros and drinking vodka,” the other retorted. They touched their paper coffee cups together, downed them, and refilled them from a thermos. The other continued, “Well, after all, it was the Russians who came ashore here to hold off the Cossacks from their slaughter.”

“Well, not, ‘the Russians,’” the first said, “but a few Russians sailors and it was those Russian sailors, or at least their ideological overlords, who eventually came back and converted us to their SSRs. And now we have a new Russian petro--”

“Of course!” the first interrupted. “We're drinking and smoking on Eisenstein's steps, the most famous steps in film. The peasants flee chaotically down the steps as the Cossacks march in lockstep firing at will.”

“We've all seen it,” the other blandly says. “First, historically, the Cossacks, with help from just about everyone on scene were mostly killing Jews and, second, it's only the second most famous step-scene in film.” He finished another gulp of vodka from his cup, stood, and took the Odessa steps three at a time, reached their summit, and shouted “Adrian! Adrian!” which, because he spoke heavily Slavic-accented Stallone, was pretty funny, and drew the appreciative laughter of varied groups of sailors, dock workers, and peasants.

June 29, 2002

Dick. Dick. Dick--Dick. Sorry, yes, Dick--Mr. Vice President--yes, I’m sorry, Mr. President, I don’t really feel comfortable with this. I don’t like this, no.

First of all, W’s suit doesn’t really fit me. And I don’t think Laura would appreciate how you--no, I know. I know Dick--Mr. President--we don’t have a lot of time. Yes. I mean yes sir. Yes sir, Mr. President.

The President’s colonoscopy is only scheduled for two hours Dick--Mr. Vice--Mr. President, I don’t even think we’ll have time. Plus, you know I don’t particularly enjoy--but, okay. I know. I know Mr. President. It’s important to keep things fresh. And you did that field hand thing for me. Okay.

“Why hello Dick, what are you doing in the Oval Office so late...no, I didn’t know there was a way to get a colonoscopy done at home, but I think I’d rather have it done by a professional, heh heh heh.”

June 25, 1178

“It was…as if…the…the top of the moon! It was exploding, Brother! In a swirl of flame and ash and wrath it split asunder! Before our very eyes, man, I swear it!”

Gervase dipped his quill in his inkpot and blotted, keeping a carefully straight face. “Slow down, Brother Eustace. You’re sputtering, and I cannot write at such a pace. Describe again what you saw with some deliberation. Surely so spectacular an event must be gripped tight to the bosom of history. ”

Eustace gaped at Brother Wymon, his dilated eyes distant with panic. Wymon’s eyes mirrored Eustace’s confusion and urgency, but he seemed incapable of speaking. Bartholomew and Osmer were examining with rapt attention the illuminated version of The Bury Gospels that Gervase had been laboring at when they burst in shouting a few minutes ago, and seemed now oblivious to the staggering events of the hour. Brother Edric had refused to leave the tower window at all when the others fled, where he had been silently engrossed in running his hands over the smooth colored glass. Eustace could see no help was forthcoming.

“Very well.” He took a deep breath. “From…from the midpoint of the division a flaming torch sprang up, spewing out, over a considerable distance, fire, hot coals and sparks… this phenomenon was repeated a dozen times or more, the flame assuming various twisting shapes at random and then returning to normal. Then, after these transformations, the Moon from horn to horn--that is along its whole length-- took on a blackish appearance.” He slowed to let Gervase catch up, panting from excitement.

Gervase knit his brow in an exaggerated expression of concern. “My word, Brother Eustace. It sounds as if the Lord has reached out His mighty hand and smote the night sky himself. Perhaps you should return to the observatory, and remain vigilant for further intervention?”

Eustace’s eyes grew even wider. “An excellent suggestion, Brother!” He gathered the folds of his robe in his hands at bolted forthwith from the room, demonstrating an uncharacteristic enthusiasm for a man of his paunch. Wymon followed wordlessly, but Bartholomew and Osmer hardly seemed to notice, their faces pressed impossibly close to the manuscript before them.

Gervase chuckled indulgently. The rye loaves he’d discovered in the lower store room that afternoon had clearly gone bad, but he did not regret serving them to his brothers with that evening’s dinner in the least.

