The Revo Files

Headhunters, Is this the end?

2012-01-27T16:16:00.002-05:00

I just wanted to shoot this note to the people that have actually read Headhunters thus far and provide a dash of information.

First off, thank you. The truth is I didn't put a ton of thought into this little business thriller/fantasy. It started without an outline and may one day finish without one. I still like the characters and believe that the plot will work. I also appreciate the reads.

Now the bad news. What you see is what you get. I have no more to cut and paste to the blog. Sorry, but that's how it is. Polishing and pushing the Burned Prophecy package to agents mixed with the work I'm doing on my WIP has diplaced any further advancement in the world of Mr. Grace and Ms. Styles.

I do ask that if you have any input on the story, be it loving or hating it, please drop off a comment in this thread and I'll do my best to answer questions, accept praise graciously (don't laugh) or attempt to talk the gun out of your hand that's pointed at me.

Thank you all and hopefully soon I'll have more material to toss onto the heap that is The Revo Files.

(Bows)

Headhunters Part Seven

2012-01-26T22:06:00.001-05:00

Since I didn’t think to set the cheap alarm clock next to mybed or leave a wake-up call at the desk, it was with a certain degree ofdisoriented panic that I woke up to the sound of knocking on my door. That’swhen I looked over at the clock and through a single open eye saw that it wasquarter to nine in the morning.

I grumbledsomething incomprehensible that I hoped sounded like wait a minute to the door and pulled on the pants I wore from lastnight then slipped into a t-shirt. I checked the peephole on saw the smilingface of Karin looking up at the tiny fish-eye lens. Even visually distorted,running on the less sleep than I was and holding up a greasy brown bag shelooked fantastic. I wish I could have said the same about me but suspected Ilooked like I was just run though a clothes dryer.

“It’salright if you aren’t decent! I brought breakfast !” She yelled and knocked again.

Ok lady,prepare to be horrified I thought and opened the door. Karin took anunconscious step back which didn’t do a damn thing for my self-esteem.

“Was therea frat party you attended after I dropped you off?” She asked then pressedherself against the wall and barged past me.

“Veryfunny.” I grunted.

“I’mkidding, that tousled hair and sleepy expression is cute.” She remarked withoutlooking at me and took a seat at the small table. I had a momentary heartattack when I noted that the photocopy of her ID was sitting face down amongthe pile of papers from the sent package. “Let me straighten that up.” Ioffered and shuffled the papers into a pile, filing them into the outer sleeveof my laptop bag. She opened the greasy bag an pulled out two wrapped, roundthings half the size of her head along with two gigantic cardboard cups ofcoffee.

“There’sthis place on the way over that has thebest breakfast sandwich croissants. I figured we’d need to power up.” Shesaid, arranging them on the table with a half dozen napkins each. Normally I’mstrictly a coffee guy but the smell of eggs, bacon, sausage and cheese had mystomach instantly rumbling. Still, first things first.

“Hold thatthought. I’ll be back in about ten minutes. Don’t worry about starting withoutme. I eat fast.” I said and hurried into the bathroom with a quickly grabbedpile of clothes.

Runningrushed and without coffee had obviously impaired my brain. Halfway through theshower I was overcome with worry, kicking myself for not cleverly slipping thatparticular paper into my pile of clothes and bringing it with me. That causedme to kick in the afterburners and scrub myself at double speed. I practicallyleaped from the shower, dried quickly then realized in my haste I didn’t grabany pants. Emerging from the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel I was relievedto find Karin munching on her huge sandwich and watching the local news at lowvolume.

“Nice legs,Grace.” She remarked and smiled with a mouthful of deadly but delicious cholesteroland starch.

“Ditto,Styles.” I replied, glancing down at her sculpted stems before retreating backinto the bathroom for a somewhat more relaxed shave. She swatted at me with abackhand as I passed but missed.

Now a bitbetter prepared for the morning and my early uninvited company I emerged frommy morning ritual scrubbed and shaved pink while more or less fully dressed. Istopped involuntarily when I looked at over at the table that the morning sun wasnow cutting through in my east facing window. The light backlit Karin’s darkriver of hair as she turned, gave me an appraising look over and smiled.

I felt myheart beating harder in my chest suddenly.

Now, lestyou think I’m completely thick, I noticed on several occasions that she was anattractive woman but now the details were coming to me, engraving them into mybrain. Besides the aforementioned legs it hit me that it was the collection ofunusual features that, as a whole, made her distinctively beautiful. Taken inany one part one could critique the slightly prominent nose, perhaps a part ofsome Mediterranean ancestry. Her mouth, seemingly always ready to spring into awarm smile, might even be considered slightly wide instead of the traditionallystriking tiny pouting rosebud. Her eyes were dark brown and large with eyebrowsthat peaked in a sculpted peak, making her look slightly predatory if her headwas tilted downwards. My memory also called up that despite her lithe build,she moved with a catlike strength and self-assured dignity. There was a certainelectrical charge that came off her, like she was coiled and ready to pounce atany given time.

I must havelingered too long in my thoughts because her expression shifted to one ofcuriosity, asking me “Is everything alright? You look like you froze up.”

“It’suhm…no I just was thinking…never mind.” I fumbled and took my seat, hoping theshaving burn hid my embarrassment. Thankfully the croissant from hell wasavailable as a distracting prop and I dug into it with more motivation thanmere hunger provided.

“Coffee,black.” Karin said and pulled the lid off, passing the cup across the tablebefore getting to the real point of the visit. “I thought you’d like a practicerun on your presentation and since you don’t have a car. Afterwards I coulddrive you to the airport to pick up your sidekick.”

“Greatidea,” I admitted, adding, “But I can rent a car. You don’t need to waste yourtime chauffeuring me around all the time. Besides, didn’t you have a meetingthis morning?”

“Why gothrough the trouble of car rental and the other thing was a lie.” She saidsimply, causing me to stop mid bite.

“A lie?” Iasked through a mouthful of food.

“Chew.That’s gross.” She grimaced then explained, “Frankly, it was getting late andsomething about our corporate leader isn’t quite right. The guy is definitelyslick and I know we’re not privy to that upper stratum of decision makingbut…what does he have going on?”

I thoughton that for a moment while masticating and felt that his somewhat abrupt way ofdealing with her might have influenced her opinion. Still, she had a point. Butyou don’t get where you are and build a billion dollar organization by takingthe word of people at our level as gospel. In the grand scheme of things and inthis business environment we’re lucky to just be on the chessboard, even if itis as pawns.

“You likethe guy though, don’t you?” She asked.

“I do. I’mused to only seeing him as a picture in the lobby but underneath it all itlooks like there’s a real guy there.” I admitted.

“And youdon’t suspect you might be manipulated?”

“Of courseI’m manipulated. We’re all manipulated. There’s a reason he called me out hereover other people and frankly, his explanation makes a bit of sense.”

“Thatsounds both cynical and naïve, don’tyou think?”

Gorgeousand arriving with breakfast or not I was finding I was getting annoyed. I mean,I had a hell of a lot less reason to question Ryche than I did her if I reallythought about it, and I was trying hard not to. Instead I tossed up a subjectchange that was a different brand of paranoia.

“I thinksomeone was in my room last night and accessed my computer.” I said, watchingher reaction closely. The coffee cup stopped at her lips, hiding the lower halfof her face, but her eyes cocked wide for a split second.

“Why do youthink that?” She asked with her voice sounding mildly concerned.

“Littlethings…like my computer being moved.”

“Did youcall down to the front desk? Could it have been housekeeping or the guy thatchecks the mini-bar?”

“No, no,and no. I didn’t call. Housekeeping didn’t even empty the trash or replace myused drink cup and the mini-bar is still missing what I drank.”

“Where wasyour computer before?” She asked with a raised eyebrow and looking down at myclosed laptop.

“It was onthis table but it was shifted slightly in the other direction.”

She noddedher head and grunted, “Uh huh,” Then asked, “Did you check it out and see ifany of the programs were accessed? Did you look up the internet history?”

Actually I was pretty tired andhadn’t thought of that. I opened up the laptop and let the screen load whileKarin watched over my shoulder. Sure enough, a minute later I checked out thestatuses. Nothing was amiss and I the times showed I was the last person to logon.

“Do you think that maybe you bumpedinto it as you walked by?” She asked, annoying me more.

“I know what I saw.” I repliedcurtly. She held up her hands in mock surrender.

“I’m not looking for any trouble Mr.Grace. I was just pointing out the obvious.” She said in a tone of humorous consolationthen looked at my half-eaten breakfast, asking, “Are you going to finish that?”

“You’re still hungry?”

“I have a very rapid metabolism. Isthat a no?” She asked and reached over to it.

“I’ll split it with you.” I saidafter slapping her hand lightly. I picked it up, wolfed down about half of thehalf and passed her the remaining wedge. I expected her to turn her nose up atmy barbaric offering but she snatched the remainder and gobbled it greedily,washing it down with a slug of my coffee since hers was finished.

“Feel better now?” I asked.

“You think I’m a pig?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Because of my genealogy I know Ihave a finite time where I can eat what I want, when I want. At a certain pointI won’t be able to do that so why not enjoy it while I can?” She replied,addressing practically nothing.

“And when does this tectonic shifthappen?” I asked, just in case it was the next ten minutes and she needed torun home to replace bursting clothes.

“In about ten years, I figure.”

“So that would make you…” I asked,feigning mental arithmetic.

“…younger than you.” She saidevenly.

Rather than continue down this pathI went back to original subject that we deviated from, admitting, “Okay, maybeI was mistaken about the computer. I’ll admit that.”

“Great. I’m glad we cleared thenon-mystery up. Is this a way you have of avoiding working on yourpresentation?” She asked and took more of my coffee.

“It’s already written. There’snothing to work on.” I said defensively.

“Good, then you won’t mind readingit to me. I’m curious as to who could think they could put words in yourmouth.”

“You’re my beta audience?”

She looked around the room withexaggerated flair before turning back to me and asking “Do you see anyone elsehere?”

I hung my head and pulled thetypewritten pages from my laptop bag, making sure the unwanted sheet remainedbehind. I went to sit across from her but she pulled the chair in tight againstthe table using her foot.

“Oh no…you stand for yourpresentation. I need to see your body language. It’s an important part ofpublic speaking.”

“I’ll be behind a podium.” Ipointed out.

“Just humor me.” She said thenrested her chin on her hands and looked at me intently.

“You’re making me nervous.”

“Picture your audience in theirunderwear.” She suggested. I had a funny feeling that wouldn’t help mynervousness in regards to present company and would definitely make me wish for a podium.

I cleared my throat and started speaking,reading the vanilla pap that was forwarded to me. After thirty seconds I tossedthe papers on the bed and admitted, “This is crap.”

“I was about to say that. You soundlike one of those animated robots at an amusement park. Aren’t you glad youchecked this out ahead of time?”

“Lovely. I have three hours to comeup with something.” I said after checking my watch.

“So what? You know what people sayat these things, right?” Karin said and turned my laptop to face her. A clicklater she had the word processor program open with her fingers poised and readyon the keyboard.

“You’re going to write it?” I askedincredulously.

“No! You’re going to say what youthink should be said, add a couple funny references but nothing too offensive,and charm the socks off the audience.” She said then clarified, “I’m going totype while you speak.”

“You can type for real?” I asked.

“Everything I do is, by definition,for real. Stop stalling. Start with a snappy opening welcome and the requisite‘glad to be here’ crap.” She prodded insistently.

She wasright. The process started off a bit rocky but after the first tenuous hour ofour bantering sarcasm the words flowed, she typed and before I knew it, we weredone. Five minutes of charismatic, witty and clever monologue was ready toroll. She leaned back in her seat, let out a sigh of relief and asked, “So, youhave a jump drive?”

“A what?”

“…A memorystick, a CD to burn, something that we can bring to the hotels executive medialounge and print this out?” She chuckled while shaking her head before comingto the rescue once again, producing a fat pen from her purse. She pulled of achrome end, revealing a USB port.

“Is thereanything you aren’t prepared for?” Iasked.

“Is thereanything you are prepared for?” Shereplied and held up the remaining coffee cup.

“I wasn’texpecting company or I’d have laid out a continental breakfast.”

“Well nowyou know better. After all, I treated you to breakfast yesterday but I’m aforgiving sort. That’s why I’ll run to the lounge and print this out while youpick us up some more coffee.”

At somepoint I had obviously given control up over the situation out here. My male egowas taking a slight bruising as a result of this but on the other hand,considering the help she provided at the airport, the transportation andrefining my speech, I wasn’t in a position to complain. I wasn’t pleased withshagging coffee but appreciated her dedication in assisting my success. Somehowthis also left me feeling in her debt to some extent, though. It’s not afeeling I enjoy, especially when there are still a couple lingering questionsabout her motives.

So in theinterest of regaining some element of control I fell back on an old managementtechnique. I made a trivial demand.

“Make surethat you forward my presentation to Trent Hauser.” I requested. Karin stoppedin her tracks, gave me an odd look then favored me with a knowing smile,asking, “Do you feel better now?”

“Surprisingly,yes.”

She took afew steps back and with a warm expression gently slapped the side of my face acouple times.

“Don’tworry. You’re still the big dog. I’m just part of the team that knows yoursuccess is mine as well.”

And on thatnote…

“Iappreciate everything you’ve done Karin. I mean that.”

I wasgenuinely sincere in this sentiment and despite my misgivings I needed this toall work out. Scratch that. About one hundred and fifty people two thousandmiles away need this to work out. One of which was arriving in about six hours.This brought me to point number two.

“I’llprobably have to skip out on the after-presentation back slapping to pick upArmand.” I informed her. She nodded in agreement.

“I’m on itBoss. We’ll take the Caddy?”

“You wantedto come along?”

“Of course.I want to meet the rest of Team Grace. Plus you driving the Firebird is onething, my Caddy is another matter entirely. Will you be sitting in the back orthe front?”

I had thesneaking suspicion that was sarcasm. I replied accordingly.

“Well…theback seat is pretty roomy…”

“The trunkis even roomier.” She said and smiled mischievously before turning and headingout the door.

Either shewas like this before or I was having a terrible influence on her. She wassounding very similar to me when I converse with my boss.

With thatin mind I bit the bullet and went to shag coffee, illustrating the bigdifference in the situation. It wasn’t the first time that I suspected I wasbeing played by a professional.

Headhunters Part Six

2012-01-18T19:31:00.001-05:00

“Let’s get to the point.” Rychestarted, drinking a scotch on the rocks and lounging on a leather sofa,positioned so that the dark waters of the lake framed him. “Electronic Systemsis one of the weakest divisions of mine. I know you have a decent product andyou’re working on some cutting-edge technology, Sean, but I have concerns.”

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Ryche, Ithink there is still room for customer expansion. I’ve been working onstrategies to adapt some of our product to more high-volume commercialapplication and with the right p…” Karin started but Ryche held up a hand,silencing and irritating with a single gesture. Rather than press further,Karin leaned back in her overstuffed chair, crossed her legs and took a sip ofwine.

“Be sure, I’m not discountingyou’re your ambition or prowess, Ms. Styles. But military is where the game andthe profits are at. Scraping for pennies per circuit while duking it out withthe Far East is a no-win situation. Maybe you’ll score some Bio-Med or one-offhigh end audio trinkets but not enough to keep the wheels turning in NewHampshire. You were hired partly because of your military background and weboth know that’s an in with ES’s customers.” Ryche casually admonished her. Itwas fascinating to note that his approach and presentation completely changedwhen walking maybe a hundred steps from his garage. Minutes ago he was thegruff and blunt pal, someone I could take in a hockey game with. Here, with ascotch on the rocks in his hands and surrounded by luxury, the barracuda wasshowing his cunning and many teeth. It was also interesting to note hisknowledge of select underlings, myself and Karin in particular. His touching onKarin’s military past did, however, toss yet another wrench in my informationset. Did this guy really have the balls to scoop someone from DOD?

Apparently my new pal didn’t playby any rules but his own, confirmed when he turned to me, pointed one fingerand said, “ES can be a lot more than what it is, but only if the shackles aretaken off guy’s like you. Right now your GM has one of my guys feet stuck uphis ass to get him going. If he can’t manage that, then I get someone who can.Are you with me so far?”

I felt a cold chill running down myspine. Was this guy tossing the GM position in my lap?

“I know what you’re thinking andno…I wouldn’t stick you with the position of hood ornament. You’re too damnvaluable for what you bring to the table as it is. I don’t need you sweatingcorporate financial reports, EPA or OSHA inspections, personnel issues or anyof that crap.” He said and gave his drink a quick swirl before continuing. “Fornow, I need you where you are. But long-term I want to bring you up into myfold to oversee technology for all military supplier divisions, but I’m gettingahead of myself. How far along are you with the buried and shielded componentproto’s you’ve been banging your head on?”

I was struck momentarilyspeechless. I had no idea that a man with his varied responsibilities was soinvolved in, what I thought, was a relatively tiny chunk of what I was workingon at ES. He was patient though, allowing me to gather my thoughts beforeresponding.

“I’m getting close but have beengetting shot down requesting test materials. The ROI isn’t considered to behigh enough.”

“How close?” Ryche asked and leanedforward, not so much looking at me but into me.

“We’ve solved the delamination,drill fracturing and every other durability concern. Some new equipment wouldcertainly make fabrication easier but as is…I just need the right tools. Then Ican repeat the prototype’s and start production training.”

Ryche silently continued his gaze.Test number three had much higher stakes than the first two so I matched hisstare, which was easy since I believed every word I just said. After a tensemoment he nodded slowly and leaned back.

“Good. Capital is a go for this.The call will be made tomorrow to ES’s comptroller and when you get back, beready to hit the ground running. I want the next set of assemblies ready fortest and approval in six weeks. Talk to whoever you have to and get thematerial ordered and on your dock ASAP. Also, get to me with what equipment youneed from the show.” Ryche commanded, sounding a lot more like my immediate GMthan the corporate Zeus. Since his major push and objective for calling me outhere seemed addressed he slipped into a more social mode, at least he trieduntil Karin spoke up.

“What is the application for thisspecial project?” She asked.

“It’s advancement in themanufacturing procedure.” I answered while Ryche considered her coolly.

“Right, I get that. But who am Iselling it too?” Karin rightly pointed out, continuing with, “I mean, I don’thave any of my customer’s calling out for this…what did you call it?” She askedme.

“Buried and shielded components.”

“Right. So is it tighter packaging,reduced cost, a functionality issue? I’m not clear about how or if I’m supposedto bring this up as part of ES’s capability package.”

“The attraction is improved fieldreliability.” Ryche answered before I could.

“But for what?”

“For now, it’s related to anotherRyche company. I have a use for itMs. Styles and that’s why I ampushing for this to move forward. It’s about integration and optimization.”Ryche explained curtly. “Just suffice to say that, until you hear from me, thisis not to be discussed with any customer, and as far as you’re concerned,anyone outside this room. Is this clear?”

“That’s fine, Sir. I just wanted tobe clear on how I would have to sell it, but if it’s an R and D project then,of course, I won’t present it to customers.” Karin replied with tension and abit of indignation, defending her by adding, “I have signed all necessaryconfidentiality agreements with the company and I’m sure you are aware that Ialready had Highly Classified approval from my previous position.”

Both quietly appraised one anotherfor a few seconds than was comfortable. Ryche seemed to accept her explanationbut I have to credit Karin. The woman had a boat load of guts, even if herapproach wasn’t quite as helpful as previously advertised. On another level Isaw that neither of these people liked each other, a dangerous move on her partconsidering she was with me in the belly of the beast.

Since it was I who accepted her tocome along with me and, in truth, Ryche had reacted strongly enough to her towarrant some defense on my part, I felt compelled to add, “Ms. Styles has beensupremely helpful and professional since we met. I have no doubt she willacquit herself well.”

Ryche rose from his seat andpointed at my empty glass. I nodded wordlessly and he took it, splashing scotchin each. Karin, who still had half a glass of wine left raised it up to herlips but quietly said to me from the corner of her mouth, “I’m sorry aboutthat, and thank you.”

“No problem.” I mouthed. She gaveme a warm smile in return and flashed her eyes sideways to let me know the bigboss had returned.

“Styles and Grace,” He said againand shook his head after passing me my glass and returning to his seat. “So howis it you rescued Sean?”

