Something Wicked This Way Torn


In a musky and rank sub-basement a cool and emotionless ginger-haired Welshman wheels a Cy Young contender strapped to a soviet era gurney into an ante-chamber filled with medieval surgeon apparatus.

A fat man in an executioner's hood stands in the corner with a fanny pack, barely visible in the dark shadows of the stone aged corner. The cherubic man softly sings Old English satanic verse with an angelic tenor, the only shred of hope in this den of seething negativity.

What seemed like eternity to Chris Sale as he writhed against his leather shackles, was actually moments as another man shuffles lazily into the room from an adjacent room filled with bright light. The man is adorned in a purple robe and a giant taxidermied Condor's head.

"The human put up quite a fight but the xFIP on his hope is cromulently astronomical now. He should be perfectly dour and all set for ligamentanomicon. Proceed as you would my master!"

"Check you facts, Igor!" the Condor faced man spits as he brandishes a whip and lashes the powerless man who once again talked out of turn with the conceit of an ivory tower English professor.

"Now, my prince…since your UCL refuses to tear following years of overuse and even after 127 pitches in a meaningless April game—it's time for your ligamentanomicon."

"Robin?! What is this all about? I am fine…just a little sore, let me pitch…let me and my people go."

Along the wall are other White Sox players chained to the wall groaning in pain. Adam Eaton's hamstrings have been severed, bleeding from the legs through his baseball pants with his cauterized tongue in his hands. Jose Abreu's wrists twist perpendicularly diagonal to his forearms, Gillaspie's eyeballs are in his hands, Nate Jones ass is literally in his hands and a one armed Alexei Ramirez leans against the wall with a grin on his face.

"Don't you guys get it?! We value draft picks in this rebuild. This team was put together to lose games dammit. You weren't supposed to start winning games until next year and where are we now!? A .500 team!? Unacceptable!" Robin states with pure contempt.

Adam Eaton, from the peanut gallery mumbles tongueless, "Thassh a ssshmahl ssshample shize."

The dour ginger kicks him in the nards and tells him to be quiet. "This one can't stop talking, even without his tongue. Maybe we should bring in the gimp to quiet him up." He switches on a light switch and behind a plexiglass wall a large man in a #44 White Sox jersey and a leather mask starts banging a gigantic baseball bat on the ground. "Shhhhh, Adam, shhhh, there will be time for misbehavior later," as he throws a double cheeseburger into a food drawer which Adam takes greedily and scarfs in the corner of his cell.

"Check your facts, Igor!" As Robin lashes him again for his impudence.

"Now Chris, we can't win many more games. Dylan is on his way from AAA and Jared is leading off tonight."

"What happened to Marcus? I thought he was our new lead-off man?"

Robin pointed in the corner to a pile of pulp.

"Marcus!? NoooooooooOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

"I forgot to mention…..Gordon is on his way up from Charlotte too!!! MuuuhuhuhuhuhaahhaahahhaahahAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH!!!!!!!

"What is this all for!? I don't understand, you are injuring all your future assets."

"By the time you are all healed it will be time to compete. Paulie gets to start at firstbase the rest of the season, we get the 1st draft pick in 2015. It's a win-win situation, the fans get what they want, it's for the good of the franchise. We get to select Daz Cameron and trade him after a few years for the slowest 1B possible."

"My arms fine what do you intend to do with me?"

The hooded man begins typing on a laptop attached to the wall and the ceiling opens up revealing a metal cylinder. Further strokes of the keyboard open the tip of metal cylinder and a laser shines down onto Chris' stomach, further keyboard strokes position the laser target on his elbow.

"No, what are you doing, noooooo!"

Robin picks up a comically large sledgehammer and chants over and over again as the hammer comes down on his ace's elbow, "It's just one of those…It's just one of those...It's just one of those" The vigor rises after each successive blow.



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