Batter Up

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 20003,2004,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

We cruised through the first 3 games, the Tigers had really taken their toll, but they got off to a good start in the fourth game. Jackson was back in the line up behind me and they had to pitch more to me. So, it was the 11th inning, 2 outs, bases loaded, and they were leading by a run. I was up to bat and I crushed one just outside the foul pole. I also nearly took out the pitcher with the head of my bat when it cracked off.

When you are the two time league MVP, soon to be 3rd time, you are allowed to be a little superstitious. In my case, I don't like anyone, and I mean anyone, touching my bats. Most people think it is because they are corked, but whenever the league takes one of my bats, they never find any tampering. The real reason is that if I don't keep them under lock and key, they end up on eBay. Anyway, I only took two bats out to the field and my other had splintered in the 3rd inning.

The GM for the Yankees was trying to get the umpires to examine the remains of my bat while I was trying to explain to them why I didn't have a spare in the racks and why I wasn't going to borrow just any old bat from my teammates. He got tossed for bumping the home plate ump while shoving the bat head in his face. I said please and that did it, they called a TV timeout and I started down to the clubhouse - there was no way I was giving my locker combination out to anyone else in the stadium. I had to hustle, so I didn't even drop the remains of my bat.

A funny thing happened to me on the way. You have to remember that there were cameras on the dugout the whole time and a crew waiting in the locker room to interview us on our post- game reactions.

I never reached the locker room, they never found me, they now call that hallway the "Bermuda Corridor", and the Yankees went on to win that game and the next three. The Cubs beat them for the World Series in 4 straight.

Talk about notoriety, I've eclipsed Elvis in the tabloids. What did happen in that hallway? What happened to all of my millions? Where am I now? Why do Red Sox fans hate me more than Rodger Clemens?

Well, I can answer one of those with the casual observation that my contract was technically over with the end of the season and anyone who thinks they'll get their hands on my money should remember that stint I did with the CIA - besides killing, the favorite camp talk had been about squirreling away illegal gains. I.e., I transferred my assets out of the bank and took them elsewhere. The Red Sox management tried to sue for the money, but I was long gone.

As to what really happened in that hallway, well, lets just say I met a really rabid Yankees fan and he convinced me to leave the park.

I remember stomping down the hall, pissed that the ball had curved at the end. They couldn't walk me, they were playing for the win and Jackson had already smacked them around earlier. Then this guy just appears out of nowhere, clamps these iron fingers on my shoulder, I'm thinking major bruises, and sinks these major fangs into my neck. I can't do anything, his eyes have got me locked down and none of my muscles are responding.

I didn't have any faith to fall back on to fight this bloodsucker, Iraq took care of that. He took his fangs out, switched to the other side of my neck and slurped out some more blood. I just sat there and let him do his thing. He reared back and I knew he was out to convert me to his faith. I finally saw he was wearing a Yankee cap and I knew he hated me - killing me would have been too easy, just suck it all out. No, he wanted to rob me of playing in the daylight.

Out of nowhere, he chomped down on my left wrist, almost chewing my hand off in the process. Did I mention I was superstitious? The only jewelry I wore was a silver bracelet with a pair of stars - on my left wrist. I wore it tight and under a sweatband so the umps wouldn't throw me out. When he started to chew it, he roared, and grasped at his mouth - it was bleeding, turning green from where it had contacted my bracelet. His hold on me slipped, both physically and mentally. I thrust the remains of my bat through his heart and watched him burn.

Blood was streaming down the front of my jersey and my left hand was clutched up to my chest. It started to burn and when I looked down, it was green. I pulled the bracelet off, it didn't hurt my right hand. It must take an open wound for the silver to work its charm. I felt a slight breeze come from the wall and the ashes scattered out of sight.

Anyway, there I stood, basically dead. The game had drifted into the early night, I could go back out there. I couldn't however go into the locker room looking like this and I couldn't go out onto the field. Baseball is very understanding still about performance enhancers, but not in the form of superhuman strength imparted either by vampirism or lycanthropism. Never mind that I had been out under the sun earlier in that day or that I had been passing the lycanthropy piss test since I started playing high school ball, I couldn't go forth and ruin my accomplishments.

It was weird, I was torn by that Ranger mentality to go out and help my team, but in the long run, I knew it would do more harm to baseball than good. Pete Rose never understood that, yet I finally was starting to soak in the implications of how my needs would damage the game.

As I thought of this, with the roar of the crowd in the back ground, with the blood soaking my uniform, I realized I'd just killed the only source of information on how vampires do their supernatural tricks. Okay, I knew that silver and wood were effective against them, but other than that what was myth and what was fact? The Church wasn't going to help me and the only bloodsuckers I knew of were agents and lawyers.

Thinking about bloodsuckers, even as an euphemism, caused my fangs to extend. Okay, I probably fed on humanity now. I'd experiment with some human style food and if that didn't work, I'd have human food. What, you expect me to be squeamish or rant about my lost humanity? That cherry was popped in the Middle East.

