The Ninth Life of the Damned


An orange cat sits piously on its owner’s lap slathering its saliva upon its owner’s clothing, for some reason the bitch kept cleansing its territorial pissings off her clothes once a week.  The cat was always offended but after awhile it became ritual.  Having just awakened from a petting induced nap; the cat sleepily glanced at the 40" HDTV.  What it saw on the screen immediately made it disheartened.  Through layers of smeared shit it saw the score was 8-1 in the 6th inning.  The cat was juuuuust smart enough to know that when the White Sox were losing its quality of life suffered immensely.  It hadn’t eaten in three days.  A heavy, depressive cloud hung over the house.

A grunt and drunken self-pitying laughter was half way garbled out its owner’s mouth..  The cat, having clearly known months ago that the White Sox would not be making an appearance in the playoffs, stretched its back and leaped off its owner’s lap, a leap four months ago it couldn’t have managed.  The formerly obese feline had put itself through a rigorous training program this summer to lose some weight; it had a plan and needed to be in tip-top shape in order to enact it.  That coupled with the fact its owner had repeatedly forgotten to feed it during the "All-In" summer had caused the cat to lose 15 pounds and it became a lean fighting machine.  The cat scurried downstairs to play with a miniature medicine ball; it needed to bulk up quickly.  Besides, the cat did not want to be at the business end of its owner’s wrath, as it had been virtually all summer.  As it batted the medicine ball around the concrete basement it could hear the muffled screeching of what had become its attack word, "RIOOOOSSSSS!"



Somewhere in a secluded part of L.A, an attorney stood under a solitary streetlamp with briefcase in hand looking at his watch.  As the white light buzzed over his head, he could hear the far off sound of a vehicle gaining speed.  The revving of the engine grew louder and a black van with orange stripes came to an abrupt stop in front of him.  All he could remember, as a gaggle of gingers piled out to put a hood over his head and force him into the van, was the smell of burnt rubber and freckles, lots of them.

Once in the van, it sped away again and his assailants started speaking in a tongue unknown to the lawyer.  As an undergrad he received a double major in foreign languages and forgotten languages.  He couldn’t recognize this dialect, so he spoke up.

"What in the fuck language are you speaking and why can I taste freckles?"

"It is the ancient dialect of the gingers."

"Gingers, fuck…"

"We are your new clients, we need an attorney…we’re buying the Dodgers and you’re going to help us."


What better place for a fly than in the locker room of a professional baseball team.  Having dodging around ever since it had grown from a maggot to its present form, it roosted high atop a locker and decided to watch what was going on.  The fly had no intelligence whatsoever, it made shit up all the time to tell its buddies by the dumpsters what occurred in the locker room.  When its buddies would tell it that it was full of shit, it would childishly challenge them to fights and hurl insulting derogatory terms about their families and careers.

Whether or not this is what went on or not I’m not sure but this is what the fly on the wall saw…

In a far corner of the locker room was Ozzie Guillen’s office the blinds were closed.  Guillen had beckoned both Adam Dunn and Alex Rios into his office.  Out in the gen pop area, everyone was speculating on what was going on in behind closed doors.  Omar Vizquel, clad in a zig-zag rainbow zoot suit approached a game of poker players; Addison Reed in a tinkerbell outfit,  Lillibridge in a newsboy get-up, Crain in an affliction shirt with designer jeans, Buehrle in nothing but an orange hat and a jockstrap, AJ in a wifebeater and cutoff jeans, Konerko in a cape and Beckham in overalls with only one of straps over his shoulder.

"Whattya think is going on in there, Omar?" asked Lillibridge with a mouth full of Teddy Grahams.

Omar with a glazed over look on his face, appearing to look somewhere far off in the distance, snorting cocaine off of his thumb, responded, "They’re getting it for sure."

"That’s what she said," opined Crain.

"You have no idea!" threw back Vizquel.

"They fucking suck.  They’ve really fucked Ozzie and our season, I feel like Jake Taylor in Major League Redux," blurted AJ.

"That’s what she said," responded Omar with his eyes bulging out of their sockets looking frightened.

Everyone laughed their ass off at this; they were quite drunk on Busch Light, the only beer Konerko allowed into the locker room.

"Is the Cuban through with Herm Schneider?  It’s my fucking turn for PED therapy," asked Beckham

"Shhhhhhh!" whispered Buehrle eyes bloodshot, glancing around the locker room pensively, arms waving…everyone at the table laughed their ass off, as did Buehrle.  They knew their paranoid general manager had made their locker room like Fort Knox. Beat writers had to go through an air-lock and have retina scan before being allowed entrance.