#CanterburyMonks DarkSideoftheMoon Doesthisbreadtastefunnytoyou

June 24, 1880

"Alright, guys, this is it. Tonight we play at the Congreś national des Canadiens-Francais. This is our chance to be a part of history... The song we perform could go on to become the Canadian national anthem. Let's hear what you've come up with."

Canada Your waters are clean and free There are lots of trees And mountains, and bees

"Okay, that's a good start. Maybe more about our citizens and less about bees."

Can-ada We're citizens, through and through We'll always love you Cana-don't let us down Cana-do stick around

"Nope."

O say can you see by Canada's early light What so proudly we hailed at Canada's last gleaming

"Absolutely not."

June 23, 1784

A portly and well-dressed man stomps out into the middle of Walnut Street Prison yard. A malnourished and shabbily dressed child follows carrying a box, which the portly man gestures to be placed down for him to stand on.

“Fellow denizens of this earth, today, we bear witness to mankind ascend off the very earth we hold dear and embarking into the frontier previously reserved for birds and God’s angels,” says the portly man, gesturing wildly with his sterling tipped cane. “This day, man will travel upwards, to and through the clouds to be closer to God’s heavenly glory.”

The crowd of curious townsfolk were entranced. They watched burly man climb into a platform that’s affixed to some bewildering edifice. The people debated over what it was and what purpose it serves. It was like a billowing gilded bedsheet affixed into rigidity and it’s towering stature caused great unease. One brave farmer inquired.

“What is that thing?” the farmer asks.

The portly gentleman distracted the crowd away from the workers rigging and starting the large fire with mesmerizing gesticulating and grandiloquent explanation, most of which is lost on his audience. The brave farmer tried to summarize.

“So it’s a balloon?” the farmer inquired. “And that strong fellow is going to fly in the sky with it?”

“Right my friend! Our fearless pilot is ready to take off now! Behold!”

Nothing happened. The balloon frame creaked momentarily, but the townspeople were unimpressed and it was palpable. The portly ringleader raced over to the crew and admonished and yelled. The rig was simply too heavy to take flight. His desperation too was palpable, so he poked his brawny navigator off the platform with his cane and shoved his boy servant in. The portly man turned to his audience.

“A slight change in cast, my friends, but we are ready to--”

“What are you doing with that kid? interrupts the farmer.

“Well, you see, our original pilot was too bulky for his mission, so instead, we’re using this brave and lithe lad to ascend towards the warmth of God’s love and--”

“Does he know how to fly that thing?”

“Well, no, but he is brave and able--”

“Do you know how to fly that thing?”

“Um. No, I am just the humble herald here to--”

“So he could die? You could be killing this boy? This thing could catch fire and he can die?”

“Yes, but I am certain God himself will grace our craft and protect our fearless pilot.”

The farmer stares at the portly announcer, the crowd silently waits for him to finish.

“But yeah, the kid can totally burn to death” he added.

“Okay,” said the farmer. “We’re waiting.”

June 17, 1885

“Colonel, a crate is here, sir. In the harbor, sir. Arrived this morning,” the staffer offers in other than his usual tone. This is news so common that so announcing is generally unnecessary. Crates did tend to arrive at military loading docks in Bayonne, New Jersey.

Colonel gulps down the sip of coffee he had held in his mouth during Staffer's announcement and returns his mug to his desk. “A crate?” the colonel asks. “Should I convene the joint chiefs?”

“Well, there really isn't a warehouse or logistical direction to send the crate...the short of it, sir, is that it's from France, from, I quote, “les citoyens francais.”

The colonel, still bored, border even, says, “Staffer, cut to it. What's in the crate?”

“Sir, a full inspection is underway but it appears to be a model of an attack drone in the fashion of a Predator.”

“The French people sent us a Predator drone?”

“Yes sir. This one is made of well-oxidized copper. Included is an acetylene cutting tool with a step-by-step diagrammatic concerning the removal of a certain torch from a certain giant statue and the installation of the drone in its place.” The two shared a bemused look.

Being the officer of rank, the colonel feels it is his obligation to opine. “A bit on the nose, isn't it?”

“Sir, it's the French. Vive la subtlety. Anyway, some of the dock guys are taking pictures with it, but I figured I would have you get State on the horn first...some kind of diplomacy. Just give us the word and we'll tea-party it into the harbor with the rest of the world's cute little comments.”

