A Peanutball joint.
A half hour out of Tampa and I was HIGHLY MOTIVATED to crash the fucking plane straight into the Gulf. Sergio Romo had the Funky Cold MEDINA SPIRIT and it was nails-on-chalkboard excruciating. “I’m the DYNAMIC ONE, I will ROCK YOUR WORLD son.” Neck tats aside, Romo raps like a middle-aged jamoke cosplaying a BROOKLYN STRONG tough guy.
I slammed another MIDNIGHT BOURBON and headed down to aisle to see Luzardo. I slapped his back with one arm while snaking my trunk toward the SOUP AND SANDWICH on his tray table, but Frankie Montas wasn’t having it. “Vete a la mierda, elefante” he rasped with a menace that automatically disqualifies you from SAINTHOOD.
“Stomper!” Ray Fosse offered a friendly harbor. “How does it feel to be heading back to Oakland?” “LIKE THE KING” I replied, wary of his KNOWN AGENDA. He drew close and dropped his voice low. “Do you have the HIDDEN STASH? I’m jonesing bad, man. It doesn’t have to be ESSENTIAL QUALITY. I’d huff HELIUM right now.” I told him I couldn’t help. “KEEPMEINMIND” he pled as I shuffled away.
Jed Lowrie couldn’t get his Disney+ to load, and it was clear why. I had a few drinks in me but Jed was downright BOURBONIC. And not a happy drunk like me. “Goddamnfuckinsumbitch pay good money need to watch the MANDALOUN” he slurred, but I wasn’t saying nothin to provoke his KING FURY. I’m still taking penicillin from the last time.
The back of the plane was John Fisher’s private section, with full leather reclining seats, exit row signs in cursive, a SUPER STOCK of high end liquors, and purse strings as taut as bridge cables. Fisher was on his knees, at first I thought looking for stray change, but came to realize he was praying.
“O BESOS” he intoned, “O great lord magnate, Amazon eminence, why must I be so poor?”
I stuffed him into a drink cart and stowed it in place for landing. The fastest two minutes in sports later I’d be in the Coliseum for the Orioles series on the winning ride with HOT ROD CHARLIE.