“Airport disaster…he came over onthe red eye and they lost his luggage. He looked a little frazzled so I calledin a chip with the airline and gave him a ride to clean up.” She explained,thankfully leaving out the part about my foul mood for being called here in thefirst place.

“The hotel let you check in early?”He asked me with a hiked eyebrow.

This was not the question I wanted. Before I could answer Karin jumped inyet again.

“I had some errands to run so I lethim use my place. He’s all checked in now.” She smiled, finished her wine andcommented, “This is delicious…California?”

“Long Island,” Ryche replied andtook her glass from her, slipping me a sly grin that Karin didn’t seem tonotice. Apparently he was back to laying the buddy act once again. Even Karinseemed to get a pass for her earlier attitude as Ryche went on about his boatsthat were moored at the dock behind him. Neither of us really gave a shit andwere probably more than anxious to get out of here and compare notes but afterabout an hour an interesting transition happened. Maybe it was the scotch andit could have been the realization that, for the first time in my career I feltsome tangible power, but I realized I was hanging on his every word. I eventold a few car, work and sports stories of my own that seemed to thrill him.Karin retreated into herself at some point and near midnight she cleared herthroat.

“You have a presentation tomorrowand I have an appointment with Jack Chase from Consolidated. Can we call it anight?” She asked and yawned.

“Ah yes,the presentation. Hopefully someone provided you with suitable material. If notI can have someone up all night and have it ready for you tomorrow.” Rychesmiled.

“I’m allset. I worked on it on the plane ride.” I lied and rose from my seat. Ryche didas well and offered me a crushing handshake for the first time.

“I’m gladyou came out here Sean,” He remarked like I actually had a choice in thematter. “I’m generally a good judge of character and now after talking with youI know I made the right choice. We’ll be seeing each other again soon to goover a few things, but for now, best of luck with tomorrow. I know you’ll dofine.” He beamed then turned to Karin, offering what I hoped was a weakerknuckle buster than he gave me, saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet a strongwilled-woman like you. Welcome to the team and keep an eye on this guy for me,okay?”

“Noproblem. Sean has been great.” She said quickly and returned a firm single pumpof her arm.

Rycheinsisted on seeing us out the door and walked as far as the car, slipping backinto his rich car aficionado mode on the way. After insisting we popped thehood so he could look at the engine we were finally permitted to leave.

Karinremained silent until we left the compound and the development completely,finally asking, “Are you nervous?”

“Why wouldI be? I thought that went very well.” I replied and glanced over at her, butshe was looking at the passing dark desert.

“You’re asmart guy, right?” She asked.

“I’d liketo think so.”

“Didanything strike you as being odd about this little gathering?”

“You meanbesides everything after we parked?” I chuckled.

“Can youpromise me something, Sean, or it too soon for that?” She said in a veryserious voice after turning to face me.

“Too soonin regards to what?” I asked with genuine curiosity. “And what am I promising?”

“Promise meyou’ll keep your eyes wide open on this, okay?”

I promisedto her first question, never got an answer on the second one and we didn’tspeak another word until she dropped me off at the hotel and waved goodnight.

***

Being asingle guy for the past ten years of post-divorce life (don’t ask) I’veactually found a small bit of comfort in hotel rooms. Granted, the pillows canbe like sacks of cement, the sheets can cause spontaneous combustion if you’rea restless sleeper and there’s always the ever-present question of who did whatunspeakable act in the room, but other than that I like the idea of a livingspace I don’t have to maintain. It’s almost like being back in your parent’shouse only they’re on a trip out of town.

Rather thaneven attempt to salvage my ruined shirt, I dumped it into the small garbage cannext to the dresser. That’s when I noticed something from the corner of my eyethat caught my attention. I became focused on my laptop, sitting closed on thecheap small table.

Just so youknow that this isn’t complete paranoia I need to confess. For some reason Ihave adapted the penmanship lessons I’d learned as a schoolboy to my typing. Mycomputer keyboard or laptop is always cocked slightly upwards to the right. Idon’t know why this is and maybe some shrink would have a field day with it butnone of that is relevant. I was looking at my laptop that was presently skewedto the left.

Thinkingthat maybe housekeeping stopped by, I checked the dresser. But the same glass Iunwrapped earlier to get a drink of terrible Las Vegas water was still sittingthere out of its wrapper. The cellophane wrap from some new articles ofclothing were also still in the garbage.

I checkedthe papers I’d left on the desk and found nothing unusual there but was nowrelieved that I’d folded up the photocopy of Karin’s supposed military ID andkept it with me. I don’t know why Iwas relieved but it struck me as something that shouldn’t be lying around in myroom. What the hell was going on and why did I feel like I was missingsomething on every level since Trent Hauser walked into my office? Was Iunwittingly recruited as a government agent and missed the memo? Was a squad ofex-KGB hit men hanging outside my hotel on nylon line, waiting for the rightmoment to crash through the window and shoot me full of truth serum?

Maybe Ineeded sleep. No, scratch that…I definitelyneeded sleep. It was past two am on my internal clock.

Aftercleaning up a bit I took an opportunity to examine the photocopy on least time.The hair was shorter a good half foot shorter but otherwise it was clearlyKarin Styles that looked back at me. I looked at the issue date of the ID andnoted that it was over two years old, so I could be all wet on my concern.

…Except forwhy this was even sent for me, except for why someone was in my hotel room andlikely on my computer.

I only hadtwo things going for me at this point. The first being that sleep could onlyhelp my processing ability and that tomorrow Armand was coming in so I couldbounce some of this weirdness off him.

With thatin mind I climbed into bed, tired beyond belief but still sleep took at leastan hour to come.

Headhunters Part Five

2012-01-15T09:03:00.002-05:00

I found Karin at one of the corners of the open conceptupscale watering holes. To her right, seated on the couch next to her was a slickgent probably a couple years her junior. In front of her on an overstuffedchair was another guy about my age. Both looked like they were making theirplay and weren't taking the hint. Even from a distance I could see that Karinwas polite but providing clipped replies, more focused on her white wine thaneither guest. She looked up at me and gave a short smile of relief that lastedapproximately half a second when she spotted Cass on my arm.

"Ohyes. That's her." Cass informed me under her breath.

Really?

Before Icould chose otherwise Cass led me to a loveseat positioned perpendicular to thecouch. I'd have considered moving to the available single chair but a waiterwas there within seconds to take our drink order. I stuck with light beer whileCass, who has an aggressive way of quenching her thirst, chose a Long IslandIced Tea.

Karin,recovering nicely, acted like a true sales rep and made the necessaryintroductions. The younger doofus, who looked like he recently escaped a boyband, was named Jake something or other and was a purchasing drone, while theolder dork introduced himself as 'Chip' before Karin informed me he was anapplications engineer for a shop I didn't know still existed. Following Karin'slead, or looking to top it, Cass introduced herself then me, tagging us as the'real' engineers. Chip was not amused and shortly took his leave of our companyafter dropping a measly ten spot on the coffee table of our casual nook. SinceI was the self-designated alpha male of the group, I didn't lament his movingon.

"TexasIntegrated, right?" Karin asked Cass with a forced grin and extended herhand.

"That'sthe place, Darlin'" Cass replied, slipping into her little-used Texasdrawl. In truth she hailed from Connecticut, as I found out over cocktailsyears before. "It's good to see your earning an honest living afterrunning around with those so-called consultants.So what do you think of our boy, Sean? You got lucky being guided around afellow of his talents. Pay attention and you'll do fine."

"ActuallyKarin has been tutoring me as well, helping me brush up on my presentationskills." I interjected before Karin's forced grin could transition into agrimace.

"Honey,you're good looking, speak well and just drip integrity. I wouldn't change adamn thing." Cass remarked and gave me a quick wink. I suspected she washaving a bit of fun with all this. I, unfortunately, was starting to feel likean icicle stuck between a space heater and a blowtorch.

"I tooka class on self-presentation. It was really only a three day seminar but Ilearned quite a bit." Jake said in an attempt to jump in on a situation hecouldn't possibly begin to understand. His words would have been ironic if theyweren't so sad.

“Did youget one of those pre-printed diplomas to put on your wall?” Cass asked in avoice dripping in sarcasm. Jake didn’t get it however.

“Yes, Idid. It’s hanging up with my lean manufacturing certificate in my cube.” Hereplied proudly. I felt Cass elbow me in the ribs while Karin’s eyes narrowedsharply. I felt compelled to steer the subject matter before the claws, fangsand knives popped out.

“So Jake,how did you end up getting sent out here? Did you draw the short straw too?” Iasked.

“I’m outher with a process engineer. He looks and shops, then I approve depending onhis ROI plan. Actually I practically begged to come out here. I’m planning ontaking in a few of the career development course as well.” He beamed proudly.

“Prettysoon you’ll need a bigger cube for all these diplomas” Cass chuckled and tookher drink from our waiter.

I don’tgive up, no matter the estrogen levels around me. I pressed on and managed toget Cass to talk away on her favorite subject, dumb things done at work.Patting myself mentally on the back I added a few anecdotes of my own. Karinseemed to be sincerely soaking in these tales from the other side like she’sdiscovered something new. Jake, on the other hand, was soon bored. Apparentlycopier jams and errant suppliers aren’t as interesting in the re-telling. Aboutan hour into Cass and my exchange of war stories, Jake excused himself andstuck us with his drink tab. No question about it, this guy was in purchasing.He was not missed.

With bothKarin and I milking our low octane cocktails and Cass jumping with both feetinto hard liquor the vibe from the frequently volatile Cass mellowedconsiderably. In fact, she ended up on the couch, turned to facing Karin whileI was summarily ignored. This worked for me because I was still struggling withsorting out my earlier revelations and was busily attempting to read Karin’sexpressions. I came away realizing that she isn’t what I think or she is onehell of a poker player. Nothing she reacted to set off any warning bells.

But still,why the hell was that photocopy in my info packet? What was the significance?

Before Icould dwell on it further Karin checked out the time and caught my eye. I gotthe hint immediately. I signaled for the waiter, whipped out the groaningcredit card for the overpriced drinks, swore to Cass seven ways to Sunday thatwe’d meet up again and my theoretical sales escort and I headed out to thegarage.

“Yourfriend is pretty sweet on you. I also got the impression she isn’t too pleasedwith me – at least when she’s sober.” Karin observed dryly then did somethingodd, passing me the car keys and announcing, “You drive. I had a couple vinoswhile I was waiting for you. What took so long?”

You meanbesides massive mental conflict in my room and being accosted by the ravenousCassandra? This was, of course, kept internal. Instead I replied, “Justreviewing info from home-base. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I’ll letit go this time.” She said and wound her arm around mine as we walked. Shechatted on a bit about points she picked up from Cass and my anecdotes. Inodded in the appropriate places but as you can imagine, my mind was elsewhere.

…Like whatI might find in the car after I move the seat back again.

***

It turnedout that all my fingers hit was the clunky adjustment lever and rough carpeting.I think I played it off well but thought I caught a briefly nervous glance fromKarin. Then again, I could have imagined that.

The ride toRyche’s was blissfully free of traffic and made a straight shot through thebeautiful nighttime desert scenery. Windows down, The twin exhaust pipesburbling merrily, the radio running some vintage rock and my attractivepassenger’s lovely scent made it feel like I was in High School again, If I wasever in the desert, had this cool a car or as stunning a partner, that is.Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be, especially if it never happened in thefirst place.

Thedirections led us to a walled in community. The stucco / adobe look made thecollection of homes look like someone mixed an upper class gated community withthe Alamo. A pair of stern looking security guards held us up, appreciating theunusual car and, I suspected, my passenger. After checking their list, gruntinga few instructions and fixing me with a stern look like they suspected I wasthe reincarnation of Pancho Villa, they raised the yellow roadblock bar andwaved us through. I put down about ten feet of rubber then realized too latethat wasn’t the brightest ploy. I needed a serious attitude adjustment and veryquickly.

Casa deRyche, Rycheville, Rychetopia or whatever the hell he called it was the lastoversized compound to the south. Yet another stucco barrier greeted and a heavywrought iron gate sliding open smoothly, commanded to yield by some unseen force.I guessed if the socialist revolution came and the Bolsheviks managed to breachthe outside perimeter then Ryche could hose them down with a couple well placedmachine guns. I wasn’t sure if all this was showy or paranoid but I did knowthat, despite the enormous yards we passed on our way, the whole place felt abit claustrophobic.

A long lineof Japanese maples, well lit by contemporary light posts, guided us to thehouse. I felt a bit embarrassed about the Firebird loud exhaust that resonatedin the near-tunnel. Maybe this wasn’t the best vehicle choice to make anentrance, I figured. That concern waswashed away when we finally came to the end of the strip, emptying into a stripmall parking lot sized expanse that was in front of six open garage bays. TheExterior lighting was sufficient enough to mimic daylight and showed off, to mydelight, six vintage muscle cars each as impressive as the black ‘Bird.

I spotted a tall man wearing adenim shirt hunched over the engine bay of a beautiful flame red Corvetteconvertible. He looked over at us after I parked, wiping his hands on a shopcloth as he came over to greet us with a broad grin. I was temporarily stunnedto recognized the man I’d only seen in pictures mounted in the company lobby,coming up to us with a relaxed gate with grease up to his elbows. Those samepictures also didn’t convey the size of the man. If he wasn’t at least six anda half feet tall I’d eat those pictures, complete with frames.

“Sean Grace!” His voice boomedacross the parking lot. He then turned and pointed in the direction of Karinsaying, “Kelly something, right?”

“Karin Styles.” She nodded in replyand returned the warm grin.

“Right, right. Karin with an ‘I’. Ishould have remembered.” He shrugged then turned his attention back to me,looking at my suit with what appeared to be distain.

“Thank you for inviting us here Mr.Ry…” I started to say but he cut me off with a raised hand.

“Save it Sean. Call me Damon. Nowlose the coat and tie, roll up those sleeves and help me find which lifter istapping on my ‘Vette.” He said then turned neatly and hurried back to thegarage. “Nice ride, by the way.” He called out over his shoulder.

Karin and I exchanged a briefconfused look and a shared hiked eyebrow but didn’t linger on the observation,especially when Ryche’s voice boomed, “C’mon. I want this thing tuned andready, chop, chop!”

Since apparently I was back on theclock I did as instructed, removing my coat and tie and placing them carefullyin the back seat of the car. Karin walked with me to the garage, looking overthe bizarre collection of angles that made up Ryche’s oddly out of place modernmansion. I tried not to look since the complex geometry was so odd that I thinkit would give me a headache if I stared at it too long. If it wasn’t for theprimo collection of cars I might have questioned Ryche’s tastes.

“You ever work on a big blocksolid-lifter 427 mill?” He asked without lifting his head.

“Small block’s once or twice, butnever an L-88.” I commented after spotting the unique engine arrangement of theultra-rare aluminum engine option.

“Good eye.” He said approvinglythen added, “This motor is tapping at idle and it’s driving me nuts. My damnmechanic is in Tahoe and I wanted to take this out for a late night scream runin the desert. Any ideas?”

I had the distinct impression thatthis was a test. Probably a slow-pitch since he may have heard about mymechanical inclination but an opening round, nonetheless.

“Let’s push it out of the garagefirst.” I suggested.

“Why?”

“Too much reverberation in here,also, do you have a short length of broom stick? About an eighteen inch lengthwill do.”

Ryche turned to Karin, asking,“Karin with an ‘I’, can you use a hacksaw?”

“I’m pretty sure I can figure itout.” She replied with a forced smile.

“Good, chop off a piece from thatpush broom in the corner and give it to your man, here.”

I don’t know if the basic soundinterface of high heels on a cement garage floor can convey anger, but it suresounded like it to me when she stormed off. I avoided looking at her partlybecause I didn’t want Ryche getting the wrong message about us and I didn’twant to see where she was going to put that stick once it was cut.

A minute or so later we had theCorvette out in front of the garage with the valve cover over the exposedlifters/valve assembly. It was too late, I noted. My dress shirt alreadysported a few oil and grease stains.

“Here’s the stick for ‘my man’.”Karin said through gritted teeth and passed me a length of hardened wood. Ithanked her sheepishly and asked Ryche to start the engine.

It wasn’t easy with the lowrestriction side pipes barking out staccato rounds of gunfire but my age-oldtrick worked. I played things up a bit, going from cylinder to cylinder withone end of the broomstick against the block and the other against my ear, butafter a half minute I pointed towards the second to last lifter on the driver’sside.

“That one…back the torque off ahalf turn or so.” I instructed. Ryche nodded and smiled, carefully pulling backthe valve cover and spraying tiny jets of oil sideways. A turn of the ratchetlater he had the valve cover back in place and put a huge greasy handprint onthe shoulder of my ruined shirt. The engine was now running as smoothly as a600 plus horsepower can get, which in truth isn’t much smoother than anearthquake. Giving my shoulder a solid squeeze he exclaimed, “Excellent work,Grace. You just earned yourself a beer!”

I thought to ask what Karin earnedbut held that question for further review.

Since he didn’t immediately headover to a cooler and toss me a cold one, instead going to a sink and drywashing his hands with chemical cleaning goo, Karin and I stood around andglanced at each other uncomfortably. Ryche shook me from my nervous shifting ofposition when he asked, “So Sean, you like what you see?”

“It’s a beautiful place.” I lied.

“It’s an ugly pseudo-modernovergrown toolshed. I was asking about my cars.”

I already knew what year and makeevery car was and once again I felt a test coming, so I replied, “’70 GTX 440,’69 Hurst/Olds, ’65 GTO ragtop with Royal Bobcat tags, ’70 El Camino SS396, ’68Dodge Charger R/T and of course the ’67 L-88. What’s not to like?” I rattledoff effortlessly.

“Very good, Notice a pattern?” Heasked.

I almost said ‘yes, they’re all old’ butinstead gave what I figured was the desired response, replying, “No Fords.Why’s that?”

“…Just never liked them. Some ofthe Mustangs were okay and the Shelby Cobra has my respect but I like myGeneral Motors iron with Mopars as a distant second.”

I saw Karin stifle a yawn out thecorner of my eye.

“Tell me about that black beautyyou drove up in. Did you drive it all the way out here or buy it after youlanded. I sure doubt the rental agency stocks ’71 Formula 400’s.” He smiledwhile whipping the gelatinous cleaner from his hands then re-washing them withhot water.

“It’s not my rig. It’s Karin’s.” Ireplied, causing him to stop washing and give her a quick but unreadable look.Karin held his gaze and I felt the tension creep up a notch. If she was here tohelp my self-esteem and make me seem smooth, she sure had an odd approach. Infact, so far she looked like the biggest source of friction.

“Interesting,” Ryche commented thenasked, “Do you do all your own work on them?”

“No, I have a thing for men thatare good with their hands.” She shot back and flashed a smirk. Ryche burst outlaughing and finished washing his hands, grabbing a clean shop towel from apile on the nearby bench. He glanced at me, then at her, smiling knowingly.

“Styles and Grace, I just put thattogether. Well played Ms. Styles. Well played.” He nodded and tossed the usedtowel on the bench top.

If I was I a betting man, I’d havesaid I just moved up from my company’s overlord’s test subject to mySalesperson’s inferred boyfriend. I felt like everyone around me was playing atight chess match while I was struggling with a yo-yo. Since me adding anythingwould have likely been taken wrong by someone, I migrated to the sink andcleaned myself up the best I could. In these situations (not that I’ve evenbeen anything remotely like this) I knew the best plan was to shut up.Unfortunately I know me, rather well in fact, and at some point I was going toinsert foot ‘A’ into mouth ‘B’.

So it was that Karin, me, and myruined shirt went down the rabbit hole. I had no idea what to expect after thispoint but I suspected that there was far more going on than simple guy on guybonding. In the end, I was proven correct.

Headhunters Part Four

2012-01-10T18:34:00.000-05:00

Karin drove me to the Atlantis with the Firebird burblingalong merrily. Partly because of my discovery under the seat earlier added tothe fact that she appeared out of her bedroom looking absolutely devastating Iheld my tongue. I'm not sure if I was leery or intimidated but decided that, ifI was conflicted, my talking could only make things worse.

UnfortunatelyKarin was not on the same page as me in that regard.