June 16, 1858

FROM THE DESK OF "HONEST" ABRAHAM LINCOLN

US Senate Speech - Potential Killer Lines:

A bun in a cold oven will not rise. (no)

A turtle on its back cannot walk. (meh)

A sword without a blade will not cut. (yes)

A house divided against itself cannot stand. (maybe)

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. (possibly inappropriate)

You can't teach an old dog new tricks. (irrelevant)

Every dog has its day. (no)

Barking up the wrong tree. (the worst)

Let sleeping dogs lie. (gotta get off the dog theme)

A beard unkempt cannot impress. (nailed it)

June 10, 1952

It was a brisk San Francisco morning, but the sun shined pale through light clouds and lit the famous general's heavy jaw. His eyes were shaded by his embroidered, heavily worn wheel cap that sat low and slightly askance on his brow. Squatting down before his son, MacArthur IV, the general's grasped the young boy's shoulders with black leather-clad hands. MacArthur IV was raised in and around the Pacific theater and had not seen America with his own eyes. He knew of the glory of his father's homeland only through the gray of behemoth naval ships and the medals gracing his father's chest.

“You're old enough now, boy,” the general spoke. “What you see here, this park and that grand bridge, is what was at stake in the Philippines and what is at stake now on the 38th parallel.” Seagulls swooped in and scattered a flock of pigeons that had been working an offering of bread crumbs which an old lady had scattered about her feet. With the arrival of the coastal scavengers, she stood from her bench and moved off with visible disgust.

“Your mother, bless her fair heart, has seen well to your schooling in the rudiments. We've lived overseas and for that I'm sorry, but you've an advantage that other American boys your age won't have.” The boy grinned at his father and his father grinned back. “No, boy, I'm not talking about your ability to talk to Filipino girls.” The boy looked embarrassed and the general laughed. “But I am serious, son. I know it's tiresome and no one wants to listen to their old man blather on about his vexations. You've met President Truman and I'm sure you've overheard some of our differences.”

“Is he why you're not a general anymore?” the boy asked.

MacArthur paused and looked the boy sternly in the eyes before pulling him into a close embrace, saying, “Just like you'll always be my son, I'll always be a general. It's something no man can change. What we can change, what we must change – what we must protect – is this world.” The general gestured to some sailors throwing rocks into the bay. “You see those boys over there? The sailors? They've seen what forces threaten us overseas and now, because of politics and a lack of will, the menace that those sailors fought abroad has come home. The Communists you'll fight will be your neighbors.”

“Mrs. Dougherty?” the boy asked.

The general chucked the boys chin and continued, “I'm sure Mrs. Dougherty is a good American. You can probably trust her. The neighbors I'm talking about are your average Americans who can be swayed to the Communist way of thinking. Truman, the dope, finally recognized the threat at hand and has appropriated all of our steel to aid our cause against the North Koreans and their Chinese benefactors. But now the Communists in Pittsburgh won't let him. Can you imagine? Communists in Pittsburgh keeping good Americans from having the tools they need to fight Communists in China!”

The boy's young age left him a bit confused and he asked, “Why don't we make it so the Chinese can't have any steel?”

The sere general removed his cap and placed it on the boy's head. “That's just the thing, son. Because the Chinese people aren't free, the Communists have all the steel they need.” The two walked home in silence broken only by interspersed, light conversation. The boy held the too-large wheel cap with one hand so it didn't fall over his eyes and could smell the musty decades of sweat in the hat band.

June 9, 1973

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The Belmont Stakes. We've got a hell of a race for you today as Secretariat is attempting the first Triple Crown in 25 years. I'm Chip Balance alongside my co-host Skip 'Tank' Johnson."

"Thanks, Chip. First of all, let me say I'm excited to be here. I know we typically call football games, but I think we can bring an excitement and flair to horse racing that this sport severely lacks."

"I hear that, Tank. From what I understand, a gunshot goes off and the horses race around a track. The winner is the one who crosses the finish line first."

"Kinda like a 40-yard dash, but for horses, Chip."

"Right you are, Tank. And, here come the beasts now. Lining up at the starting gate are Twice A Prince, My Gallant, Private Smiles, Sham, and Secretariat, who of course has a shot to make history today."