"Well, what ever is going on in there ain’t pretty, indeed, it ain’t pretty," remarked Paulie while forcing the ass end of his beer down his throat.  "Why don’t you go take a look rook."

"Really?" asked Reed.

"Yeah, Oz said he wanted to talk to too, I must have forgotten.  Ozzie hates it when people knock, reminds him of the sound of his father beating him with a stick when he was a kid.  Just walk in!" responded AJ.

"Are you sure?"


Reed walked over to Ozzie’s door and slowly pushed it open.  What he saw could not be stricken from his memory and what happened ruined his career.  As his heart skipped three beats, he spied Rios in a diamond studded bra bent over on Ozzie’s desk with Adam Dunn in furry pink lingerie sucking on Ozzie’s balls.

"Teenkerbuhl fawnily shooed ahp!  Gut oovar heure anhnd if you teal unywon aye wheel fahking coot you."

As Reed was pulled into the room and the door bolted shut he could hear maniacal laughter erupting from the poker players and Vizquel yelling "Soooooooooey!"

After things settled down a bit, despite the incessant screeching coming from Ozzie’s office, Beckham spoke up after being silent for a while, "I was approached by some gay White Sox fan on the street.  He was asking me if I knew anything at all about ‘war’.  I told him the only war I have is with the moonshine bottle but he kept yammering on about advanced stats and shit.  It reminded me of being in college with all those smart gays.  Anyhow, he said that my defense was the only reason I had a value.  I know I’ve been in a slump and stuff but I think Walk and I finally figured out my hitch needs to be more pronounced.  He and I have been watching film of Baines in his prime and working on getting a higher leg kick.  I noticed I hit the ball higher in the air last night, I think things are finally shaping up."

"Don’t listen to that nerd, he probably can’t hit a 90 MPH fastball, did you punch him?"

"Well sure Paulie, what else is a man to do when a nerd tries to make him feel like an average citizen."

"You’ve learned well.  Why don’t you just go 0 for 4 tonight.  That’ll teach that blogger a lesson."

"How do you know he’s a blogger?"

"Let’s just say, I know the type."

"Where’s Danks?  Ain’t he starting tonight?  What if he doesn’t show up?  Who do think will pitch?" said Zach Stewart as we wandered by.

"Not you!  Ain’t your ass too sore still?  Danks is sleeping off his 4-Day bender, he’ll be here in time to play catch" said AJ.

"Quiet down its too loud in here.  Only three hours until game time boys…get your drink on," commanded Paulie.


Meanwhile at the Field of Dreams, Billy Martin was keeping score on the bench with Ted Williams to his left and Ty Cobb to his right.

"Well boys, Costner and Rene Russo stopped through yesterday and we got to talking about what’s going on the south-side of Chicago.  That team is disgracing the game we respect.  Not only are they about the most average team in history but there is all types of brutal shit going on in their clubhouse.  Costner asked us to head over there around the 7th inning stretch and pay out some vengeance….."

"I haven’t killed a man in years, I have a thirst that must be quenched," said Cobb. 

"I’m in Billy; the hitters on that team aren’t squashing the bug or chopping the tree.  Their A-form is like Q-form and they don’t respect mike to ike.  They deserve to die and never play on the Field of Dreams." Said Teddy Ballgame.

"Even Konerko?  Buehrle?"

"You’re right the get a hall pass, it’s not their fault."

"I wasn’t finished you pieces you no good shitfuckers.  In a strange fucking twist, I was visited in hell last night by the Algonquin chief Potawatami.  He needs our services also.  Apparently, U.S. Cellular Field, whatever the fuck that means, was built on an Indian Burial Ground.  He, Zack Wheat and Chief Bender wants us to go there and fuck up some shit."

"Isn’t Sam Crawford an Indian too, shouldn’t he have an interest in these hijinx?"

"Nope, his nickname was Wahoo Sam because he was born in Wahoo, Nebraska.  He’s just as holier than thou as an Indian I’ve ever met though," remarked Cobb.

Just then Branch Rickey walked out of the corn adorning white gloves and a dueling pistol.  Thus spake Rickey.

"I want a piece of Kenny Williams.  He gives a lot of us a bad name.  I had to convince Jackie to stay behind; he wants a piece of Juan Pierre."


Of course there was a full moon, it was Halfway to St. Patrick’s Day/Polish Pride/Elvis/Mullet/Bring Your Dog to the Park night at the Cell and the place was fucking filled to the gills.  The marketing department figured if they put all those nights together they could probably fill the park up and fill the park up they did.  The concourse was full of people.