"Areyou pouting because I'm not letting you drive?" She asked.

"No.Not at all, this is your car and I don't have those macho issues."

She'd eyedme a bit skeptically but let it pass.

"You'revery quiet now. Aren't you supposed to be tutoring me?"

Actually Idid agree to do that but right now my mind was going in a few differentdirections so I decided on a semi-truth.

"I'mjust going through in my head how this is going to go with Ryche. I still can'tfigure out why he picked me out of everyone in the facility. I hate running onpartial information." I replied while looking out the side window at theadmiring glances we were getting.

"Maybeit's you that needs a bit of tutoring." Karin said.

"Whatdo you mean?" I asked and turned towards her.

"Thinkabout this," She shrugged, "He's certainly not going to call youacross the country to bawl you out or can you. It sounds like even your bosseshave no idea what the hell this is about. You have a reputation that even I'veheard for being a straight shooter that knows his stuff and he wants you toessentially represent the company and present at the Expo, right?"

Of course shewas right on every count but something was still gnawing at me, causing me toask, "Then what does hewant?"

"LookSean, I know we've only known each other for about ten hours so maybe Ishouldn't say anything..." She started and let her words trail off.

"Goahead, say it." I prompted.

"Areyou comfortable with me? I mean, right now, is it like we've only known eachother a handful of hours?" She asked. Now I knew I was on unsteady ground.She definitely had enigmatic qualities but, to be perfectly honest, I did feellike I had a connection to her.

"Sure,I guess."

"Now,I never laid eyes on you before the airport other than a small picture in thecompany brochure. Most of what I knew about you was from word of mouth fromsomeone that-and this is between you and me-doesn't seem to like you much. Butdespite all that and my assumption that you were none too thrilled with meetingup with me out here, we still hit it off pretty well. Wouldn't you agree?"

I thought Icould see where she was going with this so I replied, "Yes."

"Youaren't someone that hits it off with people right away, in general though,right?"

"I canbe prickly, I guess."

"Plusyou were on a trip you didn't want to take, had a crappy flight and lost yourluggage. Don't forget that." She reminded me, adding, "And let's faceit, you weren't exactly pleasant to me, who was trying to be nice."

"I'msorry about that." I replied but she waved her hand dismissively.

"Mypoint is this. I went into what I suspected was a hostile environment and justby being observant and reading the situation was able to gain your respect andtrust in what, ten minutes?"

"So,you think I can do that?" I asked and was slightly offended when she letout a short harsh laugh then covered her mouth.

"I'msorry, that slipped out. Do I think you could do that eventually? Sure. Do Ithink you could get the moves down in the next few hours? That's a differentstory. That's one of the reasons that I'm going with you on this. It's in mybest interest for you to do well, so I'm your backup. You just need to beyourself, be polite, don't let your mouth get ahead of that brain of yours andfor God's sake, have a little confidence." With that she let one hand slipoff the steering wheel and gave my knee a squeeze. "You'll do fine. I haveall the faith in the world in you."

"Youmean us?"

"Thatwas implied."

I let thatset for a while as we drove on then asked, "What did you mean, 'one of the reasons'?"

"Huh?"

"Yousaid 'that's one of the reasons that I'mgoing with you on this'. What are the other reasons?"

"Youmean besides me wanting to look good in front of the boss of all bosses? MaybeI'm a social climber, maybe I'm a show off. Or maybe, just maybe, I find youinteresting."

Since Iwasn't sure if I was being played or not, I held my tongue. The Atlantisappeared on the right and we turned into the garage while I continued collatinginformation.

***

Karin waswaiting for me down at a small trendy bar off a row of blackjack tables while Iwent up to my room to drop off my luggage. The charming woman at the check incounter gave me my keycard, envelop and a folded message that I read on the wayup on the elevator. Handwritten in tight but legible cursive it read; I'm glad to see you have made the trip and Ilook forward to speaking with you this evening. Included are a set ofdirections to my house by Lake Mead. Cordially, Damon Ryche.

I foldedthe piece of paper and placed in my suit coat pocket since I'd likely need thedirections later. I had to admit, I was impressed by this personal touch andhad to grudgingly but silently agree with Karin's earlier assessment. Maybe Iwas over thinking this.

Uponreaching my typical Vegas room - they never seem to have enough light in theseplaces - I squared away my clothes and set up my laptop. Since I had it shutdown completely I had to wait a while for everything to load. I decided thiswas a good time to take a peak at the contents of the eight and a half by eleven manila envelop that the countergirl placed in my hands.

Shaking thecontents onto the fake wood table I took a seat in the ridiculouslyuncomfortable chair and scanned the front page, mostly listing bullet points ofhow honored I was to speak to everyone and be personally chosen for this greatprivilege. It was pure tripe but unless I came up with something better myself,I guessed it would do in a pinch.

Next up wasa report from the Quality Control director listing some of the issues we neededaddressed in the standards committee meeting. Well written, concise andthankfully brief it laid out our concerns decently, even if I knew we had asnowball's chance in hell to get granted any breaks by that bunch of noxiousgasbags. Once again I realized they may have selected the wrong man for thejob. I've met a few of these guys and there wasn't one of them that after tenminutes I didn't consider punching in the face.

The lastitem in the package had the least information but had me reaching for the tinybottle of bourbon in the mini-bar. Despite gunning down the contents of thebottle in a single shot I still couldn't taste it. I felt my hand cover mymouth, not in horror but because this is what I do when I'm processing ahigh-speed curve-ball tossed at my head. The mostly plain white single sheet ofpaper sat next to the pile of presentations and memos. It was a simple andgrainy photocopy of a photo ID, set slightly askew as if it was copied in ahurry. The ID had a date that said it was issued a year and a half ago. Thehair was shorter and the facial features were faded from the copying but lookingup at me with a demur smile was a picture of Lt. Karin Styles, SpecialInvestigator for the Department of Defense.

***

I barelyrecall the elevator ride back down to the casino floor level. Conflicted, confusedbut knowing I still had to hold it together for an important meeting I decidedfor now to keep this information to myself. Maybe I could try something new,like subtly posing indirect question like 'does your uncle wear a red white andblue suit with a top hat?'

Who am Ikidding? My wheels were spinning on ice from lack of information. I was nomental state to be clever.

"Heystranger!" I heard a woman's voice exclaim loudly as I left the elevator,followed by someone grabbing my tie and jerking me sideways. I turned to seethe top of a head with blond hair and dark roots, an iron grip still firmlypulling my neckwear downwards.

"Niceto see you Cass..." I gasped to (who I hoped) was Cassandra Weston, myhyper aggressive and fiery equal at a competing shop in Texas. Despite ourdifferences in approach, persona, size and gender we've always gotten alongwell, or at least well enough to nearly sleep together after cocktails on morethan one occasion. Thankfully we shared one trait in common. We didn't likecomplication. Insert you own ironic statement here in regards to my presentpredicament.

Cass, orCassandra you could call her if you wanted to be doubled over after sherabbit-punched you in the gut, was a serial bride. Fifteen years in thebusiness and four divorces later she only had one true love, the product. Thisis another reason why we meshed in social environments but would murder oneanother in a professional one. Generally we don't play well with others.

Five footone in heels and teased hair she wasn't what one would call beautiful but morebouncy/cute. Her body looked like it was meant for a woman a half foot tallerbut gave her the impression of solid girl next door attractiveness. Heropenness, twinkle in her blue eyes and clever grin frequently had stupid peopletaking this for friendliness, which she was, unless questioned or crossed. Thenshe took on the characteristics of a wolverine with PMS and a toothache. Nogame was too big for her to take down.

ThankfullyI hadn't crossed her. The near strangulation she performed was an act offamiliarity mixed with the possibility that she was once again single and inhigh-heat.

"Whydidn't you email me that you were coming out? I hear you're also one of thestar attractions at the opening. You aren't getting all big-headed on me, areyou Sean?" She asked, finally letting go of my now wrinkled hand paintedsilk tie.

"I wasa last minute call-up to the bullpen. I didn't even know I was coming orspeaking until a half day before."

"Nowonder you look so out of it." Cass noted. All I could think was Lady, you have no idea.

"There'sa lot going on. I've also been called up to Olympus by the big Godhimself." I said, pointing upwards.

"Ouch,called on the mat?"

"Idon't know yet but I don't think so."

"Well,if you survive at least I'll have someone to root for besides the usualsuspects for the opening." She smiled and grabbed my arm, asking,"Where are you off too? Do you have time to buy a gal a drink?"

"I'mon the way to meet our new...salesperson." I replied, having to choose mywords carefully.

"Youboys are hiring? I thought your place was on the ropes."

"Noone was more surprised than me," In more ways than one I might add.

"Salesperson, so a woman?"

"Yup,that's the politically correct term, isn't it?"

"Howthe hell would I know?" She smirked then pressed, "Does this sales person have a name?"

An idea hitme and maybe the well-connected Cassandra could offer some insight. So I asked,"Her name is Karin Styles. Ever hear of her?"

She thoughtfor a minute and I was beginning to suspect she was drawing a blank but shefired back, "Dark hair, dark eyes, killer body but looks like she couldmatch me in a square fight?"

"Soundsclose but I'm not sure about the square fight thing."

"Idon't fight fair so you wouldn't know but the name sounds about right. She wasin our place with another suit about six months ago with some ideas." Sheinformed me with her face showing me she was not impressed, needlesslyclarifying, "I didn't like her."

I couldn'timagine why.

"I'mthe forgiving sort though, this is a social occasion and I'm thirsty as hell soI'll accept your invitation." Shesaid and wrapped her arm under mine, practically pulling me to the casinofloor. Cass had unwittingly supported Karin's claims on one hand but I stillhad the vision of that photocopied ID on the other. Another question was alsopreying on me. Who had loaded thatunsigned tidbit of information in my couriered packet was also a mystery, andone that would likely go unanswered from anyone back home.

My onegreat relief and the person I needed as the bedrock to keep my feet on theground was coming in tomorrow. Though I'd likely be advised against it, Armandwas the one person I could unburden my concerns to. He'd either slap me in theback of the head, telling me to run like hell or would see this as myimagination running away from me. In any case his flight couldn't arrive soonenough.

Snappingback to my present situation I took the lead from Cass. Since this situationwas already pegging the weirdness meter I couldn't see how this likely volatilesocial gathering couldn't get any worse. Once again, I was wrong.

Headhunter Part Three

2011-12-17T20:35:00.000-05:00

"Hey sleeping beauty, it's time to get up." Iheard the soft feminine voice call to me through silk veils and thick fog.

"Comeon Champ, it's three o'clock." The voice said, now more insistent as awarm, dry hand shook my leg.

Withconsiderable effort I managed to pry one eye open and noticed two things. One;Karin Styles was sitting on an ottoman in front of me, holding a cup of coffee.Two; the draft I felt was due to the fact that my robe had slipped open in amost immodest fashion, exposing my reaction to the previously mentioned softalluring voice. How awkward is that? At least now I was wide awake andrepositioned myself more upright while covering myself with the robe better tocover what was also humiliatingly upright.

"I'msorry, I was just having a little dream and I...well, the couch was here and Ijust sat down for a min...but then...the coffee...and this damn robe..."the words came out semi-coherent and tumbling from my mouth in no discernableorder.

"Don'tworry. I didn't peek. Here." She replied calmly and passed me the cup ofcoffee. I took and immediate large sip and either it tasted better or it justwashed the layer on noxious glue away that lined my mouth. Rising from herperch she patted a large black roll-away piece of luggage that lookedsuspiciously like my own, likely because it was.

"I gota call from my pal, Stanley and I grabbed your luggage tag from your coat.Instead of waiting I drove by the airport and picked it up a few minutes afterit arrived, that's why I was late." She explained. Not that I'd known itwas late considering I'd been dozing for...six hours?

"I'vebeen here for a while but I decided to let you sleep since you looked like youneeded it. Do you know you snore like a chainsaw?"

"Imust have missed that." I replied in a gravely voice, trying to hide mymortal embarrassment. After clearing my throat and taking another draw oflife-saving java I suggested, "If you'd like I can catch a cab back to myhotel. I guess I can check in now."

"Don'tworry about that. Let me get ready and we can leave from here, bring you toyour hotel and grab a bit to eat before we meet with Herr Ryche for eight.Sound like a plan to you?"

Actually itdid so I took rose unsteadily and wobbled over to my luggage.

"Youmight want to check your cell phone too. It's been going off every hour. Ialready got a call from your boss asking me if I've seen you and if you werealive. I told him you had travel difficulties and were back at the airport. Ialso said they have crap for cell service there. He seemed to buy it."

"Nicework Ms. Styles." I grinned.

"Alwaysa pleasure Mr. Grace," She replied then pointed out, "Styles andGrace. That rolls out pretty well, doesn't it?"

"Notas good as Grace and Styles."

"Watchit. You're still in a robe and on my turf."

"Stylesand Grace it is."

Since myhair probably looked like...well...it had been slept in, I headed back to thebathroom for a quick re-shower with my own supply of toiletries. Feeling farmore human now that I smelled more familiar I reemerged to find Karin waitingright outside the door, looking irritated with one foot tapping.

"Yes?"

"Ihave to get ready. You scammed the bathroom."

"Ihave to get ready too."

"Good,now get out of the way." She said curtly and pushed me aside. The mysteryof why she didn't share lodgings coming into much clearer focus.

***

As isusually the case I found myself finishing of the coffee, which did taste muchbetter this time, suitably suited and waiting for a woman. Needless to say thisisn't the first time in my life I've had to do this and hopefully won't be thelast. Avoiding the couch lest I slip into another temporary coma I took a seatat the table and explored the only useful purpose for having an overcomplicatedsmart phone, meaning, as a means to kill time.

Since thereis a three hour time difference between Nevada and New Hampshire and becauseit's terribly inconvenient to have an incoming call when driving, I calledTrent back. I knew he was still on his hour long commute home. I am a good man, not a great one.

"Wherethe hell were you?" His irritated voice greeted me and made me smile. Iheard what sounded like one of his audio books being played at volume in thebackground and I hoped he lost his place from my interruption.

"I was on a plane, then I was stuck in the airport, then I was looking for my fucking luggage thatapparently had a better trip than me." I answered with more venom than Itruly felt. I like putting people on the defensive.

"Letme rephrase that. Where the hell are you now? I tried the hotel and they saidyou haven't even checked in yet." He replied after turning down the Dr.Seuss book he was likely listening to.

"Ihaven't checked in yet. That will come shortly. Why are you checking up onme?"

"Didyou miss that part where I asked where you are now?"

"No, Iignored it."

"Haveyou been drinking?"

"Notyet but thanks for the idea. Can you get me a vodka martini please?" Ifeigned like I was asking a waitress, holding the phone away from me.

"Veryfunny," Said the man that just doesn't appreciate my humor. "Did youat least meet up with our salesperson? Tell me you at least got thatright."

"Idid. I'm at her place of residence as we speak and just got out of the shower.She's very nice and quite good looking. I think she likes me."

Deadsilence.

"Relax,Trent. There isn't a sexual harassment suit coming. I'm behaving." Iassured him.

"Great.When are you getting back to the hotel?"

"Afterwe leave here."

"Canyou be a little more specific with your ETA?"

"I'm dependanton her. She's in the shower now, though. Would you like me to rush in there andask for a time estimate? I can tell her it's important if you'd like."

I couldtell I was pushing my limits but I still owed Trent for tossing me under thebus for this trip, even though it did seem to be improving by the minute. Hetried my trick of talking low and slow but since I invented that game, I didn'tfall for it.

"Thereis a couriered package waiting for you at the hotel. It is very important thatyou have that package for the standards meeting. Since you probably haven'taccomplished a damn thing regarding your presentation, I had some people hereput together something." He said in quiet measured tones that weresupposed to be intimidating but came off like he was getting over a shot ofNovocain. "Now if it's not too much trouble do you think you can keep mein the loop?"

"Speakingof loops, did you know that Karin Styles was accompanying me to meetRyche?" I relied hoping to hear him squirm. He was the one that brought uploops after all. To my surprise he seemed as uninformed as I was about that.Even on the phone Trent is a lousy liar so I'd have known.

"Asfar as I know Ryche called for you alone."

"Whodid Ryche talk to?"

"Ourvaliant General Manager. I got the call from Myles an hour before I came intoyour office."

"Whereis Myles?"

"Heand the wife are in Boca for their anniversary. He's left strict orders not to be contacted."

"Sothere's no way to verify who should or shouldn't be going?"

"Heleft me in charge."

"That'scomforting." I quipped, adding before he could fly out his sunroof,"I'll call after I meet with the Emperor, and unless I hear different inthe next twenty minutes, I'm taking Karin with me for this. So far she's themost competent person involved in this train-wreck."

"Thiswas not the plan, Sean."

"Fromwhat I can see there wasn't a plan." I replied, then closed with,"Have yourself a pleasant evening. My phone is almost out of juice. I talkto y..." Then I hung up. I love doing that.

Next up wasa return call to Armand. Since he is probably one of my few and best friends Ifelt badly about taking him away from his wife and three daughters for a coupledays. What I didn't expect was that he jumped on the chance to escape threeteens and a frazzled wife for a three day vacation like a starving man at afree buffet. He said words like 'estrogen attack' and 'peace and quiet'. Idoubted his wife, Monica, was quite as thrilled and I knew she was going togive it to me with both barrels upon my return.

"HeyAmigo!" I said as soon a he answered his home phone, "Are you all setand ready?"

"Thosecheap bastards! I hope you're coming to pick me up at the airport tomorrow.They won't even reimburse me for renting a car!"

As you cansee, we know each other too well to waste time with pleasantries. After acouple minutes of trading abuses and getting caught up on the goings on hereand back home, I cut the conversation short. Karin had emerged from thebathroom with wet hair and dressed marvelously in a towel. For some reason Ilost my chain of thought. Luckily a loud crisis appeared at the Casa de ArmandOliva and we cut the chat short.

"Youdon't talk like an engineer." Karin noted while wiping her hair withanother towel.

"If youwant to know how the production end reallyworks, that's another guy you want to talk to. He'll be arriving tomorrow toreview equipment at the show."

"Nice.I look forward to meeting him. Did you also talk with your boss?"

"Well...talkwith is a bit of a stretch but we communicated. He's not the guy you want to talk to if you want to know how our worldturns."

She smiledat that observation, noting, "You have issues with authority, don'tyou?"

"Isuppose, but I get some leeway because I deliver the goods. How aboutyou?"

"Youhave no idea." She chuckled and headed of too her bedroom to preparefurther. Halfway down the hall she called back to me over her shoulder,"If you'd like, take a look in the garage at my toy. I figured we couldtake that tonight. I'll explain why later."

Since myinterest was piqued and it looked like I had an our to kill I went out thegarage door and flipped on the light, nearly falling over when the row offluorescent bulbs flickered on, illuminating a vision of beauty.

Sittingpoised like a polished panther sat what appeared to be an early seventiesFirebird Formula 400, looking sinister in shining black and offset nicely bythe stark white garage walls. For the second time in one day I suspected I wasvulnerable to falling in love. Obviously there was far more to the womanprimping and preening a few yards away than met the eye.

My ownhobby included working on and renovating a few of these supposedly obsoleteperformance cars so naturally I have a deep appreciation for vintage Detroithunks of metal. This car looked head and shoulders above anything I'd had thepleasure to crawl under however. Before I could stop myself I was at thedriver's side door. Relieved to find it unlocked, I slid down into thedeceptively uncomfortable vinyl bucket seat that I remembered from my youth.After a couple minutes of looking over the immaculate interior I saw Karinleaning in the doorway. Her hair now dried and wearing the same robe I'd usedto unsuccessfully cover myself earlier. Her face wore a mischievous grin.

"So,what do you think of my baby?" She asked.

"Shhh,we're sharing a private moment." I replied as my hand ran over the top ofthe dashboard. "Does she have a name?" I asked.

"It'snot a boat." She remarked.

"No,she's certainly not." I agreed.

"Whatis it with men referring to inanimate objects as 'she'? Why couldn't this carbe male? It's not like it's owned bya man."

There werea few points that I could have argued in regards to that but I'd already gottenthe distinct impression that this was not a woman used to being questioned.Instead I asked, "Where did you find this rig?"