I don't know how I did it, but I found myself in the locker room, standing by my locker. I got out my clothes, keys, and bats. I found myself sitting in my Range Rover. I drove home, arranged for my funds to be transferred to an offshore account that no one knew about and arranged for everything else to be liquidated.

After that, I rode off, but not into the sunset, which I was fated to never see again. Nope, I was freshly minted vampire who needed to find himself. The big question was I going to feast on my fans or on Yankee fans?

Blast from the Past

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 1999,2000,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

The dawn was breathtaking in its own right. On most days, the elves would be basking in its warmth and celebrating the cycle of the forest. On this day, the majority of the elves were crispy corpses, smoldering in the light breeze. The rest were standing around, gazing off into some inner landscapes. Here and there, a few of the braver souls were trying to help the physically wounded, but they did not spare a glance for their other comrades.

A soft sputtering drifted in on the morning air. Some heads shot up in alarm and then relaxed at the familiar sight of a Nomad III as it lazily circles in over the battlegrounds and suddenly a line is released and someone repels down the rope to the scared ground. As soon as they are clear of the line, a squad follows the pathfinder.

The newly arrived squad of Paladins just stands as their plane lazily circles about and resumes its normal morning excursion. They then wait, staring impassively at the carnage. Finally, one of the weary survivors dusts himself off, runs his fingers through his sweat matted hair, dons his helmet, and saunters over to the newcomers.

"What the hell happened out there?" Koritigan asked his son.

"Sister dear was back in town", replied Caraval, "and she brought some friends."

"Those CAS deserters she has been hanging out with?" asked his father?

"Yes, and one mean wiz. He erected that monstrosity over there." he pointed to the still flailing mass of thorns and roses, "Our best magic and napalm hasn't withered it. I'd call an air strike of Agent Orange, but I could just see the conservatives having a field day with that tidbit on the news."

"I want the council to see it anyway. It conjures up images best forgotten." said Koritigan as he tried to pull his eyes away from the rose bush. He could see imprisoned Paladins, their flesh impaled by thorns and he could still see new thorns popping out of their skin. "At least the poor bastards looked like they died quickly."

"Dead? Why do you think we've been trying so vehemently to fry that bush? They are still alive. The ones you see have passed out from the pain. When they wake, you can listen as they scream. Nothing shuts it out." Caraval impassionately told his father. He walked over to a circle drawn on the grassy floor of the forest and pulled his Manhunter out. He took careful aim and shot at one of his oldest friends. A thorny branch whipped over and the bullet ricocheted off of one of the thorns. Thorns then burst out of the closed eyes of his friend, who shrieked a mindless blast out of a throat raw from a night of such piercings. As the scream died out, a soft bleating could be heard from the captive. "See, the bush protects them."

A branch darted out towards Caraval and he ducked back a meter. "We don't know how, or on what, but it is getting bigger."

"The wiz also scragged Azureflame and then animated both it and one of the CAS warriors. I have seen and fought zombies, ghouls, and insect spirits, but none of them compared to the terror induced by these undead creatures. Finally, he bombarded us with waves of mana bolts. We thought he would eventually collapse from the strain, but he kept on throwing bolt after bolt." added Caraval.

"Azureflame dead? Who is going to tell his father?" ponders the older elf, ignoring the remaining comments from his son.

"Dead twice, you can see the smoldering remains about 100 meters into the forest." replied his son. "Listen, did you bring the memory crystal like I asked?"

"Yes, but tell me more about this mage. No-one should be able to call forth such magics for decades." stated the father. He made no effort to bring forth the crystal his son had just requested.

"Give me the damn crystal and I will show him to you. Or do you want the image to blur?" in his anger, Caraval failed to mention that he would never forget the stranger who incinerated his command.

The father fished in a belt pouch and handed over the blue-green crystal. Caraval stared into the murky depths, calling forth the image of the man he planned to throw into the living roses. Slowly the silver-haired wizard started to appear. At first the image was blurry and then it was double. He twisted his fingers over imaginary knobs, fine tuning the clarity.

The older elf sighed at the dependence of the youth of today on technology. He believed that once the mana levels started to peak, technology would wilter away under the glare. He wanted his son free of the taint of the machine, but it was hard to undo lessons learned early. His sister was much worse - at times he despaired of her ever turning away from the modern world.

As the image snapped into focus, Caraval was astonished to hear his father let out a quick gasp. He did not know if it was for the stranger or the white disk. During the battle, he did not recall seeing the disk, but his subconscious must have attached some significance to it being there. "What is it father?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. I will meet you back in the city." was the reply he got.

"What about Azureflame? Who is going to tell his father that his pride and joy is mostly ashes?" he pounded.

"I will, I will, don't worry. I'll handle Lowfyr. You just get your Paladins back to camp. Don't let word of this leak." Kortigan dismissed his son by turning away. He quickly spun back around and he chose to ignore, for now, the resentment, which flared from the younger elf's eyes. "By the way, how did the human kill Azureflame? By magic or by blade?" he asked.

"How did you know he had a sword?" rejoined his son.

As Kortigan turned away for the last time, he threw back over his shoulder, "Then perhaps he was not a wizard after all?"