"According to my bookie, the only horses worth anything today are Sham and Secretary. Both horses seem... strong... and fast. They both appear to have tiny men on their backs."

"Those tiny men are the jockeys, Tank. Think of them as the football that the horse has to carry across the goal line."

"The horses are locked into the starting gates and are ready to go. There's the bell; and they're off! The horses are running and... running some more. Is this it?"

"It appears so, Tank. Secretariat already has a commanding lead. Probably no way he loses now."

"This is boring. Where are all the people in funny hats I read about?"

"That's the Kentucky Derby. That was a couple of months ago."

"Secretary is still winning, folks. Not much to call here. You wanna bail, Chip?"

"Yes I do, Tank. Ladies and gentlemen, the race isn't over, but we're getting out of here. Secretariat has a significant lead. He'll probably win. Turn your TVs and radios to something more exciting. We're outta here."

“Go Broncos!”

June 8, 1921

Police Department - City of New York

(Last Name) Ruth

(First Name) George

(Date/Time of Arrest) 9 June 1921

(Height) 6’2”

(Weight) undisclosed

(Violation) VTL 1180, Speed not reasonable and prudent

(Arresting Officer) H. McDougall

(Personal effects)

1 tin brown shoe polish

1 lighter (14k gold) engraved “To the best I’ve ever had. - Eleanor”

1 sterling silver Tiffany ball point pen (heavily chewed)

1 manila envelope of cut tobacco

4 thuringers (raw)

1 hollowed out copy of The Brimming Cup (hardcover)

8 pieces of zebra jerky (hidden within book)

86 Presidente’s Delight brand cigars

1 grenade

1 wallet (leather)

$980 cash (crumpled, sticky)

1 loose kosher pickle

2 adult flipbooks

1 toothbrush sharpened to a point

1 thin braided rope chain (18k gold) with heart shaped locket (18k gold) containing pictures of fist of unidentified male (left side) and large breasts of unidentified Inuit female (right side).

½ baseball

1 set brass knuckles (5k gold)

June 4, 1974

Aspromonte swallowed speechlessly, gazing out at the carnage of the field before him. The awful panorama of violence was hard to take in all at once, the war cries blending with the shrieks of the wounded into a mindless static roar. After a moment, he turned back to his men, knowing their time had come.

Aspromonte spat the last of the chaw from his mouth and stood up. The men turned to him, wild-eyed with excitement. The stench of fear and adrenaline filled their dugout. “Alright, boys,” he called over the din. “Those Rangers are out there, surrounded and outnumbered. It’s our job to bring ‘em home safe.” He raised his weapon in the air and bellowed. “LET’S GO FUCKING GET 'EM!”

The Cleveland Indians charged over the top, howling like beasts and ready for battle.

Hilgendorf barely made it ten feet before a direct shot from an airborne chair crumpled him in a heap, blood flowing from his forehead. A couple of the bench players stopped to tend him with the aid of a shell-shocked security guard, and the team closed ranks and surged forward.

Aspromonte braced himself and swung his bat as a shrieking, freckled teenager with second base tucked under his arm charged from the right. The little ginger took the shot in the gut and doubled over, dropping the base and instantly regurgitating about 72oz. of Stroh’s onto the pitcher’s mound. A hunting knife whizzed past the head of Duke Sims as he kneeled to work over a streaking fan he’d decommissioned with a strong right haymaker, and lodged itself point-down in the dirt near the first baseline. They pressed on.

Progress slowed as they pushed through the denser packs of drunken fans armed with knives and pieces of the stadium’s metal seats, taking casualties as they went. Finally, as the second-string infield swarmed over a fat, shirtless man in a souvenir headdress swinging a half-empty jug of Thunderbird on a rope like a mace, Aspromonte could see the Rangers through the crowd.

Mike Hargrove was straddling a young man in a stained Foghat shirt, raining alternating blows on the poor bastard’s already swollen face as Aspromonte approached cautiously. Hargrove looked up and grinned like the devil, blood running down his neck from a wound under his cap.

“Howdy! What took you guys so long?”

#Cleveland TenCentBeerNight #RandyNewman #MajorLeagueThePrequel

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