"Itwas my uncle's." She replied, following the theme I'd already heard a fewtimes. Before she could elaborate any further she chuckled and said, "I'llbe ready in about a half hour. I'll leave you two to have some private time fornow."

I mutteredsomething in reply as she shook her head and retreated back to herinner-sanctum. I reached down between my legs and eased the seat back, surprisedwhen me had hit something dense and solid after the seat slid back almost afoot. Feeling around I pulled up a heavy object in and held it up, revealing adeadly and squarish looking automatic pistol in a nylon clamshell holster.

Now I wasconvinced. There was far more to ournew salesperson that met the eye. I put the gun back and put the seat back inits original position. Leaving the car I headed back into the house, decidingto not bring up my discovery.

Headhunter Part Two

2011-12-14T17:22:00.001-05:00

"Yougot lucky. Your bag was sitting at O'Hare. They have another flight coming outher today and your luggage should be back at you hotel sometime tonight."Karin informed me on the way to her car. I was planning on picking up my rentalbut she talked me out of it, assuring me she'd be happy to ferry me around. Aspleasant as this offer was (I really hate the rental line) this woman stillstruck me as way too good to be true.

"Youwere able to get a luggage handler to deliver my bag to the Atlantis?" Iasked with fitting disbelief. I mean, after all, they couldn't be bothered toput my bag on the right plane, and that was right in front of the goofy littletractor wagon train. Now they were going to brave traffic to head to the stripfor little old me?

"Ifspent any more time at that airport they'd name a wing of a terminal after me.Stanley's a good guy and he works nights at the Shangri La. It's right on hisway and he owes me one." She smiled. Once again I was struck by herattractiveness and self-assured manner. How the hell did we manage to landsomeone this competent? I've known her for thirty minutes so far and she seemedto be the most intelligent salesperson we had.

"Well...thankyou." I said awkwardly. "You don't need to do this though. You canjust drop me off a..." I started but she held up a hand and cut me off.

"Enoughof that, okay?" she said forcefully, then adding, "I know you have tobe thinking that this is all just a little too pat...me showing up at theairport and all...but I need something from you as well. This is an exchange offavors."

Ah. Now thetruth comes out. I knew it. She has a thing for older helpless guys in wrinkledclothes.

"No,it's not sexual." She laughed quickly, shooting down a perfectly goodfantasy. I guess I'd have to settle for luggage retrieval, chauffeuring,showering and breakfast. Oh well. We rode in silence for a few more minutes,heading east and out of morning traffic. Soon the class of the neighborhoodsstarted to improve and I caught glimpses of desert.

"Aren'tyou going to ask?" She said, interrupting my sightseeing.

"Aboutthe sex thing?"

"No,about what it is I need you to do for me."

"Is itillegal?"

"Notin the least."

"WillI hate doing it?"

"Thatdepends."

"On?"

"Willyou just ask the damn question?" She laughed and slapped my thigh lightly.

"Alright,I'll bite. What is it you need from me? Bear in mind I'm in a pretty vulnerableposition right now." I replied and turned towards her.

"Areyou going to be serious now?" She asked and looked at me from the cornerof her eye.

"I canbe for short stretches," I assured her. "So shoot."

"Wordis that you're a sharp guy, not the most politically savvy player in theworld..."

"That'san understatement."

"...butI also hear that you know your stuff. I need you to get me up to speed on theproduct and...uhm...one other thing." She said then bit her bottom lip. Icouldn't help but hike an eyebrow in curiosity, asking "And?"

"Ineed...no...I'd like...you to treatme like you're confident in my abilities when we meet Damon Rychetonight." She said then added quickly, "I know that sounds odd butI'm still the newbie and I think it would help us put on a good show. You know,for the big boss."

In truth Ihad no reason thus far to question her abilities, other than the fact that Idon't know if she ever sold anything, but I still had one other point from herstatement stuck in my head.

"When we meet Ryche?" I asked.

"Nobodytold you?"

"Toldme what?"

"ThatI was your escort tonight." She said and flushed adorably.

"No,you can add that to the list of things I didn't know." I admitted,wondering if Trent left this little detail out on purpose. Was I set up like abowling pin or what? I must have been stewing about Trent's incompetence for amoment too long because she asked me sounding insecure, "Is this aproblem?"

"Thisis not a problem. From everything I've seen so far you are confident,personable and intelligent. I see no reason to question your competence."

"That'svery nice, and I thank you, but that wasn't the entire question."

"Mylowly status could only be enhanced by a factor of about a thousand with youaccompanying me." I nodded then asked, "Feel better now?"

"You'renot just saying that because I rescued you?"

"Whywould you even question me?"

"Doyou always answer a question with a question?"

"Why,are you keeping score?"

"Always."She smiled and nodded then glanced over at me and wrinkled her faceunpleasantly, "But we need to do something about your clothes. You may befine with that tweedy old fogey mess but there is no way I can be seen with youin that outfit."

"Plus,I stink."

"I wastrying to be nice, but yes. Can you roll your window down a little?" Shelaughed heartily while I powered down the window halfway.

The lastten minutes or so of the ride were more relaxed with me giving her some trivialinsight on the goings-on back at home base. She was attentive and seemed toappreciate my narrative, even asking a question or two at the right time. I waspleased to see that my mouth had finally caught up with my brain and wasfeeling pretty good. Then it hit me. I still had an opening presentation speechto give. Oops. I hope the big boss wasn't planning on checking my homeworktonight.

Before Icould let her know that I was already under the gun, she'd piloted her largeplain domestic sedan onto the cement driveway of a small ranch-style home.There was no lawn to speak of in the tiny yard but it was tastefully decoratedwith sprinklings of tough southwest fauna. The place wasn't overwhelming but itdid look like a nice, tidy, low maintenance place to live. I noticed we didn'tpull into the single car garage despite the oppressive dry heat and anotherrevelation hit me.

"Niceplace." I remarked. "There isn't a Mr. Styles waiting in there with ashotgun though, is there?"

"Youcouldn't think of a single better way to ask that question?" She asked andturned off the cars motor and opened her door.

"Inall honesty I just thought of it." I replied as I got out of the car andwas nearly overwhelmed by the pressing heat. "I just figured you'd havepulled into the garage."

"Youlook like you're ready to melt and it's barely even April. Get inside beforeyou spontaneously combust." She replied and hurried towards a thick oakdoor and unlocked three separate mechanisms and punched in a code into akeypad. I hadn't seen that much door security since I dated a girl with anapartment in a seedy section of Boston. I also noted my question wentunanswered so I walked to the door and prepared to duck.

We walkedinto a small foyer area and I was instantly relieved by a blast of cool air.The tiled floor of the foyer dropped down on one side to a living room with adining area/kitchen straight ahead. The place had a vague southwesterdecorating touch but for the most part was wide open and relatively sparse. Thefurniture was simple contemporary but there were few pictures hanging on thewall. Were it not a house I could have thought I was in a medium priced hotelsuite.

"Thisis my uncle's place." She explained immediately. Since I deal with thesouthwest territory he lets me use the place while he's in his otherhouses."

"Houses?"I asked. "How loaded is this guy?"

"Loadedenough. He's who I was working for as a consultant before I hooked up withElectronic Systems."

"Andhe still let's you use the place?"

"We'reall one big happy family." She said with what sounded like a touch ofdistain then point to the right, informing me, "The bathroom is the firstdoor on the left if you'd like to freshen up. I'll make us some coffee if you'dlike."

"I'dlike." I nodded but remembered, "I still stink though."

"Thentake a shower too. My uncle should have a robe somewhere around here that youcan use. All the right stuff is in the bathroom. Don't use the razor thoughunless you want matching gouges on your face."

Thatanswered the question of there being another male occupant here, and rathersubtly I might add.

"I'llgo for the young guy stubbly look." I said and rubbed my roughening chinand headed to the bathroom. To her credit she didn't laugh.

***

Mysuspicions were confirmed when I entered the meticulously clean and equallysparse bathroom. A single toothbrush stood alone in a plastic container and aquick perusal of the medicine cabinet - what can I say? I'm nosy - showed anexpanse with one shelf half filled with the bare essentials for a woman. KarinStyles obviously hadn't made this into a home. Not entirely surprising for awell-travelled salesperson but it still struck me as being a touch odd.

I lingeredin the shower longer than usual and was shaken from my hot water soaked massagewhen I heard a gentle knock on the door and an announcement.

"I putthe robe on the doorknob and grabbed your clothes. I'll toss them in thelaundry for you. Coffee is made and breakfast will be on the table. Makeyourself at home. I just have to shoot out for a bit but I should be back in anhour or so." Karin said then quietly closed the door behind her. I peekedout and saw my pile of clothes had disappeared and a fluffy white robe was hungon the doorknob, as she said. A towel, which I had stupidly forgotten about,was also sitting neatly on the vanity, still folded.

I lingeredin the shower enjoying the soak for a few more minutes and stepped out onto theplain white bathmat. After drying myself I took the opportunity to do the oldone-night stand dental procedure, using her toothpaste and my index finger toapproximate some form of dental hygiene.

Paddingbarefoot out of the steamy bathroom the wonderful smell of fresh brewed coffeehit my nose. Walking into the dining nook I spotted a plate covering anotherplate. Lifting it revealed still warm scrambled eggs and buttered toast. Firstthings first, however and I filled the clean cup in front of the drip coffeemaker almost to the brim, proffering my bean juice black. The coffee was atouch bitter with a saccharin aftertaste but that could have been because theunit looked like it had never been used before, either that or she cleaned itwith bleach on occasion. Considering the operating theater cleanliness of theplace I wouldn't have been surprised.

Still, I'vehad far worse coffee and I found I was now hungry. In fact I was ravenous andcleaned the plate in minutes. Since I'm a gentleman, or at least know how toact the part, I cleaned my dishes and fork, setting it in the drying rack thatalready held the frying pan, spatula and butter knife. Ms. Styles wasdefinitely a fastidious and squared away housekeeper. I wonder if she'd like totry to straighten out my place someday.

Whoa,Grace. Let's not get ahead of ourselves I chided myself, sipping away at mymediocre coffee.

I thoughtof snooping more but noticed my legs seemed to be sore and fatigued. Thecontemporary sofa that looked so rigid a puritan before now looked inviting. Itook a seat and leaned back, making sure to rest my coffee mug on a coaster. Mylegs agreed with this position as, now cleaned, brushed and fed, felt mymuscles all relaxing the same time.

Headhunter

2011-12-11T19:58:00.001-05:00

I guess it's like the paradox of time-travel. You heard thestory, everyone has. Somehow a clueless dope either creates or gets access to atime machine. They go back in time, accidently step on some kind of prehistoricbug then they go back to the present and discover everyone else has a third armgrowing out of their head or something. I'm not a science fiction writer and Idon't even play one on TV but you get the general gist. Sometimes little thingscan change thing much bigger in size and scope than you ever thought possible.

ThisTuesday was one of those days, with me playing the role of squashed bug.

As far asdays go I'll take a Monday over a Tuesday anytime. At least Monday's give youthe advantage of being muddled and out of phase, making the day pass slightlyquicker. Tuesdays are always, in my experience, the more traditionallydisastrous day of the week. My immediate boss, a nearly likable gasbag namedTrent Hauser, entered my messy office and proved my point immediately. InTrent's case this is called playing to one's strengths.

"Areyou all set for your trip?" Trent asks after taking a seat in front of mydesk and eyeing the messy stacks of papers that clutter my office withirritation. Trent is a very neat person, likely because he doesn't have to domuch.

"Mytrip to Atlanta isn't until next month. But yes, my flight, hotel and rentalare booked." I reply and lean back in my chair.

"I'mtalking about your trip to Vegas."

"Whattrip to Vegas?"

"Forthe expo. Don't you ever read your emails?" He sighed and shook his head.I leaned forward and clicked the mouse, opening my email browser but nothingwas unopened.

"Oh,maybe I didn't send it." He said with embarrassment and flushed slightly,recovering by informing me, "We need you to put up the company flag for usat the Expo and give a presentation speech for the opening ceremony. Plusyou'll need to sit in for the standards council meeting."

I have astandard look for announcements like this. I let my reading glasses sit on theedge of my nose, drop my head and let my eyebrows drop as I look through Trentlike I'm a hungry wolf and he's fresh hamburger. Trent is also something of awimp and I enjoy making him squirm but on this occasion he matched my look withdisinterested boredom.

"TheExpo starts Thursday." I informed him in a low tone.

"Weneed you there Wednesday."

"Butit starts Thursday." I repeatedin case his brain had accidently rebooted.

"You'remeeting with some of the corporate people before the Expo. It's a team buildingexercise or something. You'll like it, there will probably be drinks."

"I'mparticular who I drink with, I exercise on my own and what corporate people?" I asked with irritation creeping intomy voice while my brain spun to try to process this new and unpleasantinformation.

"You'renot particular who you drink with, you're anti-social." Trent said andpointed at me, continuing with, "And the corporate people is Damon Ryche."

"Thata person, not a people." I correct him but he was having none of my attitude.My heart did manage to skip a beat, however, at the image of our corporate overlord,sitting there in the desert like a big hairy spider waiting for a little flylike me to come to him.

"It'sa person that specifically asked foryou to come out. You might want to brush up on your social skillsbeforehand." Trent said and produced a cruel grin. I felt Mr. Hand turninto Mr. Fist but kept it concealed behind the desk. If I was going to hit himit would be while he was looking away. This way I can blame the concussion onhis clumsiness. I probably should have hit him because then he sprung more goodnews on me.

"You'renot going alone. We're having the new salesperson join you. You only have tomake your own flight reservation, though. She'll meet you at the hotel. You'restaying at the Atlantis. Not too shabby as far as digs go. They have anaquarium." He informed me like I gave a shit about marine life.

I gave myhead a quick shake then asked, "What new salesperson?" I have lessinteraction with the company's sales force than I do the cleaning service thatcomes in during the wee hours to polish the shop floors.

"She'sbeen on the road with Hendricks. You haven't met her yet. Karin Styles. She waswith one of our rep firms and we hired her last week."

Right now Icould feel myself at the limit of tolerance. Not only did I have this stupidtrip sprung on me at the last minute but I also had to make two publicappearances and a couple events which, were I in a normal attendee's position,I'd blow off and hang out in a bar. Now I have to wet-nurse some saleswomanfresh off the boat? This was getting better by the minute.

"Whyis one of our valiant sales crew going out to this, anyway?" I saidthrough clenched teeth, leaning forward and pressing, "If I remember thisright, these things are just a way for a bunch of clowns to get together and schmoozewhile looking at new equipment for a day so you can get a free meal. What thehell is she going to do, sell cleaning products door to door?"

"Oh,that's the other thing. We have a list of some new equipment we need quotesfor. Print out that capital project wish-list you have and give it to JeffReynolds. He's flying out a day later to get the pricing and squeeze a fewvendors. Purchasing is handling their flight and lodging." He said likethis was good news.

The linehad officially been crossed. Jeff Reynolds wasn't a bad guy, per se, but I'vehad salads that could negotiate a better deal and evaluate capacities. Slowly Irose from my seat and gently closed the door for my office. Cracking my neck Iresumed my seat and folded my hands together on my desk, like I was about tosay a quick prayer before commenting a homicide. Trent knew I was about to blowand was suitably nervous. It got worse when I talked in a quiet and slow voice,a sure sign that my internal gasket was about to have a critical failure.

"Ignoringthe fact that my list has been shot down for two years running and that wedon't have enough incoming funds to work a full five week month," I started,speaking in a slow, quiet and even tone, pausing while the pager erupted forthe Human Resources person to call an extension before continuing, "Nowyou're telling me that you're going to send out a guy that can barely operatethe soda machine to go over complicated equipment? I don't think so Trent. SendArmand instead. You'll look like a friggin' genius for doing it. Savvy?"

"Jeffis Armand's boss. Armand isn't a manager."

"You'remy boss and you're sending me,remember? I'm not going to have time to figure ROI's and haggle pricing whenJeff has a brain cramp. If you want this done right, send Armand." I saidand crossed my arms. We had a silent staring contest for a few tense secondsbefore he nodded in agreement.

"Fine."He sighed. "If you taking your buddy with you to Vegas keeps you fromwhining about this being dumped on you then I'll go along. But you have to break it to Armand and toJeff. I have to get going." He said and rose from his seat, reaching forthe door handle but freezing when I called out to him.

"Trent?"I asked, causing him to turn. "Why the hell would Ryche ask for me?"

"Ididn't ask. You do it when you meet him." He replied then surprised mewhen he commented, "Watch your ass out there, Sean. This guy doesn't hitthe can without an ulterior motive."

On thatnote he left, leaving me to scramble making travel and accommodationsarrangements without reflecting on what he might have meant. It turned out tobe the first thing I did wrong, but not the last.

***

Flying ingeneral is not an enjoyable experience for me. It's not like I actually despisemy fellow man but I definitely don't want to be wedged between a chattygrandmother with eleven hundred photos of her ugly grandchildren on one sideand a snoring flatulent human whale on the other. Call me picky if you will,but experience has led me to this undesirable location on more than oneoccasion.

Now factorin being up for twenty eight hours straight and coming into the searing Nevadaheat at eight in the morning after a bargain airline red-eye flight from helland you can add another dimension to my displeasure. Needless to say I was notin the best of moods when I trudged through the terminal, knowing that check-intime for my hotel room was still a good six hours away. That left me with onequarter of a day to figure out how to wire Trent's cars back up lights to hisgas tank without him noticing. I smiled at the thought of the Ryche ElectronicSystems parking lot at home decorated with tiny flaming chunks of my boss.

I lookedaway at the reflection of me on the wall mounted decorative glass, horrifiedthat I actually looked worse than I felt. Under normal circumstances I don'tthink I'm a particularly unattractive guy. Sure, I could stand to lose aboutten pounds and my hair has that salt and pepper thing going on and isn't thatsolid light brown color anymore. But considering I was at the dawn of middleage I thought I've held up pretty well. I mean, I still had a full head ofhair, all my teeth and my liver, despite the warnings of my physician, stillprocessed whiskey just fine. But right now I looked like I was run through therickety jet's turbine and was stumbling along like I'd just finished off a boxof fresh wine.

Before Idropped or was picked up by the local cops for vagrancy I took a seat in one ofthose cement filled benches by the luggage carousel. Reaching into my pocket Ipulled out my cell phone and turned it one. An icon popped up telling me thatI'd missed three calls. Rather than listen to the voice mails I scanned throughmy missed call, spotting Armand's number first, likely to yell at me again forroping him into this charade, and two others an hour apart from a number Ididn't recognize.

"Gettingall caught up?" I heard a female's voice say, stirring me from my daze. Ilooked up to see a very attractive dark haired woman dressed casually in jeans,cowboy boots and a cotton shirt looking down at me and smiling.

"Idon't know if I'll ever get caught up." I grunted then looked over at thecarousel, noticing the first trickle of bags tumbling down the conveyor ramp.Since my bag is generally one of the last to get off loaded I figured I hadanother ten minutes or so of rest, but the woman didn't seem interested inleaving me to wallow in my misery.

"Youlook like a guy that doesn't want to be here and just came off a roughride." She chuckled. I couldn't help but notice a little mischievoussparkle that lit up her in her dark eyes when she laughed. Were I not in such afoul mood and looked like I'd just been run over by a street sweeper I'd haveoffered to buy this woman a drink.

But rightnow I had my own problems, plus I wasn't exactly feeling cordial. I flippedopen my phone again and asked her to excuse me by holding up one finger as Iturned ninety degrees. I figured one of the unknown numbers was thesalespersons and I wanted to get this nitwit squared away while I was in a badenough mood to give the wrong impression. After listening to the ringing in myright ear I noticed the woman's phone was trilling away in my left. Finally myfrazzled brain made the connection. Rather than answering she kept thatadorable smile on her face and held her phone forward. After another ring Inumbly flipped my phone closed.

"SeanGrace?" She asked, with one hand on her hip. I nodded slowly as she heldout her hand which I took, finding it warm, dry and strong. "I'm KarinStyles. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"I'mugh...well I...sorry about..." I stammered before she pulled her hand awayand held it up.

"Noneed to explain," She shrugged. "You've had a long day already andyou look like a guy that can use a shower, cup of coffee and maybe a coupleeggs."