The dew-point is a record high and Danks is handing out free passes left and right.  The Sox being 4 games out with 16 to go, had their fans thinking that this was a must win game but Verlander was on the mound so they all just got drunk before the game thinking maybe that would work.

"What the fuck is with Danks?  He usually pitches well off a bender?" asked Floyd.

"The acid never wore off," said Buehrle waking up from a nap in the dugout to respond to the question.

"I thought people on acid pitched no-hitters.  Guess it depends on whether its blotters or microdots."

Elsewhere in the Cell, in Jerry Reinsdorf’s private box, is a triumvirate of gingers with their attorney.  They are making threats at Frank McCourt, poor guy.  Reinsdorf agreed to broker this meeting on the understanding that the gingers would trade Loney to the Sox in the offseason for Gavin Floyd.  Jerry believed he needed another first baseman.

On the field Danks passes out or goes into a coma or whatever.  In the top of the 1st the score was 9-0 already.  Ozzie called the pen and told them to warm up Kinney quick as they stretchered Danks convulsing body off the field. 

Juan Nieves called out Kinney’s name and the only response he received was childish snickers from Sale and Santos.

"What the fuck are you two laughing about, where the fuck is Kinney?"

"He was out with Danks last night; Johnny told me last he heard he was being escorted out of a Schaller’s Pump by some toughs from the Elgin Mental Health Center.  I guess he thought he was a cup of orange juice and kept telling everyone not to spill him," explained Sale.


Nieves scanned the bleachers and spied a guy in a red Harold Baines jersey throwing peanuts at people heads.  He was fucking accurate too.  He kept telling his buddies, one with mutton chops and the other with a 1917 Sox hat where on the head he was going to hit the people and he hit every time.

"You in the Baines shirt!  Get the fuck down here!"


"Yeah you!  I wanna talk to you." 

Handing his flask discretely to mutton chops, thinking he got caught taking a swig he sheepishly trudged his way to the bullpen.

"Get in here, you’re Kinney tonight."  The man quickly got dressed and ran out waving and turning in circles looking into the crowd.  He was fucking hammered. He didn’t have time to warm up in the pen. The adrenaline of the situation made the man forget that his rotator cuff was frayed to a high degree due to throwing too much breaking shit in Little League.  He threw a couple of hooks and told AJ he was ready to go.  AJ didn’t even notice it wasn’t Kinney on the mound.

The bases were loaded and Miguel Cabrera was up with 1 out.  He promptly struck out Cabrera on three high fastballs and got Martinez to a 3-2 count.  AJ called for a curve and Martinez hit it sharply up the middle off of the man’s shoulder.  The shoulder detached from the muscle and dropped to the ground.  The ball careened high into the air and the newly one-armed man dove and caught the ball.  As he was stretchered off, in shock, all he could say was, "I did good didn’t I?  Did I make Karko proud?"

Herm squirting sedative mayonnaise into his mouth said, "You did good kid, you did good."

In the bottom half of the 1st inning with two outs and Alex Rios being announced by Gene Honda, a monstrous cat leaped from the stands and ran three circles around Rios.  A single raindrop/tear fell from heaven and struck Alex Rios on his neck.  Thinking that a fan spit on him again he turned to the stands to find the culprit.  At that moment, the cat leaped towards Rios’ throat and starting eating away at his flesh with blood squirting all over the on-deck circle.  The lat thing Rios saw alive was whiskers. 

Ozzie ran out onto the field to save his lover but a disaffected Addison Reed intercepted him and beat his head to a pulp with a Louisville Slugger.  Ozzie had gotten his wish, dying on the baseball field.

Roger Bossard, possessed by Potawatami, thought that the cat was his cue to start phase three of the zombie vengeance plan.  He turned on the sprinklers and instead of water the ghosts of hundreds of Indians emerged.  HOFers started coming out of the walls.  It became a bloodbath.  There were too many people in the park to safely get anyone out.  Everyone died except Buehrle, Konerko, the one armed-man, his two buddies, Reinsdorf and the gingers.

Branch Rickey slit Kenny Williams’s throat with a hand over his mouth saying, "Shhhhhhh" as KW’s life left his struggling body.

"You got blood on my perfectly white gloves," Rickey said as he spit in his face.

The next day, after ESPN had completely ignored the story, Reinsdorf called in the Concourse Force to clean up the place and ordered that all the bodies be taken to a reaking ship in the middle of Lake Michigan that hadn't been allowed to port in 30 years.  Eventually this contents of this ship were incinerated in an underground nuclear bunker in Siberia.

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