A beardless and emasculated Gardenhire finds himself in a strange 2-dimensional landscape. It is hazy yet bright but there is no sun, the sky looks like a ceiling you can lose a flyball in and there's a constant electric breeze blowing from behind, no matter which direction Gardy faces. The grass is like concrete the trees are flat and covered in a blue heftybag-like moss. Everything looks like a cardboard cutout, there is little if any depth or range. A 2-dimensional, 10-foot tall Mankato policeman approaches Gardy on a 2-dimensional bicycle.
"Urt werz term ter terk ther soul thurt yur prumursed mer. Yer'd bern lurving arn burrowed term. Yur ursked fur turn yurs urv surkserse urd nur its term to purr-urp."
"I need more time. The injuries piled up on me. I can beat the Yankees…I can beat the Yankees. I have got to have more time. Last year Morneau and Nathan; this year Mauer and Nishi. We're snakebit but I think I can put some lipstick on this pig and win our fans a championship! I need another five years. The division is wide open this year, the Sox say they're all in but so far they've just Fulded hand after hand. I got this shit!"
"Yur merd a dearl with der Durvil. Thurse urs wert herpens. Erturnul Dermnurtion!"
"I implore you to give me another five years. The youngsters on our farm are doing all the right things and we look to have a very bright future here in the next couple seasons. Mauer's nerve damage may be overblown, perhaps he can thrive in centerfield, Morneau can hopefully get his head screwed on straight again, the bullpen should solidify and Jimmers could experience a career renaissance. Things are looking up, we're starting to get a giddy in our up!"
"Yurve hurd yur furn. Yurve wurn survural derversurnal chirpiunchirps. Alurng der wer, yurve ursked fur blurrjurbs furm Murchelle Bachmurn, purtties urt der WWerF Gurvner's murchurn. Urv eeverrn surved yur furm inferstructure urn der crurzed Twain furns bursemurnt. Yur nurt guring anywur. Burrsurds, der Twain urr gunner furnursh urn lurst plurss the nurxt turn yurs, thurs nur reesurn tur rurturn tur Earth."
"Why are you talking to me in Minnetonkian? When we first agreed to this deal you spoke with a Scottish accent. Bejesus, I didn't realize how quickly ten years could pass me by…I'm starting to think you were behind all those injuries and playoff failures. My mama told me to never sell my soul to the devil but I never listen."
"Thurse urs yur pursurnal Hull. Oh, lurk whooer urt urz! Urtz Danner Gladdurn urnd Burt Blurlurven!"
Down a two-dimensional path staggers a siamese-twain version of Gladden and Blyleven, they wear nothing but soiled BVD's with red pubes snarling down their legs and out of their waistbands. The pubes actually growl and stretch towards Gardy like a flower towards its stimulus. It appears as if they are trying to get a bite of his Vitamin D deficient skin.
"Hur Gurdy! Furlow urse! Urts term fur der grindurn!"
"Grinding!?! What on God's green Earth is that?"
"Yurl seeur! Urnd yur nurt urn Gurd's grurn Earth ner mur. Prayrurn tur yer Lurtherurn Gurd wurnt hurlp yur hur."
Just then a little train materialized out of nowhere, you know…the kind Ricky in Silver Spoons tooled around in. Gladden and Blyleven put little train engineer hats on and scream in tandem, "Uhl Aburd! Nurxt sturp Metrur Durm!"
"Oh God anything but the Metro Dome, please…nooooooooooooooo!"
After tying Gardy to the front of the train's engine, you know…like in the movie Titanic. The Siamese-Twain driven train sped off down the 2-dimensional tracks at 1000's of miles per hour. Along the way they happenstance upon several Twain of Twain past tied to the railroad tracks and on each occasion the locomotive slowed down to a millimeter per hour as they cut through their bodies, it took literally, eternity. Some of the more recognizable players tied to the tracks were Puckett, Gaetti, Viola, Gomez, Cuddyer (pronounced Cud-yur in Hull), Tyner, Radke etc…
On top of the engine was a small, dwarfish version of Punto (yes, a dwarfish version) instead of shoveling coal into the engine's firebox he was shoveling lutefisk and hotdish into Gardy's mouth. It appeared the train ran on these Minnesotian delicacies and that Gardy was the firebox that propelled this hellish iron-horse. Before long, a millennium, the train finally breaks the summit of a hill and before them lies a 2-dimensional version of Minneapolis, filled with the freckely-stenched damned. Before long the train stops just outside a depthless Metro Dome.
"Gur urn insurd, thurs surmwurn wurting fur yur," tandems the siamese-Twain.
Gardy disembarks the train, vomiting and shitting lutefisk and hotdish along the rangeless path and into the concrete abomination. Everything is quiet and still, Gardy has a feeling he is being watched by an omnipotent and holy presence. There are an infinite amount of red scrolling LED signs leading him to the field, stating "Thurse Wur". The foreboding atmosphere grows into a unfathomable moist, thickness. When he finally walks out onto the field a disembodied Stanford educated voice tells him to sit in the dugout and await manifestation.
In the air above the field appears a swirling cloud formation and it dissipates to reveal a bright sunlight, Carlos Quentin materializes upon a unicorn surrounded by angels.
(thecip is responsible for this picture)
"You have been a bad, bad man. You sold your soul to the devil to ensure the success of the Twain in the Oughts. You have given a generation of White Sox fans much grief, indignation and indigestion through your illicit dealings. However, what kind of God cannot forgive? I am not into vengeance, per-se. I am willing to forgive you your sins and give you your life back but you must plea fealty to myself and the Chicago White Sox. If I am to put you back on Earth you must swear that you will do everything you can to sabotage the Twain's chances at any more divisional triumphs. You must forsake the Twain way and manage the Twain in a way that would be against everything in the fiber of your being. Are you willing to do so? If so, get on your knees and plead for your soul."
"I'll do anything! The Twain used to be a way of life b-b-b-b-but no longer. I plead for my soul and profess loyalty to the almighty Q!"
"The rest of your life, always remember who owns your soul! Do not cross me or Gladden and Blyleven shall bring about a properly eternal grinding!"
"You won't have anymore problems from myself or the Twain! I assure you!"
"Then be gone!"
Q rises back into the sky, Gardy finds himself on April 19th 2011 in Baltimore and ramps-up the de-grinding that had really already been in process for a year or so. The Twain fall from grace, if grace is what they had. Thome retires because Gardy refuses to play him any longer. He retires and enters the HOF as a White Sox. Mauer decides its not worth it to risk further injury, takes his money and opens up several used car dealerships in St. Paul and is very successful. Target Field becomes a ghosttown, ala Wrigley Field in the early 80's and the Twain experience 100 years of futility.
Thus ends the Twain trilogy.