I wasinstantly feeling bad about my negative feelings for her before our oddly timedmeeting. But since my brain was operating at half speed I decided the best wayto proceed was to say as little as possible. The fact that she was also farmore attractive than I thought possible was also, I admit, a bit intimidating.To get things back on the right track I figured the best thing to do would beto present a professional demeanor. That worked for almost a quarter of asecond before I rose too quickly, wobbled on my feet and dropped my laptop bagtowards sudden deceleration trauma on the terminal floor. With cat-likereflexes she caught the bag an inch from impact.

"Whoops,steady there big guy." She smiled and slung the bag over her own shoulderrather than trust me with it. I should have been offended but I was too stunnedby her amazing reaction time. Plus I was winded. Pride and presentation take adefinite hit when you're rumpled, saggy eyed and smell bad.

We bothstood around the luggage carousel for another fifteen minutes or so. She waspleasant and charming, making the occasional statement and trying to engage mein conversation. I tried to keep up but my every response seemed to beunrelated or timed a half-beat off. Were we both in a bar and chatting I'd sayI was managing to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. In other words, I wasbombing, badly.

My mood wasnot brightened either when I saw the last bag on the carousel being takenaway-and it wasn't mine. I turned quickly trying to find who I needed to screamat when I felt a small hand exert gentle pressure on my upper arm.

"Tellyou what," Karin suggested gently but firmly, "You give me yourluggage claim tag, go hit the bathroom, take a few deep breaths and splash somewater in your face. I travel through here quite a bit and I know some people.I'll meet you at that exit in ten minutes. Okay?" She concluded andpointed at the glass sliding doors.

Since aboutten things wanted to come out of my mouth at once and none of them would havesounded good, I forced a grin and passed her the luggage stub. Without sayinganything she pivoted neatly and hurried off to my right. My blossomingirritation now partly subsided and finding myself temporarily awake again I hadto admit to my self, grudgingly, that I did in fact need to use the bathroom.

I'm notsure how badly this would have gone thus far without my surprise guardian angelbut my senses were still tingling with trepidation. Deciding I wouldn't bedoing anyone any good by standing her fuming and wetting myself I dutifullyheaded towards the waiting men's room.

Burned Prophecy Prologue

2011-12-04T08:49:00.002-05:00

Prologue

Ten miles north of the Virgin Islands: One year ago.

Despite its control surfaces being entirely connected by electronics the chartered mini-sub was still much more sluggish in its reaction to inputs than when it was in the colder northern Atlantic. Trevor Gray had received his initial apprenticeship in the operations of the Anglerfish deep sea exploration vessel just off the damp windswept coast of Portland Maine. But so far, nearly 600 meters down hovering over the Puerto Rico trench the expensive vehicle was behaving like a completely different machine.

One more day. The words reverberated inside Trevor’s head. He fought back the gut-clenching feel of urgency that the abbreviated search schedule focused on reaching the limits of yesterdays search grid. He’d used his forceful and persuasive nature to get the cautious Captain Rodriguez to agree to the Anglerfish’s launch in the first place. Once that hurdle was cleared he thought he was home free, getting the crew ready at the crane despite the impending gale. What he didn’t expect was to come face to face with Kira Petrov and her stern gaze cutting through him, stopping him on the deck before he could reach the ladder that allowed the crew to board the shining pride of the Portland Oceanographic Institute.

“This is foolish. Cancel the dive.” She said firmly, one hand on his chest stopping him.

“I didn’t know you were so concerned for my well-being, Kira. Maybe when I get back you can meet me for dinner and help me celebrate the success of my findings.”

Kira’s eyebrow hiked up, noticing that the words ‘our’ were conspicuous in their absence. Trevor was not the sharing sort.

“This is assuming you will be back for dinner, or any other meal for that matter.” Kira warned further in her subtle Baltic accent. “Have you not noticed the direction of the winds? Once again your ego is driving your decisions. I know you have invested heavily in this but three deaths will hardly be worth the costs either.”

“Is this more Siberian prophecy?” Trevor snapped finally, pushing her hand aside and grabbing the ladder’s handrail.

“It is common sense, unfortunately that is a trait that appears to elude you…as usual.” Kira commented sourly as he climbed the steep metal steps, getting off one final warning before he boarded, “If not for yourself, think of what this will do to your brother!”

Trevor shot her an icy glare in reply, slamming the port closed after climbing inside the sub. He never should have told her about Jimmie. She seemed more interested in his recluse brother than him for some reason. Odd considering she’d never met him but odd was the least of Kira’s personality quirks.

Trevor shook his head to clear the aggravating exchange from his mind, turning his attention to the bank of controls and the soggy feeling control yoke as the Anglerfish moved towards the beacon that marked the edge of yesterday’s gridded search pattern.

"Seeker" Trevor heard Hank Reed, the communications operator seated behind him calling up to the tender ship Minotaur, using the pre-set call sign, "...We are proceeding to last mark. Set the time and date gentlemen and keep your fingers crossed."

"Acknowledged Scope" The clear response came back to the Anglerfish, "...Happy hunting, but don't dawdle down there. The wind is picking up already and the radar map is not painting a pretty picture."

The Anglerfish turned on its several million candlepower searchlight, scanning the barren sea floor. Oxygen levels were at forty five percent on board leaving the three man crew less than seven minutes of search time at the extreme depths before they'd be forced to make their slow assent back to the waiting Minotaur tender ship.

"I've got nothing here," Hank Reed noted, reading the methane gas meter that scanned the sea floor, asking Trevor Gray, "Are you sure this is where the gas trail came from?"

"If I knew that for sure we wouldn't have had to lease this tub." Trevor answered curtly. He'd been on edge for the last half hour, his eyes straining and rewarding him with a pounding headache.

Tilting the joystick rudder control slightly he turned the Anglerfish ten degrees east, gritting his teeth when the grating voice of Tom Keating burst through his headset.

"What the hell are you doing? This isn't on the charted grid!" He bellowed knowing full well that a mere whisper would carry the sound through the comm. gear.

"The grid is dry. Let me worry about the course. You just keep an eye on our battery levels." Trevor barked back, catching Hank's wince at the high-volume exchange between the pilot and the Anglerfish's technician and caretaker.

"This isn't your toy to joyride in, Gray. Even if you do find your precious white rock it won't be enough to recoup the cost of this vessel." He replied needlessly. Truth was the cost would be irrelevant since they'd all be crushed to the size of a walnut at this depth Trevor thought but didn't say.

The 'precious white rock' was in fact better known by its scientific designation as methane clathrate, also called 'Fire Ice' for its white cold exterior and flammable properties. Trevor had been searching for the vast pocket of valuable alternative fuel for the past ten years, finally scraping enough grant money up for this one-shot gamble and using up the remaining family fortune as well.

Oh well, he reckoned. His younger brother had always managed to make it on his own. Still, a twinge of guilt invaded his mind before being pushed away by Hank's words.

"I have a blip!" Hank shouted, now causing the sparring crew to cringe as they turned down their headset volume. "You must be one lucky sumbitch today, Trev! I have a ten percent jump for methane levels."

"Holding course and setting speed for three knots." Trevor fired back, barely containing his excitement.

"Back off. We're coming up on the Puerto Rico trench, hotshot." Keating warned. "You aren't ready to navigate that beast."

"We're not navigating it. We're doing a fly over."

"You shouldn't even be doing that. Something is wrong out there. Didn't you notice we haven’t seen so much as a squid in the past fifteen minutes?"

"Back off the superstitious crap, Tom."

"Up yours, Gray. That superstitious crap is why I've come back from over two hundred deep dives. You'll be lucky if you survive ten."

"Gas count is at twenty percent and rising fast!" Hank said excitedly, interrupting the sparring yet again.

Trevor swiveled the spotlight and found a thick steam of methane laden bubbles rising upwards. The unmistakable bright blue/white shelf of fire ice reflected the high-powered beam, nearly blinding him.

"Stay out of that damn gas rise," Keating barked at him, "I'm at fifty percent power just maintaining buoyancy!"

Trevor ignored him while switching the radio channel back to the Minotaur comm link.

"Seeker this is Scope. I've found what looks like the upper shelf deposit. Can you mark our position?" He said and redirected the spotlight downwards.

"Negative, Scope. The chop up here is tossing us all over the place. Is there somewhere you can set a beacon?" The static filled voice said in reply.

"Affirmative. I have a sedentary outcropping ten degrees to the right of the formation. Turning on signal now. Verify you have a read, Seeker."

Trevor flicked on a bank of switches activating the signal head of the probe attached to the side of the mini-sub. Hank looked back and nodded at him with a grin, giving a thumb's up sign.

"It's good on our end Trev. You ready for launch?" Hank asked.

"Hold for confirmation, Scope." The voice from above erupted in his headset.

"We have less than three minutes before we hit the point of no return and we end up breathing our own bad breath." Keating confirmed. "Hurry it up so we can get the hell out of here. It'll be bad enough hooking up with the tender from the sound of the storm they're in!"

"Shut up you idiot. We don't move until the location is marked." Trevor said under his breath through gritted teeth.

"You're clear, Scope. We've acquired signal and have a positive lock." The excited voice from the Minotaur confirmed.

"Probe is charged and ready to deploy." Hank replied.

"You watch where you point that damn thing." Keating warned. "That shit looks unstable as hell."

"That shit will pay for this expedition and keep you in cheap beer and bad cigars for life." Trevor replied. "I'm moving in closer so we can catch the far ridge."

"Hold position! We'll be too close to the flow!" Keating shouted but Trevor had already tilted the joystick forward, kicking in the primary rear propulsion drives.

The sub shot forward with Trevor concentrating on the projected red targeting image that appeared on the glass bubble in front of him. His finger was poised on the red trigger switch mounted atop the joystick. He could feel a cold bead of sweat work its way down his spine. As soon as the grey rock shelf came into view he depressed the launch trigger.

The Anglerfish suddenly lurched sideways as a food of bubbles appeared all around them, jigging his aim at the final second before the armed probe launched in a sickening arc instead of the intended straight ahead trajectory.

"Motor's are at eighty percent. We're losing her gentlemen." Keating said in an oddly calm voice as the sub lurched downwards into the black abyss.

The last thing Trevor saw before twenty million dollars worth of experimental equipment disappeared was the probe, really little more than a thick harpoon mounted to the front of a small torpedo, as it collided with a thick deposit of the solid methane formation. The impact caused a large chunk of the structure to break free, drifting upwards in a now solid flow of compressed gas.

"You arrogant prick! You've killed us all!" Keating yelled then switched to the emergency channel on his own communications bank.

"Scope this is Scope, we have an emergency situation here. Evacuate the area immediately. Repeat, evacuate the area immediately. Methane release will hit you in approximately…" was all he was able to say before a spider web spread across the glass viewing window. Hank screamed first as his hand clenched the side of his head in a vain attempt to counter the immense pressure of the collapsing hull.

"Did you get a read on that?" Captain Rodriguez asked Harold Jacobs who looked up at him from the communications center with a face that was bleached white.

"Sir, we've lost contact with the Anglerfish." He replied in a voice barely above a whisper.

"The last transmission…did you get a read on that?" Rodriguez asked loudly, grabbing the technician by both shoulders and shaking him.

Jacobs reached over and channeled the last transmission from the Anglerfish through the room's four speakers. Tom Keating unmistakable voice bellowed throughout the communications center before Rodriguez pulled the paralyzed radio operator back from the equipment. His fist rammed down on the intercom button that game him a direct line to the helm.

"Engage thrusters to starboard and bring us to full power! Did you hear me Clark? Get us the hell out of here right now!"

"Sir that will turn us away from the gale..." The nervous voice of Clark Winthrop replied.

"We don't have time to fight the storm! We're going to have to run with it!" Rodriquez commanded, hoping the driving wind and rain would provide the Minotaur with an extra knot or two of speed, even if it was a violation of every known nautical principal.

Rodriguez ran through the narrow gangways to the bridge, yelling instructions loud enough to be heard over the blaring warning klaxons and the creaking sounds from the hull of the Minotaur as the maneuvering thrusters screamed. He banged against the sides of the doorway upon entering the bridge, the ship leaning at an alarming angle as it fought the twenty foot swells that pounded the side of the hull.

"Captain's on the bridge." First mate Harold Jacobs announced, sounding a little more than relieved Rodriguez noted. Wes Parkins, chief navigator looked over at Rodriguez as he took position behind the bank of computer monitors that acted as the Minotaur's operational status display.

"What are we running from, Sir?" Wes asked, preferring to use the formal 'sir' even though he and Rodriguez had known each other and served for over twenty years.

"Drowning, Wes," Rodriguez said plainly before shaking his head, realizing his old friend deserved more of an explanation, "Scope somehow managed to release a gas charge when they set the beacon. Get on the look down radar and see if the methane burst is on screen yet."

Wes ignored the blaring warnings and ominous hull noise to focus on the green screen for the downward facing radar array, asking over his shoulder, "Have we had any contact from the sub after the release?"

"Negative. If we get out of this we'll be reporting to Portland Oceanographic that the Anglerfish and all hands were lost."

"No chance for rescue or recovery?"

Rodriguez shook his head while looking down at the floor. "They went down the Puerto Rico trench. No DSRV can make that depth and there wouldn't be much to bring back up if they could."

"That's a little cold, Captain."

"It doesn't mean it isn't true. We have seventy four other people we have to worry about now." Rodriguez shot back. "Scan the radar back to Anglerfish's last known position. Give me distance readings and ETA of the gas stream."

"ETA for burst is four minutes, thirty seconds. Burst span estimated to cover ten square miles." Wes replied, trying to push the image of the crushed Anglerfish and its crew from his mind.

"Can you give me an estimate of our positioning in the burst?"

"Nothing definite, Sir."

"Damnit, just guess then."

Wes took a deep breath and pulled out a small calculator from a shelf beside the comm table. After furiously punching in a series of numbers he looked up at Rodriguez.

"I'd say we're two miles from the center of the burst. If the starboard move was a gamble on your part it looks like you picked the right side of the coin." He noted.

"Estimated time to clear the danger area?" Rodriguez asked, ignoring the comment.

Wes punched in another set of calculations, closed his eyes and let out a slow sigh. "Five minutes and twenty seconds, Sir, at top speed."

"Speed readout. What are we at Mr. Winthrop?"

"Ten knots is the most I can get out of her in this chop, Sir."

"Close, but not impossible." Rodriguez said under his breath.

"Do you want me to sound the alarm to abandon ship, Sir?" Winthrop asked.

"Negative. If that gas burst hits the lifeboats will sink even faster than us."

"Prepare the chopper for immediate evac?"

"We can barely keep that bird stuck to the deck as it is. She'll ditch into the drink as soon as she clears the pad. We're all in this together now, Harry."

The men on the bridge didn't speak for a few minutes. Harold Winthrop kept his eyes glued to the speed readout and global positioning location while Wes Parkins scanned the giant cloud of flammable gas that was hurtling towards them. This left Captain Chris Rodriguez alone with his thoughts as the seconds ticked by on the large old-style clock mounted over the side port hole.

They'd all seen the demonstration given at the Portland Oceanographic Institute before shipping out. Set off in a sterile laboratory a wooden mock-up of a medium sized yacht bobbed atop the water that half filled a large Plexiglas tank. One of the Institute's technicians went behind the tank and opened a knife valve, filling the tank with enough methane bubbles to make it look like a shaken bottle of tonic water. Despite the model being constructed of lightweight and very buoyant pine the mock-up sank to the bottom of the tank within seconds.

"If you want to know the most likely explanation for ships and planes disappearances' in the triangle, this is it." The technician said grimly. "Boats can't float in methane and planes can't fly in it. If the damn sea floor of the area wasn't so deep we'd probably find a collection of planes and ships with no holes in the hull or any other damage other than that inflicted by pressure."

The Minotaur was constructed of thick, very non-buoyant steel and back-heavy as hell with a ten ton retrieval crane on its rear deck. This ship wouldn't just sink; she'd plummet to the bottom Rodriguez thought as his mouth went bone-dry.

"Wes, get out a call to the Coast Guard and let them know of our situation." Rodriguez said as he licked his lips, knowing he didn't even have time to prepare a cup of coffee. "Then send word out to St. Thomas. Let them know they may have a tsunami hitting them within a half hour."

Captain Rodriguez finished his conversation with the Coast Guard and turned when the door to the bridge blew open, letting in a blast of cold ocean spray. He hurried over to secure the port as soon as the dark haired woman entered the room.

"Ma'am, can you please wait with the rest of your associates? We have a situation here." He said with forced calm.

"I'm aware of our plight Captain and I assure you, I am not here in a panicked state. I've seen this situation before." Kira said evenly as she grabbed a small hand towel and brushed back her hair.

Rodriguez took a few seconds to appraise the cool and collected Russian technician, wondering briefly how she seemed almost placid despite their predicament.

"I can give you ten second Ms..."

"Petrov...Kira Petrov."

"...Ms. Petrov. What can you tell me from your experience?"

"I need to ask. How far are we from the epicenter?"

Rodriguez looked over at Wes Parkins and nodded. "We're three miles and counting." He answered.

"You are running at full speed I assume?"

"You assume correctly ma'am."

"The overall size of the release is what?"

"Ten miles square, it'll be close."

"Time to impact?"

"Just over one minute." Rodriguez answered for Wes then asked. "What exactly is it you can tell me Ms. Petrov?"

"In thirty seconds I recommend you cut all power to the drive motors."

Rodriguez and Parkins stared at each other in shock before Rodriguez broke from his stupor and turned towards the woman standing firmly on the bridge.

"You want us to do what?" He asked incredulously.

"Once the burst hits all forward motion will cease. The propellers for this ship will then create further cavitations' causing the back of the vessel to settle suddenly. Rather than saving us, trying to power out will only cause the Minotaur to sink more quickly." Kira explained calmly then looked at the clock on the wall, noting, "Twenty seconds, Captain."

"How can you possibly know this?" Parkins asked loudly in near panic.

"Will we clear the projected burst area in time even if we were at top speed?" She asked, irritating him by turning a question back on him.

"No, but..."

"You have to trust me on this Captain. I do not want to die and neither does anyone else on board." Kira replied then looked at the clock and back at the Captain. "There is only ten seconds left to allow time for the propellers rotation to stop and forty seconds before the burst hits. Tell me. What do you have to lose?"

"It's too big a risk."

"It's physics of gaseous hydrodynamics. You need to trust me on this. We will not capsize. Already the swells are being suppressed, displaced by the rising methane."

Rodriguez looked out the front view plane and noted the eerie calm that appeared to have settled over the water. He turned towards Parkins who shook his head.

"Mr. Winthrop. Cut power immediately to both screws and maneuvering thrusters." He barked suddenly.

"But Captain..."

"That's an order! Cut all drive power now!" Winthrop took a deep breath then punched in the commands on his console to cut power. An unsettling silence flooded over the helm.

"You better be right, Lady." Rodriguez turned towards Kira who stood her ground.

"I am rarely wrong." She said with defiant self-assurance.

"This would be a particularly lousy time to provide an exception to that statement."

The four of them stood in silence, watching the clock's second hand tick down.

Burned Prophecy. Part One, Chapter One

2011-11-19T08:58:00.002-05:00

Chapter One

Hamden Maine: Present day

"C'mon, Jimmie, are you going to fart around with that lawn mower all day?" Stan 'the Man' Crespo asked me in his whiny nasal tone. It was tempting for me to release the jack that held the piece of junk rider mower and land it on his foot but that would mean I'd just have to replace the rear end unit...again.

"There's over a square mile to mow here, Stan. Don't you think you can get a mower that wasn't built in the bronze age?" I offer as a retort. Stan is not amused. He rarely is when I mention his well documented cheapness.

"I guess I could always get a college kid to handle it." He offers. The veiled message being that he will jack up my rent accordingly to cover the additional expense. Luckily I have a response for that, as I usually do.

"Sure. You go find a college kid that can mow and keep this antique running. While you're at it find one than can fix your snowmobiles, ATVs, snow blower, weed whacker, roto-tiller, that jacked up tr..."

"OK, ok. I get it." Stan conceded defeat once again then pleaded, "Maria's family is coming by this weekend though and I really need the yard done before they get here. You don't want to have to deal with her when she's pissed, do you?"

I'm not real sure, Stan. I don't think I've ever seen Maria when she wasn't pissed off.

"The lawn will be done before Saturday." I assured him.

"…And the hedges out front?"

"Sure, if I can get that damn trimmer running...again."

"I thought you were a handyman, Jimmie. Why is it nothing ever seems to run right around here?"

Because you buy old junk rather than quality new equipment, Stanley.

"I'll be at the garage for a while tomorrow. When I get back here, I'll get the front done. Friday I'll finish off the back twenty and trim the hedges. You do realize that Maria's folks aren't going to give a shit either way, don't you?"

Sometimes when Stan and I have these flare ups he threatens me. Other times (like now) he just laughs it off because he knows I'm telling him the cruel truth. No one likes Mater and Pater Genovese, not even Maria.

"Fair enough, but don't let my wife hear you talk like that." He chuckled then made his usual token peace offering. "Can I get you a beer? I have some cold ones all ready."

"A beer would be fine." I accept, knowing it'll at least get him out of my face for a few minutes. He ambles off and likely will forget why he walked into the house after his shrew of a wife lets into him. Ten minutes later he'll reappear with a dripping bottle of imported swill for me and a double scotch for himself. I'm also the guy he likes to use as an excuse to hide behind after an estrogen attack.

I pulled the spark plug from the decrepit rider mower, satisfied that it was cleaned and gapped correctly then checked the oil. It was still clean without any sign if shiny metal chips. It should be since I went through this hunk of junks motor not a month ago.

My eyes fell to the fuel line and saw the problem. Age and exposure to gasoline had weakened it to the point that it had sucked itself closed. Pulling a straight head screwdriver from my back pocket I started to loosen the hose clamps that held the defective tube in place. My mind was trying to figure out where I put the replacement lines causing me not to notice the small domestic sedan that pulled in to the Crespo estate. The sound of squealing brakes caught my attention as the tiny red vehicle pulled to a stop a few feet from where I stood.

A woman, the sole occupant of the vehicle sat behind the wheel unmoving. I couldn't see her eyes behind the dark sunglasses she wore but I had the definite feeling that her stare was focused on me. Even through the tinted windshield and behind a pair of Ray Bans I could tell this woman was attractive. Instantly a warning bell went off in my head as I fought to recall if this was one of my late brothers many sexual conquests.

The license plate and small sticker at the lower corner of the windshield told me the car was a rental. The dirt and grime plastered all over the paint indicated it had been driven for some distance. The size of the vehicle informed me that its occupant was on a tight budget. I gave up trying to figure out if this woman was a previous romantic toy of Trevor but dread started to well up in my stomach. I smelled lawyer.

Lest you think I'm paranoid you need to understand, I have a legitimate and understandable aversion to these legal mongrels. The same Crespo estate of which I'm a part time employee was, up until about eight months ago, the Gray estate, passed on to my brother and I from our deceased parents. Out of goodwill or aforementioned frugality I am allowed to stay here as a renter in the small single bedroom greens keeper's cottage. Such is the change in fortune in my life.

A couple weeks after Trevor pulled his deep sea disappearing act I'd discovered that his egomaniacal quest for glory had mortgaged our family's legacy to the hilt and beyond. Since I was not the executor of my parent's estate I discovered this turn of events all too late, right around the same time the repo truck showed up for my brothers toys and a foreclosure notice was hung at the end of the quarter mile long driveway.

That was my big brother, always looking out for me. If he wasn't already dead I'd have likely strangled him.

As if the unexpected financial ruin wasn't enough to deal with I was also, for some reason, accosted by the families of two crewmembers who were unfortunate enough to put their faith in my brother's questionable judgment. There was much talk of legal restitution for mental anguish directed at the sole Gray scion (meaning me). The only thing that kept me from being persecuted to this day was that by the time that pack of vultures jumped into the game the well was already very dry. Since the meat was gone and there was nothing left but bones for the Gray family corpse the scavengers gave up and flew away.

Up until now, it would appear.

I stayed focused on the defective fuel line, avoiding looking up when I heard a car door open then close, followed by the sound of high heels on pavement.

The woman stopped a couple feet away, seemingly interested in the resurrection I was attempting on the aged mower. I performed my tasks without looking up. A quick glance told me that the woman was a few inches less than my six foot frame. Dark shoulder-length hair framed a face with high-cheekbones and an almost Asian appearance.

As a native Maine resident being crusty, aloof and silent came naturally to me. She made no effort to introduce herself and I returned the favor. That was a sure way to have a subpoena slapped into your palm if you weren't careful.

Wordlessly I retrieved an empty coffee can from the four stall garage and set it on the ground next to the mower. Undoing the hose clamp connected to the carburetor I proceeded to drain the remains of the gas tank prior to removing the hose. My uninvited observer stood mute, watching my every move and showing remarkable patience in the face of my blossoming annoyance.

I intentionally worked at a slow, measured pace. Rummaging through a junk drawer I found a length of clear tubing I'd salvaged from an old outboard motor and judged it to be firm enough for a few more years' service. Ambling back to the mower I avoided the constant stare from the attractive mystery women, now irritated that Stan had somehow become even more sidetracked and delayed that usual. Damnit, someone needed to break the ice but I really didn't want it to be me.

"When I was a child I was told by my village's elders that a woman may not talk to a man without a formal introduction by a concerned third party." She said suddenly, surprising me with her mild eastern European accent. "I was not aware that custom had come so far across the ocean to be carried on in a place such as this."

"When I was a child my village's elders taught me it was rude to enter private property unannounced and stare at someone without introducing themselves." I replied without looking up from the side of the engine.

"Perhaps both our village elders were somewhat out of touch with modern times."

"Perhaps they were but I happen to think mine were onto something."

The woman fell back into silence while I undid the second hose clamp and pulled off the dissolving hose. I adjusted the clamps and slid them back on the new tube, ready to reinstall the replacement part when she spoke again.

"Are you James Gray?" She asked.

"That depends on who wants to know."

"I already suspect you are but it would be nice to have that confirmed so I do not make a fool of myself."

"We wouldn't want that now, would we?"

"No, we would not."

"Then why don't we start a new tradition that we can pass onto future generations. How about you tell me who the hell you are and what you want." I replied brusquely while sliding the new hose onto the fuel tank and tightening the first clamp.

I looked up at her and to my surprise she was not taken aback at my rudeness. Instead she smiled and walked forward with an outstretched hand devoid of jewelry. I tend to notice these things. I also observed that her legs were a bit wobbly as she closed the distance, revealing to me that this was a woman unaccustomed to walking in high heels.

"My name is Kira Petrov. I was a part of the oceanographic survey team that your brother was leading." She said pleasantly with her hand still outstretched. My own hand remained glued to my side as I stood.

"I am not here in any legal capacity and assure you I want no money from you." She added after a few awkward seconds. I wiped my hand on my pants and extended it, taking her hand in mine and noting the immense dry heat it seemed to radiate.

"That's what I needed to hear, Ms. Petrov. I am indeed James Gray." I said and flashed a brief smile in return. She withdrew her hand and pulled off her dark sunglasses, revealing the lightest color blue/green eyes I've ever seen, almost blending in with the white surround in the bright daylight. They managed to somehow be beautiful and piercingly intimidating at the same time. I broke away from her captivating eyes long enough to note the unique necklace she wore. A simple iron ring with what looked like a topaz hung around her neck. She quickly tucked it underneath her blouse a split second later.

"You are a very cautious man, Mr. Gray...not at all what I expected." She said as her cool stare seemed to bore through me.

"I'm sure you mean 'unlike my late brother'." I replied, cutting through the subtext to get to the heart of the matter. The woman didn't even flinch.

"What you brother was or was not is not my concern, Mr. Gray."

"Jim."

"Excuse me?"

"I prefer Jim to Jimmie or Mr. Gray. I'd appreciate it is you'd call me Jim." I requested.

"Jim?" She asked, but with her accent it came out sounding like 'Jeem'.

"James works too, I guess." I offered in conciliatory tone. The woman did seem to be attempting some form of congeniality and I can only play the prick for so long.

"What does everyone else call you?" She asked.

"Jim." I lied. Most call me Jimmie and it's bugged me since I was ten years old.

"Then I would prefer to call you James," She nodded once, those icy eyes never leaving mine. "And I would like you to call me Kira."

Well, at least that was out of the way.

"Ok, Kira. Why would you have driven for a long time in that peace of crap car just to see the brother of a guy you didn't like in the first place?"

"How did you manage to come to those conclusions?"

"Your car is a rental and has about an inch of road grime and you didn't offer any quaint platitudes like 'I'm sorry for your loss' or 'Trevor was a tremendous asset'." I shrugged. "This tells me that you're here for a specific reason that is related to the Methane Clathrate and you mistakenly think I have some insight you all missed or that I give a shit about ever finding a killer load of fire ice."

"Mr. Gray..."

"James."

"I am sorry. James. I know what most others do not." She said, frustrated for the first time at my flippancy.

"What exactly is it you think you know, Kira?"

"I know that your brother has built most of his reputation and all of his findings on your work." She said with her jaw tight and quivering, stepping in close enough that I could smell the jasmine scent she wore. "I have read the papers your brother submitted during his time at Portland Oceanographic and they read suspiciously like the work you yourself, submitted during your time at the University of Maine when you did your thesis on alternative energy sources."

"Are you accusing my dead brother of plagiarizing?" I snarled and closed the distance between us. The intent was to be intimidating but Kira Petrov didn't move an inch.

"You are not the only one capable of reading a situation." She replied then held up a hand and started counting off fingers to make her point. "The similarities lead me to one of three conclusions. One, you gave your brother your research to use and blame yourself for his death as a result. Two, he stole your work. Three, you worked together with you doing the bulk of the research in the shadows and Trevor acting as what you would call a 'face'. You do not strike me as being a coward, James. So that tends to bring my conclusions back to the first two."

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Kira Petrov. I'm sorry to disappoint you." I replied and turned away to finish up the mowers fuel line.

"I think the only thing you are sorry for is yourself." She called out to my back. My fist tightened at my side.

"Since you know so much you certainly don't need me." I shot back. "Goodbye."

I knelt down at the side of the tractor and raised the screwdriver to tighten the last hose clamp, stopping when I noticed my hands were shaking. I looked back up to see Kira retreating to her car, walking in her heels at a rapid pace and looking like she was pulling a plow. The woman desperately needed a set of flats before she killed herself.

She gave me one more hard look before putting her sunglasses back on. Once back in her rental car she revved the motor and gunned the subcompact backwards, executing a professional high-speed J-turn before rocketing down the long driveway.

Stanley naturally picked this exact moment to reappear from the side door of the house, holding out a semi-cold beer to me.

"Who was that?" He asked then took a sip of scotch from his glass.

"Traveling salesman selling lawn mowers, I told her to come back tomorrow." I replied and took a long pull on the beer without making a face. Where did he get this crap? Was it brewed using Tibetan yak urine?

Stan looked down the driveway then back at me but my eyes were focused only on the lawnmower, even though my mind was a thousand miles away.

The History Channel; Beef Jerky for the mind

2011-06-25T11:27:00.002-04:00

I guess all us (ahem) more seasoned and experienced folks missed out on the present 'hip, poppin' and conjecture filled history of the human race.

I made the mistake of watching a couple hours of The History Channel and learned the following things that we all may have missed when we were busy trying to keep arbitrary dates straight and deciphering which ancient civilization was killed and eaten by the next up-and-coming ancient civilization.

Here's the cliff notes so everyone who actually could operate a book with pages can understand all the fun we missed out on.

-Extraterrestrials may well have helped the Third Reich produce a plethora of deadly doomsday weapons that didn't actually work. Indiana Jones may or may not have had a pivotal role in that.

-The Knights Templar nobly escaped their executions for murder, theft and rape so they could come to America and hide carved stones telling the secrets of the Holy Grail in Minnesota of all places.

-The Free Masons designed entire cities in geometric patterns to hide secrets that even they couldn't decipher so that Nicholas Cage could star in movies that make him look smart.

-Nostradamus proved that drunken people could write near incomprehensible and vague predictions that will waste the time of future scholars for centuries while making gullible people nervous wrecks. Keep an eye out for the anti-Christ, unless we already missed him.

-The same non-helpful extraterrestrials that decided to pal around with Hitler could have also helped other ancient civilizations make massive structures .Future adventure seekers could then experience lost luggage and diarrhea while capturing pictures that bore all their friends to tears.

-The Loch Ness monster, while openly admitted by the first guy to take a picture as being a hoax, is still sucking up enormous funds and technical expertise to be found. In a weird turn of events, he hasn't.

-Other murky lakes now have giant prehistoric creatures magically appearing up in them like reptilian pop-tarts. Now you can be just as afraid of lakes as were of the ocean after 'Jaws' came out.

-Bigfoot is still out there, somewhere, leaving enormous footprints and shaky images of giant Steven Stills (From Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young) in his wake.

-Calendars produced by the Mayans showed that they may have known when the end of the world will be but weren't smart enough to figure out their own demise.

-The end of the world is coming next year, unless it doesn't. Either way don't clean out that 401k plan to buy a speedboat just yet.

-The Russians have finally opened up their own secret files, proving to the world that their own UFO nutjobs were just as loopy as ours.

-The Bermuda Triangle had a terrifying history of swallowing planes and boats that in NO WAY could be attributed to pilot error, even though the only thing to disappear there in the last 20 years was the Folstien children's college fund in a cruise ships casino.

-Viking may have left their own cold and forbidding lands centuries before Columbus got lost so they could settle in the one place as lousy as their own country-then promptly disappear.

-and last, but not least, Hitler was a real dick.

It almost makes you wish you could type up a term paper again, doesn't it?

The Bruins playoffs in review

2011-06-18T11:02:00.002-04:00

The Bruin's Stanley Cup Winner's parade is today.

Hang on, it still seems unreal after I type that. Let me try again:

The Bruin's Stanley Cup Winner's parade is today.

Holy smokes, it still knocks me for a loop. It's a good loop but a loop nonetheless.

In the Grand Scheme of things this event is hardly life-changing or earth-shattering. It doesn't lower gas or food prices, spark miraculous medical cure, save whales, create jobs, fix the economy or effect world peace (the Vancouver riot aside).

Still, it's pretty damn cool.

Let's be real here for a minute; during the regular season did anyone really believe that THIS was the team that would gel so solidly and march through four rounds to get the chrome salad bowl? Hell, I'm a pretty optimistic fan but the boys had me wondering on more than one occasion if they were up to the task. More than once the B's had their shaky and bizarre moments.

As much as any Bruins fan despises the Montreal Canadiens, they are due a small amount of credit. They helped re-invigorate the cup run and (if not slay) at least stab a few demons from their past. Also, if the Bruins did win the cup without facing and defeating the Hated Habs it would have been a slightly less impressive victory.

The Flyers were next on the agenda after utterly humiliating in the previous seasons playoffs. The choker label was applied to a team that coughed up a 3-0 series lead then lost four straight. That one hurt and acted to cast a pall over the next season, with damn good reason; it was a disaster. Sweeping them in four straight games helped the Bruins get the horrible taste from their mouths and provide another motivational boost.

These two teams brought to mind the end of the movie, the Godfather. Picture Peter Chiarelli sitting behind a big wooden desk in a smoky dark room. He looks over to his lieutenant, Cam Neely, and utters; "This season we take care of all old family business". What happens is synchronized carnage. But I digress.

For a non-traditional foe the Tampa Bay Lightning still offered up a very interesting challenge in regards to Eastern Conference match-ups. Mixing powerful high-dollar talent with what was thought a smothering defensive system to provide a legitimate challenge to the Bruin's post-season march. This series was probably Claude Julien's own moment to demonstrate that he is a great coach. Tampa's 1-3-1 system with crushing fore checking was shutting teams out very effectively. Mere firepower and great goaltending wasn't enough. The tactics weren't the problem, the strategy was.

Julien juggled the line-up and philosophy just enough while kicking of a nitrous oxide boost by plugging 19 year old Tyler Seguin into the lineup at exactly the right time. The move was brilliant and that, mixed with playoff hockey starved Nathan Horton, tilted the scales against sunny Florida. The fact that it went seven games is a testament to the Lighting's strength and gives a glimpse into what may be a scary opponent in next season's Eastern conference. Lightning GM Steve Yzerman is no idiot and he now knows where he needs to add pieces for the next step.

Vancouver came into the playoffs after having exorcized its own demons by defeating the Chicago Blackhawks, who schooled them on three previous occasions. The Canucks had their flaws but the perception was their strengths offset them nicely. For the first two games of the series that assessment seemed spot-on. The bruins tried vainly but could not dent the Canucks shell.

Then something happened. It was triggered partly with the injury to Horton and a return home to the place that had no history, no backing force, no whiff of past glory, the 'new' garden. These Bruins steeled themselves and did something that no other team had done to the barn once known as the 'defeat' center. They brought glory.

Maybe Vancouver got cocky, reading too many glowing press clippings. Maybe Luongo performed his usual fall to earth. Maybe they were just to worn out and beat up from the rigors of three previous hard-fought rounds. All these are distinct possibilities.

Or maybe, just maybe, the Bruins sat in their locker room, looked at one another and reached an agreement. We will be 'almost good enough' no more. This is the right place, the right time, with the right personnel. Let's show them that this bear's claws and teeth are to be feared.

The Bruins exploded like their animal namesake and tore the killer whale clad Canucks to shreds. Then just to show it wasn't a fluke, they did it again. All you had to do was look into the eyes of Tim Thomas and you got the story. We aren't happy with being good. We will be great. We're the better team.

The next game was a hard fought battle from beginning to end as the Canucks gave one final boost to show their mettle. A single fluke goal from a marginally talented spare part snuck behind Thomas and finished the game. The Canucks regained the series lead 3-2.

Unlike previous seasons this didn't have that impending disaster feel that Bruins fans are all too used to. We saw where Vancouver was weak and the return home for the next game proved that observation.

Roberto Luongo helped to trigger his team's demise with his own very poorly chosen words, taking a shot at the heroic Tim Thomas. His claim was that Thomas wasn't providing Luongo with the praise he so richly deserved and even had the gall to critique Thomas's goaltending style. Making matters worse was when Thomas retorted with one simple, bemused line. Smiling he said, "I didn't know it was my job to pump up his tires".
The dye was cast. The Hockey Gods punish those for hubris. Roberto Luongo, one of the highest paid, longest signed goalies in the NHL was about to be laid low.
The bear could smell blood and that third trip to the garden was fitting set up to that one final apocalyptic moment. The final score was 5-2 Bruins but that score didn't tell the whole story. The Canucks were beaten, emotionally crushed and very scared. The series was tied and all the marbles rested on a single game.

…Back in Vancouver

…Where the Bruins had yet to win.

To its credit Vancouver did try. The Sedin twins did rise from their coma and the Canucks forward pressed hard, getting into Tim Thomas's face and practically up his nose at the games start. Even the most hardened fan (me included) were on the edge of the seat for a few minutes.

It was Patrice Bergeron that fired the shot that finished off the league's best regular season team and Western Conference champs. Three more shots found their mark but the body had already fallen. Thomas had put up a brick wall in net and had already made the conscious decision to put an exclamation point on the first Bruins cup triumph in 39 years, providing his forth shutout of the post-season.

On a personal note I just had to nudge my lovely wife to pause the chick-flick she was watching on her computer and pop out her headphones to witness the Cup carried higher than its ever been held-literally seeing as Zdeno Chara is huge. She was good sport and sat patiently through the ceremony, likely wondering what the fuss was all about but having the good taste not to say anything. At the end she smiled at me and went back to her movie. After 25 years of my yelling shenanigans she's paid her dues in a different way. In her own quiet way she's been a Bruins fan for most of her life as well, she just won't admit it.

And now an estimated million people are funneling into Boston to grab a peace of that black and gold glory. The Burins are the conquering hero and deserve the adulation they receive on this day. Trivial in the grand scheme of things or not those men did fight the good fight and bring pride back to one of the finest cities on earth. I salute them for that.

Now if they could just do it again next season…

Fine Whine and other sour grapes

2010-11-13T23:21:00.001-05:00

NHL: Top five pet peeves of hockey

Normally I’m not a person given to whining. When something annoys me and I can avoid it, I do.

I can’t stand going to any brass and fern decorated “family” type restaurant for the irritation factor that the same wait staff that can’t bring me the appetizers some time other that 30 seconds before the actual meal comes, can find the time to sing an off-key, overly loud proprietary version of “Happy Birthday”.

Just shut up and get me my damn Buffalo wings Skippy.

These are generally the same places that have three pages of different variations on a Margarita (…a CHOCOLATE Margarita?) but don’t have the ability to make the REAL version of that drink. Keep your stupid sour mix and Triple-sec and go back to Bartending School.

So, just like when Howard Sterns comes on the radio, I avoid these situations. I don’t go to those restaurants more than once and I change the channel when flatulent transvestites with mother issues (????) come on the radio. No problem here, I can adapt.

Unfortunately, some thing that annoy cannot be avoided. Like the people at the grocery store that wait until their whole cart is scanned, they are given the total, and THEN they start writing the check. Or the high-powered business-type moron who thinks the whole world needs to listen in on how much of a big shot they are when they’re at the drug store prescription counter, chatting on a cell phone at the top of their lungs.

Talk to Vanna, buy a vowel, and get a clue.

Hockey has produced several of these annoying moments that, for the fan, fall under the category of “unavoidable”. Here’s a selection of my top five hockey annoyances:

1) Diving/tripping calls: If it’s a dive, call it a dive. If it’s a trip, call it a trip. Don’t completely wimp out and call both. Diving is one aspect of the game that has always annoyed me. I don’t like it when my own favorite team does it. I really hate it when an opponent uses it as their primary defensive strategy. NHL, grow a pair and call a dive a dive.

2) Mascots: I know that Hockey wants to appeal to a larger audience, and I can live with the whole mascot thing for the AHL, where it is actually affordable to bring the whole family to a game. But the NHL in general and the Original six teams in particular annoy me with their perceived need to try to sell a team to me that I’ve ALREADY paid top-dollar to see. I like kids for the most part, I have several myself, but none of my kids (or the kids I’ve seen at a game) seem particularly impressed with the sweaty high-school kid stuck in a felt and Styrofoam costume who is having peanuts and empty cups thrown at him because he’s doing the Macarena in the line of sight while a two man rush is breaking up the ice.

3) “Let’s make some noise!!” prompts: What is this? The Dick Van Dyke show? Your hockey game is filmed before a live studio audience? Play better. I’ll cheer then. Trust me.

4) The Cell phone zombies: Tell me if this sounds familiar: “Yeah Dude, I’m at the game now…I’m at the game now…Yeah, I’m at the game…yeah…now. I should get out of here around 9:30…yeah, 9:30…9:30…yeah, I’ll be out front at 9:30…9:30…” This generally goes on in ten minute stretches for the entire game, except when it’s between periods, then the annoying twit goes silent as he’s trying to maneuver Nacho’s, a personal pizza, popcorn and seven diet soda’s down the wrong isle.

5) The “know-it-all” fan: This is that self-important goob who ended up with free tickets and has to regale his friends (who have apparently never heard of the game before) with his infinite knowledge and wisdom in regards to the finer points of hockey…all night. He is also the guy who usually sits directly behind me at the game and taps my shoulder after every play to ask me “Did you see that? Did that look like icing to you? I don’t think it was icing. Did they really call that as icing?” Now you know why they search people for weapons prior to a game, even though they probably shouldn’t.

So that’s it. I’ve vented and I feel better now. Please feel free to share any other hyper-annoying moments I may have missed in the responses.

Bad Sports Movies

2010-11-13T22:37:00.002-05:00

Everyone has a favorite sports movie. That one that has you on the edge of your seat, cheering for an outcome that you already know in your heart has been predetermined by a script-writer, That one that has you misty-eyed for a bygone, more honorable time, That one that has the abused underdog rising up to conquer all odds and achieve that glory we all hunger for.

Few care to document the far more common product that emanates from tinsel-town: The really bad sports movie.

For every Field of Dreams or The Natural there is are dozen’s of Major League II’s.

For every Slapshot there is a flood of Youngblood’s

For every The Longest Yard there is…well, the remake of The Longest yard.

You get the point. Even the most open-minded and ambitious practitioner of suspension of disbelief has to admit that 95% of all sports movies ever made range from “hardly likely” to “ambitiously stupid”.

I’d like to review my favorite whipping boys of bad sports movie’s, separated by sport (the ones I have some interest in, sorry golf):

Racing: Days of Thunder:

There was a time I actually followed NASCAR, unfortunately it was also a time when “Stock Car” meant there was something resembling the stock car under the paint and stickers. This movie made sure I never developed that interest again.

See if this sounds familiar:

He’s a loner, a rebel, a maverick. He does things his own way no matter who it irks. She meets him. She can’t stand him- at first- but she learns there’s a good person under the macho façade. Soon she’s worried sick about him as he goes to do whatever dangerous thing he does. He does his dangerous thing, beats all odds and comes back to spring into her waiting arms.

Insert a race car, fighter jet, football or a very angry Jack Nicholson as the backdrop and you have a significant portion of Tom Cruise’s film repertoire.

As a racing film, this baby makes Stroker Ace look like a documentary on Speed channel. Driving into wrecks at full speed, getting “gift” engines from competing owners, having Tom Hagen as you mechanic, this movie has it all. Unfortunately it also has far more than I’m willing to digest.

Hockey: Youngblood:

Whew! Where to begin…

This is the story about a too handsome, too passive, too Rob Lowe junior league hockey player who finally snaps, goes berserk, and becomes the thing he despised the most.

And that’s supposed to be the happy ending.

He unfortunately runs afoul of a noted young goon when he makes the team ahead of him (who is later drafted in the 2nd round by the Maple Leafs, I’m kidding…). The Goon is jealous, angry, and has unsettling visions of having to take his girlfriend to see St. Elmo’s Fire in the future.

Said goon signs up with another team and goes on a premeditated spree of violence, cracking the noggin’ of one Patrick Swayze, Dean Youngblood’s (I’m not making that name up) newest and bestest friend.

Dean makes Craig Janney look like Jay Miller though, and won’t fight the uber-goon, so his dad and older brother (who between them must share 4.5 teeth) teach the talented young doofus how to fight.

There may have been more to the movie but I was trying to retrieve the beer from my two sizes too-big snorkel coat and may have missed some of the finer nuances.

Basketball: Whatever the hell that one with Whoopi Goldberg was.

I’m not much of a Basketball fan, and this movie didn’t help that.

Football: Varsity Blues:

This narrowly beat out the shakily filmed and piercingly shrill Any Given Sunday as the football movie most likely to make me want to take Bruce Dern’s place in Black Sunday, but Varsity Blues wins out on the weight of its incredibly disturbing vision of Texas High-School football.

John Voight, whose career trajectory appears to be rivaling Christian Slater’s, plays the most evil, nasty, vainglorious high-school football coach ever. His player motivational tactics make the coach’s and owners in North Dallas Forty look like extras from a Disney film. He’s just plain rotten.

The fact that he’s the devil incarnate and needlessly risks the lives of their children only make the dim-bulb parents love him more, even though the men remember hating him as well in their playing days (He’s been the coach for over 50 years apparently).

The secondary female lead in the film make Paris Hilton look like she’s found her religious calling, the boys all drive around in near-mint classic cars, and vodka appears to flow from every spigot in this part of Texas.

Oh, and the boys also discover that one of their teachers is also a stripper (apparently Van Halen wrote that into the film).

Eventually the drunken high-school players gather up there courage and STD’s to pull out a miraculous win in the final game’s second half after firing their own coach (huh??!).

Fade out, the End.

Baseball: Major League II:

I saw Major League I about a dozen times, I’ll admit it. It garbage, but it’s good garbage. I place it in the same realm as Escape from New York, The Mummy (1&2), and just about any movie with “The Rock” in it (what can I say, the guy cracks me up).

Even Major League III, while even dumber than the first, provided some slim semblance of enjoyment.

Major League II was somewhat like a peppers and sausage sub burp, not entirely like the original and endangering the shoes of those around you.
A chunk of the original cast was also in II, but that’s like making a Saved by the Bell movie. What else was the cast doing?

Wesley Snipes was noticeably absent, as he had another job requiring him to be a self-loathing, hyper-violent, but “good at heart” Vampire. This was considered a significant step up from his towering portrayal of “Willy Mays Hayes”.

Unfortunately you can go to the same shallow well only so many times, and the well runs dry fairly early as a few kooky new cast members are forced to interact with the almost retired return players.

Godfather II, this ain’t.

As a DVD, it makes a fairly decent drink coaster.

There you have it folks, I’m sure I missed some of your most despised and even offended the sensibilities of those fans that adore the movie’s I’ve trashed. It’s my list. I wrote it. Write your own list.

If you’d like to trash my tastes (usually my wife’s job), here are some favorites from each category:

Racing: LeMans: Steve McQueen. What more do you gotta’ say?

Hockey: Duh. You don’t even need to ask (No, NOT the Mighty Ducks)

Football: The Longest Yard (original): “…I think he broke his f#$%*@! Neck”.

Baseball: Eight Men Out: Think scandal in baseball is a new idea? Think again.

There it is. Black and White.

How hard can it be to be a film critic?

an Offensive unofficial history of pro hockey

2010-11-13T22:35:00.000-05:00

It is hypothesized that all continents were once joined together, kind of like the cast of “Friends” before they split up to make really bad romantic comedies.

Like after a sitcom wrap-party, the continents then tried to get as far away from each other as is “earthly” possible.

Dinosaurs came, then were relocated to there present location- under miles of salt water or very large sandboxes, and received a new occupation- as oil.

Then the mammals came and evolved into ferrets, lions, dolphins, and in some case Lawyers and Player Agents (oh, but I kid the ferrets).

Some time after that, hockey came. Life was good for those athletic, good skating people who didn’t want to work winters in factories, doctors who specialized in mending broken bones, Dentists who specialized in removing tooth shrapnel and less talented factory workers who were flush with overtime money covering for those deadbeats of winter, hockey players.

It was decided by someone on high (or someone who drank slightly less than the vast majority) that this pastime should be organized. Sober people are very good at organizing…lousy at hockey, but good at telling other people what to do.

It was then decided to get some teams of less than sober people together and play against one another as too few people were nipping off appendages at factories and only 12 people had ever used the services of a dentist. Hockey would help to jumpstart both of those cottage industries while providing some meager scratch so players could buy; you guessed it, more booze. A new business was born on the weight of injuries, violence, competition, and not wanting to work at factories for a couple months a year.

Because there was a need for some symbol to reward those who worked harder, had more talent, and could not afford more alcohol, a trophy of significant majesty and impressive bearing was required.

So someone’s wife donated a chrome punch-bowl that didn’t move at the previous year’s yard-sale. Re-gifting had not been invented yet and the Stanley cup blazed into existence. It was decided that an additional ring be added in the future for every team that Mike Keenan destroyed as a GM and everyone blinded by Don Cherry’s suits.

Since winter in Canada is the finest eight months of the year, it was decided that all the teams should go there, within 12 miles of each other. Husky’s got remarkably poor fuel economy and weren’t very good at hauling equipment, players, wives, coaches, and booze. The dogs also had difficulty going in the right direction as toothless drivers do not exactly have the clearest enunciation.

This lack of geographic precision may have been how hockey started to appear in America, the husky’s got together and decided “screw this, these clowns don’t care where they end up-let’s just head south”.

Sure enough, the dogs were onto something, and hockey’s purity was corrupted by gaining despicable southern “expansion” teams, in the tropical vacation cities of New York, Boston, Chicago and Detroit.

Purists were beside themselves with indignant rage and hockey fans have been complaining about the dilution of talent ever since.

Players liked it though, as it gave them an opportunity to tan and play golf in only one to two feet of snow, as opposed to four to six feet back home.

The League could now travel more efficiently and quickly, as the automobile became more commonplace, introducing Hockey players to the latest popular activity; drunk driving. The wonders of technology never cease.

Like the dinosaurs, some of the original teams vanished leaving players unemployed but as their blood alcohol level was too high for them to become oil, they became journalists, announcers and coaches instead.

Soon, another glory age came for the great game of hockey, as the era of the “original six” was born, but since fans didn’t yet know that they were in the glory age, they just called the six teams “the six teams”. Media people were too busy watching Babe Ruth consume vast amount of hot-dogs, beer, and baseball team owners money to take an interest in hockey.

In only 50 short years, all that was to change.

Fast forward to that inspired and influential time, known as the seventies, and we find that hockey is on a meteoric rise on the professional sports landscape. A new team of geniuses even comes onto the scene to create a whole new league, using the same executive brain-trust that went on to develop other smashing successes like the DeLorean car company, New Coke, and the Chevy Chase show. The WHA is born.

After three weeks, the upstart league folds and creates a whole new glut of players that make too much money to work off-season in factories, but don’t know enough to be of any other use to society.

Since the original league had also gone on a further expansion binge, creating a further rift between the fuddy-duddy traditionalists, there was some place for these players to go, but not enough to support all of the players.

Since many city officials didn’t have the police force to monitor all the unemployed hockey players with drivers’ licenses, the NHL (named after Nedwin Harold League-the inventor of clichés like “take it one game at a time” and “we have to work harder out there”) decided to perform a public service and get these menaces off the public roads. So it created even more teams to keep them busy and keep them from getting behind the wheel of now faster cars.

A few more teams were added to Canada, a lot more teams were added to the United States, and life was made even more miserable for the traditionalists.

Here we are in the present day, as evolution seems to want to skate backwards and recreate the single continent of Pangaea, removing some of the southernmost teams and re-locating them to a place with far fewer golf-communities, hurricanes, Jimmy Buffet fans, and sand, otherwise known as “the North”.

Luckily the latest hockey brain trust has reeled in on its plans to place teams in Guam, Ecuador, Peru, and Brazil as the residents kept throwing the sticks away and tried to kick the puck towards a very sweaty goalie. Their expansion teams are on hold until 2012 or until magnetic north moves and puts them back in a polar region.

So what are the morals we can take away from this comprehensive history of our sport? Glad you asked...there are several:

1) Dogs are smarter than everyone thinks.

2) The cast of Friends should have stuck to TV.

3) Booze and Hockey go together. Hockey and driving doesn’t.

4) Since Hockey players will not turn into petro-chemicals, Don Cherry will never wear them as a day-glow plaid leisure suit.

5) No matter what, where, or how you do something, people will complain.

6) Revo still refuses to do research.

7) Pangaea is not a toasted sandwich (that’s a Panini)

What have you done for me lately?

2010-07-02T15:58:00.002-04:00

In the classic comedy movie, Monty Python's Life of Brian there was a terrific scene where the surly members of the 'Judean People's Front' (not to be confused with the utterly useless People's Front of Judea) lament on all the horrors they've had to endure while under Roman rule.

Law and order, medical advancements, clean water, paved roads and several other advantages were all noted before the line was uttered 'but beside's all that what have the Romans really done for us?'

You may ask; before you go off on a tangent, shouldn't you establish a coherent chain of thought to stray from first?

Maybe, but bear with me...I'm setting up a witty metaphor here and I haven't quoted anything from Monty Python in days (to my wife's obvious but short-lived joy)

Like the JPF (again, not that vile group of wankers who populate the PFJ) many a Bruins fan has looked at Tim Thomas like he has pictures of Peter Chiarelli spooning Harry Sinden to have earned the contract he is playing for.

I swear before all that is holy that I will never trouble you with that mental image again...unless of course I do. I just needed the shock value to make a point.

Anyway, 'Roman' Tim Thomas (not to be confused with 'roaming' John Grahame') is now trapped under the dark cloud of 'what have you done for us?'

Apparently many Bruins fans have the memory retention of an Etch-a-sketch in a paint shaker, so let's review:

The year is 2005, the heir apparent behind the pipes is Andrew Raycroft, the previous seasons stats are impressive and things look good for the mighty B's in net. All is right in the world and fans are thrilled to have some stability minding the twine.

Unfortunately Raycroft has one slight issue to contend with; downsized goalie pads. His numbers plummet from a .926 sv% to .879, goals against are down from 2.05 to 3.71 (!!), wins shrink from 29 to 8. All is far from well and the truth comes out; unless his goalie pads are made of Seally posturepedic mattresses Andy is as effective a drain stopper made from a wiffle ball.

Tim Thomas comes in as a guy with more travel mileage than the Voyager probe, playing for peanuts and salvages precious hope for fans, posting a .917 sv%, 2.77 GAA, and 12 wins.

The year is 2006, the new young hope for goal is the slinky-spined Hannu Toivonen. The man appears to be made of silly putty, performing nad-crunching splits at will and having all witnesses experience visions of Dominic Hasek. Things are looking up yet again. Youth, talent and a difficult to spell name will carry the day. It's all good folks, you'll see.

Not. So. Much.

Hannu may have the elasticity of Plastic Man but he an eye for the puck that requires a seeing-eye dog. Acrobatics cannot overcome fear and bad positioning.

Tim Thomas comes in and posts a .905 sv%, 3.13 GAA, and chalks up 30 wins, carrying the load for a second time in as many years.

The year is 2007, a guaranteed number one puck-stopper is recruited in Manny Fernandez. He play an entire four games before (honest) stepping on a puck, sliding his legs out and knocking him out for the year with a groin injury. Fans are justifiably concerned since pucks are a somewhat essential part of hockey and goaltenders have a reputation for knowing what to do with them.

Tim Thomas, .921 sv%, 2.44 GAA, 28 wins.

The year is 2008. After a year of healing and going through intense therapy to overcome his fear of renegade pucks Manny Fernandez returns, prickly personality and brittle spine intact. Manny starts out shaky, plays decently as the season progresses, then stinks up the joint by the end of the season. Still he posts a .910 sv%, 2.59 GAA and 16 wins.

Tim Thomas, .933 sv%, 2.10 GAA, 36 wins.

If one looks close enough, they might notice a pattern here. The Bruins do notice and sign Tim to a $5 mil per year contract. Why? Besides the fact he won the Vezina Trophy?

SEE ABOVE!!

The year is 2009. Two years after fleecing Toronto for Tuukka Rask (in exchange for Andrew Raysoft), a goalie brought along low and slow with the Providence Bruins, Tuukka comes in and shows a ton of promise in his first full NHL season. His skills are impressive, his age is encouraging, his poise is remarkable. He has a tremendous debut season in the NHL, posting .931 sv%, 1.97 GAA and 22 wins. Many Bruins fans froth at the mouth for this 22 year old wunderkind. Tim Thomas is deemed expendable after having a disappointing but hardly disastrous record of .915 sv%, 2.56 GAA and 19 wins. He is ranked 18th out of 47 goalies in the NHL.

Now we head toward the 2010 season, the Bruins armed with a promising young goalie that many feel is ready to shoulder the load as a bona fide number one, after one whole, entire season, making Tim 'Tank' Thomas obsolete.

Good thing history never, ever, in a zillion years repeats itself, right?

Ok, it's not you, but it's time we saw other teams...

2009-12-04T15:54:00.002-05:00

Tonight only! Come one, come all! Join in on the longest 100 year anniversary since the Bicentennial of the United States! The Montreal Canadiens are 100 years old! Today! We know we said that all last season but that worked out kinda’ crappy, so this time we mean it!

As my oldest son would say...”meh”

Why do the Bruins have to be included in this self-congratulatory hoopla? As fans we don’t care nearly as much about the vaunted Habitants as the Montreal fans are semi-obsessed with the Bruins. Couldn’t they have pestered the league to face the Leafs on their biggest ‘holy day’?

Geesh, you couldn’t have two teams with a different trajectory. The Bruins are a team still on the rise, the fans spoke up a few years back and stayed away from the New Garden (then named the Fleet Center) in droves, forcing a complete overhaul in the Bruins roster, management and mindset.

The Canadiens, however, are on the downward spiral. Their fans too fanatical to not overpay for a substandard product, they ride their glorious history like a nag that is overdue for a trip to the glue factory. Why improve and adapt to the modern day when fans will still fill the house and pay top dollar for the same-old, same-old?

C’mon Bruins fans, do we really need this crap? We have real teams to deal with.

Now we have to deal with a full hour of lasers shows, overblown and over-amplified bilingual announcers, and special guest from the Jurassic era just so we can witness a damn not-even-mid season hockey game. What a pain in the ass.

Every Bruins fan knows how this will work out at the final buzzer, if the Habs win it will be because they ‘dug deep and soaked in that pride that represented all thing Canadiens, they were the giant-killers, they overcame and conquered, they were the chosen team’

And if the Bruins win it’ll be because ‘the ref’s stink’.

It’s the same as it ever was, just in a shiny commemorative wrapper and just as useful after the final buzzer.

Face it, the only fun over the past few years between these two teams was watching the fascinating new ways that Milan Lucic slapped Mike Komisarek around.

Lucic is injured and Komisarek is taking bad penalties in Toronto, what’s left to get the juices flowing? A George Laraque ‘invitation only’ fight? A couple dozen uncalled Montreal dives? Those goofy Doctor Seuss uniforms? Pretty thin gruel if you ask me.

Tell you what, Montreal. If we bump into each other on the street, maybe we can do something; just don’t get too clingy, Ok? Otherwise, just lose our number. It’s become a bore, now go play with Toronto.

The Next Bruins Captain

2009-11-25T17:37:00.000-05:00

Submitted for your approval, a young hockey player, once perilously close to death due to a tragic on-ice accident, continues to re-find and redefine his game, now he plays in...The Twilight Zone.

Patrice Bergeron has so far lived the equivalent of veteran players entire career, the problem is he’s only been in the NHL for about 6 years.

So far he has been through and achieved:

-Signed and playing at the NHL level when he was 18
-Shouldered the burden when the Bruins essentially gave up on franchise forward and epic whiner Joe Thornton
-Played (gladly) in the AHL during the lockout with nary a whimper or night off
-Developed into an NHL top five two-way forward
-Survived a terrifying head shot, culminating in a near-career (and life) ending concussion
-Went from being the offensive leader on a team with no depth to being a second or third line forward without any bitching or moaning
-Five on five, man advantage, penalty kill, shootout, it doesn’t matter; Patrice Bergeron plays in every situation.
-He wears the ‘A’ for Alternate Captain (for two seasons now)
-He is, thus far, the Bruins MVP this season.

He’s 24 years old.

In recent history the Bruins have been led by defensemen, be it Bobby Orr (all bow), Brad Park, Ray Bourque, or the big Z himself, Zdeno Chara, defensemen have been the first over the wall, shouldered the biggest load, and provided that moral anchor so needed by a team.

The history may well find itself changing.

The towering Chara is the present Bruins Captain, and he’s a damn good one. He leads by example, always keeps himself in peak physical form, is one of the most feared fighters and one of the finest defensemen, but he will be 33 years old before the season ends, Bergeron will still be 24.

Can you say ‘Captain in training’?

Personally, I never bought into the Patrice Bergeron as offensive dynamo expectations that many hung on him. It was easy enough to see when watching him play and carry himself that this was the penultimate ‘total package’, not merely a one-dimensional gunslinger, A Steve Yzerman in the making, if you will.

Do the Bruins need to be led by a defenseman to pave to the ultimate glory? Sure, it’s worked before but can’t a lead-by-example do the job too?

For now we can leave Patrice where he is, wearing the ‘A’ and learning all he can from another lead by example Captain.

But one day that ‘C’ may well be his.

Is the "Thrill" truly gone or just beginning?

2009-09-19T08:52:00.001-04:00

What had to happen finally happened, another poorly kept hockey secret was removed from the NHL landscape.

No, the Coyote’s are still in Phoenix for the moment, the other secret.

No, Dany Heatley actually showed up at the Sharks camp and hasn’t tried to cripple the team yet with demands for more ice time…the other, other secret.

No, Dan Kelly hasn’t come out with a tell-all story explaining why scheming and underhanded half-wits are secretly running the NHLPA…the other, other, other secret.

Phil Kessel, the guy who thought $4 million a year to play for a serious contender like the Bruins wasn’t nearly enough dough finally got his wish to play for someone else for 20% more money, 50% less chance at a cup and 100% less Claude Julien.

Phil the Thrill will be making $27 million over 5 years, at 21 tears old that’s not too shabby a paycheck.

Let’s look at the pros and cons of this deal as it works out for Phil though:

Pros:

He is now THE scoring star for the offensively bereft Maple Leafs; he’s the show, the poster boy, the guy on the billboards and posters.

Word has it that he bristled under the strict accountability that coach Claude Julien demanded of every Bruins player to play defense and with some degree of physical presence.

He is playing for a GM who absolutely adores him as a player for Team USA.

Cons:

For a guy who everyone says is shy and unassuming, if he couldn’t handle the attention and pressure in Boston he may end up deep fried and a feature menu item in hockey obsessive Toronto.

If he thinks Claude Julien might be difficult to get along with, wait till he gets a load of Ron Wilson, a man also not known for tact, civility or subtlety and may in fact be the first generation in his family to walk erect.

He is playing for a GM who wants to mold the Leafs into a physically imposing team.

Yikes. File this in the “careful what you wish for” category.

To Brian Burke’s credit he has brought in a player that will help the Leafs achieve some degree of legitimacy and has brought a decent amount of buzz to Toronto without impacting the immediate level of ‘talent’ currently on the roster for this year.

Hopefully, for Toronto’s sake, Burke can find a way to turn some of his vast surplus of NHL ready defenseman into a set-up man that can at least approach the effectiveness of a Marc Savard, because as of now he is lacking that one component to make the Kessel move effective.

I’ve seen probably very game Kessel has played as a Bruin, so allow me to share my observations as to why Toronto fans might have some cause for concern:

Phil is a very fast skater with a great shot release (wrist shot only) and a tremendous pair of hands that allow him to frequently baffle opposing goalies, but he does not take slap shots, does not work the corners to get the puck for himself, and occasionally baffles his own defensemen with his disappearing act after the momentum shifts in the other direction. He will react to a carefully placed boot in the rear section but only if it is a VERY carefully placed boot.

If all this makes me sound bitter as to losing the 36 goals that Mr. Kessel provided last year then I’ve given the wrong impression, I’m absolutely thrilled with this deal as it stands.

The Bruins didn’t have to take any salary back in return, didn’t end up having to adopt any of Toronto’s marginal young ‘talent’ (who would have ended up in Providence anyway) and will receive TWO first round draft picks (2010 and 2011) and a second round pick (2010) for an organization that already has one of the top scouting legions in the league.

Should the Bruins decide to take a run at the number one overall pick in the next draft, they have the package to possibly put it all together to make it happen, and I don’t mean by tanking the season (a la Pittsburgh or Ottawa).

The goals provided by Phil the Thrill will be ably filled in for by a year older and stroger Blake Wheeler, a now healthy Marco Sturm, an even more terrifying Milan Lucic, a still very savvy Mark Recchi and a player that has learned his role better (along with proving that he can, in fact play two-way hockey) in Michael Ryder.

So on Saturday, September 19, 2009 we have three party’s who all have come away happy, everyone getting what they wanted.

Me included.

The Ode to Fred and Derek

2009-09-18T19:23:00.001-04:00

As Bruins fans, much like our chosen team, we both tend to focus (historically) a bit more on the Battles than the overall War.

Many of us have gotten used to, at one time or another, a shortage of something for followers of the Spoked-B. Be it a second line, a substantial Left Wing, goaltending, coaching, defense past Bourque, there was always something that had us still rooting while mentally overcoming some pre-destined disadvantage.

Unfortunately for this fan, the broadcast crew since Fred Cusik and Derek Sanderson has been lacking in one form or another.

For those who didn’t remember these times, this isn’t really for you. Go back to Pokemon, texting, or watching “Saw” movies, this is for the more (ahem) experienced fans.

Fred and Derek, as they came to be known (convenient considering that was their actual names) breathed life into teams that couldn’t cut it and teams that came oh-so-close. Short explanation: They saw some shit.

Fred Cusik was the consummate broadcast professional…almost.

Fred was silky smooth, interjected enthusiasm at just the point in the action, and knew how to fan excitement.

But he had one element that elevated him from super-polished pro to a true Bruins Broadcaster.

He had just the right touch of sarcasm. Fred didn’t take many shots, but the ones he took were made with snipers accuracy, especially if the target was Derek Sanderson.

It was good to have a professional and balanced opponent for Derek to have as well, a lesser play by play man would be eaten alive by “the Turk”.

When the play described a good play-by-play description or the game just got boring, that’s when Derek could be counted on to ride to the rescue. His quips were frequently the stuff of legend.

Did the goalie give up 5 goals on 10 shot’s?

“He’s got sunburn on the back of the neck from the red-light”

Did the goalie get hit while out of the crease?

“If he leaves the crease he’s fair game…this isn’t tennis”

Did a Bruins player get beat so bad that he was removed from the ice with a spatula?

“I think he got a few good ones in there…”

Was a “soft” player trying to pick a fight and draw a penalty?

“I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling…”

Fred was always there to real Derek in, and on the occasion the game wasn’t ‘popping’, set him lose.

It never took more than a “what do you think about that, Derek?” to introduce a hilarious monologue on just that event that was guaranteed to offend nearly everyone equally.

It was genius.

Fred and Derek had chemistry, when the game was great they knew when to step back (except for the well timed golden tones of Fred’s) and when the game was a dud, they made some of it fun (does anyone remember the famous ‘Derek’s dog ringing the doorbell sketch’?)

As Bruins fans we had great broadcasters for decades, we were comfortably, we were satisfied, we were happy.

We were about to pay for those sins.

You can’t really fault Dale Arnold and Gord Kluzak, sure they had less chemistry than a raided meth lab but they were following the wrong two guys.

You don’t follow Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin with Regis and Kathy Lee, it just doesn’t work…you have to ease into that transition. Like over several hundred years.

The Arnold and Kluzak cavalcade of droll was replaced by the easily excitable Jack Edwards and the somnambulistic Andy Brickley.

Now don’t get me wrong, Edwards does inject some life in to the game he calls, but he has a tendency to act like a hyperactive ten year old that got into the Mountain Dew a little heavy at somewhat inappropriate times, like…anytime the Bruins have a puck.

“Brick” also has his good points, like the fact that he can call plays that happened in a 1/10 of a second accurately, unfortunately he adds all the life to the broadcast that one would expect from a long time and well traveled journeyman player, which is unfortunately not much.

So there we are Bruins fans, if you think we have it rough just listen to a Florida Panthers game some time, where they actually refer to the players by numbers. Apparently someone injured themselves at one point on some tongue-twister name like ‘Vokoun’ or ‘McCabe’. I guess I’m saying we could have it a lot worse.

But it still doesn’t ease the pain that we will never hear the great tandem of Cusick and Sanderson again, except on the NESN ‘classic’ re-broadcast games.

That reminds me, I have to stock up on VHS tapes.

Fred, Rest in Peace my man, you’ve earned it.

Tha Battle of the Gardens

2009-08-19T19:32:00.001-04:00

The “New” Garden (Gahdin: in Boston speak) has finally adopted a name that has a link to its past. It only took 14 years and a series of Banks that folded quicker than the San Jose Sharks come playoff time, but it has now adopted a name that even the most beer-soaked fan can finally remember; The New Garden.

Name wise, it’s not exactly a paragon of imagination or creativity, but at least it’s not something fruity like “the Greater Boston Sports and Exhibition Pavilion”.

But the question remains for those who can’t figure out why cars ever got rid of vent windows: how does the New Garden stack up against the “Old” Garden.

Truth is, it doesn’t stack “up”, seeing as the new one was built next to the old one as building it on top would have strained the tensile strength of rats, WW1 era pot metal, bricks of Aztec origin and various sports announcers coagulated cigar smoke. But I digress…

As far as comparisons go, I’ve decided on some informal statistics listings, and by informal statistics, I mean:

a) They aren’t listed or counted by any known means
b) I made them up.

So lets get on with the vital statistics and comparisons...

1) Average amount of time it takes to acquire a beer between periods:
New Garden- 7.4 minutes
Old Garden- 7.4 days

2) Average amount of distance traveled to said beer vendor:
New Garden- 64 steps
Old Garden- 7,356 steps

3) Chances of finding a Strawberry Daiquiri or frozen Mudslide cocktail:
New Garden- 100%
Old Garden- 0%

4) Chances of getting beaten up for asking for a Strawberry Daiquiri or frozen Mudslide cocktail:
New Garden- 0%
Old Garden- 100%

5) Chances you’ll get stuck in hearing range of a self-absorbed twit on a cell phone during the game:
New Garden- 105%
Old Garden- .0214 %

6) Chances you will walk away from a urinal with pee on the top of your shoe:
New Garden- 10%
Old Garden- 35%

7) Chances you will actually find a bathroom:
New Garden- 85%
Old Garden- 12%

8) Chances that something toxic will fall from the ceiling into your beer
New Garden- 2%
Old Garden- 60%

9) Chances that you will be wedged next a very large person who hasn’t bathed since Independence Day:
New Garden- 3%
Old Garden- 25%

10) Chances that you will be in a seat with a stunning view of a part of the building superstructure, directly in the line of sight:
New Garden- 0%
Old Garden- 15%

11) Chances you will be stuck behind some over-eager mouseketeer who keeps a giant foam finger raised in front of your face:
New Garden- 35%
Old Garden- 0%

12) Chances you will suffer temporary hearing loss during a Bruins come-from-behind go ahead goal:
New Garden- 1%
Old Garden- 40%

13) Chances you will be surrounded by a crowd that knows when to cheer without the aid of a “jumbotron” or other tacky and foolish means:
New Garden- 0%
Old Garden- 100%

14) Chances of having to suffer through the 12,372nd listening of “Welcome to the Jungle” blaring over a PA system:
New Garden- 100%
Old Garden- 0%

As you may have noticed, each venue has (or had) a somewhat different appeal. The “New” Garden is a relatively state of the art sporting facility, offering sports enjoyment to a newer and pickier crowd, one that expects entertainment, comfort and convenience.

The “Old” Garden offered few of these same items or amenities, it made you suffer a bit to enjoy your favorite team. You left the Garden either with a clear memory of a great game or with lower back pain, ringing ears and a possible bronchial infection.

The difference is like comparing a new performance car to a vintage muscle car. The new car is as fast or faster, offers more comfort, better mileage, and an up to date look, while the muscle car offered terrible ergonomics, noise, pollution, no handling or braking, but when you endure a 500 mile trip in either vehicle only one offers you a sense of significant accomplishment.

The Old Garden was that muscle-car, the new Garden, while very nice, just isn’t the same.

Of course a person would go insane trying to drive a muscle car day in, day out. The moral of the story is, essentially, you can’t go back…no matter how much you want to.

And unfortunately, that’s probably a good thing.

Bruins Breakdown: Goaltending

2009-08-09T20:00:00.001-04:00

Part Three: Goaltending

Goaltender: Some who tends the goal
Goaltender (Hockey definition): A guy with more synthetic shielding than a small car who has the mental capacity to get in the way of heavy, dense circles of frozen rubber shot at him at high velocity by people who want nothing more than to put the puck through him.
Tim Thomas:

Tim Thomas is the Vezina winning number one goalie for the Bruins for the best of reasons…like because he is a Vezina winning number one goalie.

I just love saying things like that, especially to people who call Tim Thomas the “Best Beer League Goalie in the League.”

Really people? Do you think Boston fans would rather get behind a “Champagne, Pinot Noir, Fresca or Ovaltine League goalie”? Please, this is Boston, what the hell is your problem with beer?

Thomas came in to a very unusual situation in Boston: utter and complete meltdown of previous #1 goalie plans on the part of management (OK, unusual is a bit of a stretch). Timmy became the equivalent of the long-term substitute teacher who does a far better job than the poor dope he is filling in for, doing a superior job to such previous faculty members as Andrew Raycroft, Hannu Toivonen, and Manny Fernandez.

Being that he’s a Boston Bruins goalie, he brought something special to the position that is so often lacking in goalies for other teams.

He has no problem whatsoever smacking someone around if the mood takes him or someone “accidentally” sends Morse code signals on the back of his helmet. This what Bruins fans define as “charisma”.

Also endearing is the fact that he actually has luggage older than his back-up. The man came to the game late (early thirties, his age…not the decade he came from) so he’s still reasonably fresh, at least when compared to my middle aged bones.

Can he do the job? That’s what Thomas does: the Job. No matter what is needed, Thomas does the job. We’ve only had a three year interview process for the poor guy and I think he’s ready for the full time gig, dontcha’ say?

Tuukka Rask:

Boston is the happy recipient of a case of International Grand Theft Goalie (IGTG for the FBI term), having acquired Tuukka Rask in a trade for Andrew Raycroft. Andrew apparently had problems adjusting to the game after pads large enough to qualify for their own area-codes were outlawed, a problem made readily apparent by the frequency that pucks went past him. As Derek Sanderson would say “He got sunburn on the back of his neck from the red light.”

Toronto had a choice between Justin Pogge and Tuukka Rask to part with. They chose Tuukka Rask who showed his appreciation by shutting out his old team in the only game he played last season. Justin Pogge showed his importance in the subsequent pecking order by being told by his own teams GM that he would try to find him a nice place to play, as in a nice place other than Toronto.

Rask is still very young (22 years old) and could well be on par with Carey Price, meaning he could also be a shell-shocked, constantly second-guessed, mental train wreck as well, but the Bruins had the luxury of being able to bring him along at a more gradual pace so if he does buckle and fold (see: Toivonen, Hannu) it will be his issue, not because he was catapulted into the limelight.

If all goes according to plan, Tuukka Rask will be a very competent back-up goalie for this season, provided a miracle happens and something goes according to plan between the pipes for the Bruins.

Dany Sabourin:

Dany is the Bruins insurance policy. A decent but somewhat uneven performance for the Penguins showed the league that he could stop pucks for a team that, to be charitable, has traditionally counted more on its firepower than its armor, kind of like a Cessna with a brace of sidewinder missiles hung under the wings.

Of course that same Cessna won a cup, and I’ll shut up before any more jealous statements come out of my mouth (keyboard).

Truth is, if the Bruins are in a position due to an unforeseen unfortunate development, Dany S. may not be quite the guy to tote the full load, but he’s up to the task of holding up the light end of the workload.

In conclusion:

Bruins fans were spoiled last year for the first half of the season when they had the Thomas / Fernandez combo tending the twine. This year is the first where Thomas has the whole show in his hands and Rask has the ability to show what he can do (other than provide hilarious YouTube fodder with a full-blown nutty).

Will it possibly be a tense time? Probably, at some point, but this is the plan for the next few years, and I’m anxious to see how it all pans out.

Bruins Breakdown: Defense Position

2009-08-03T16:06:00.001-04:00

Part Two of Revo’s Bruins analysis: In Defense of the Kingdom

Defense- The act of defending something (whack! Right out of the park without research, again!!)

Defense (hockey meaning)- Guys who can skate backwards as well as forwards while placing a stick in the opponents skate, face washing them and saying rude things about the opponents Mother, Wife or Girlfriend, in the interest of keeping opposing players from scoring against your team. If opposing players can be made to cry as well, that’s even better.
Zdeno Chara:

The Big Z follows in the footsteps of some of the great Bruins defensemen while still adding a completely unique aspect that will have him go down in the annals of Bruins history as one of the most memorable for the position.

He doesn’t have Orr’s ability to…well…do everything, but few mortals do or did. He doesn’t have Bourques ability to dominate a power play and schmooze the ref’s and he (probably) doesn’t have Shore’s ability to reattach separated body parts.

What he does have is size, strength, size, a hard slap shot, size and ferocious pugilistic abilities…oh yes; he is also very big, if I missed that earlier.

The Bruins organization (and Peter Chiarelli, kinda…wink,wink) scooped the not-so-gentle giant from the Ottawa organization, which promptly fell apart after. He was automatically made Captain as he was a) a very good defenseman, b) a leader by example, and c) so he wouldn’t eat any of Boston’s management’s villages.

In true Bruins leader fashion, he logs a ton of minutes and is a primary focus point on any opposing teams’ locker-room blackboard. He is a true #1 defenseman in every sense of the word and is only getting better, especially after his first disastrous year under the “coaching” of Dave Lewis.

His Norris trophy win was especially sweet as he earned it and was able to hold it far above his competitors heads while saying “you want this, c’mon, jump up and take it, c’mon, jump”.

So to summarize (too late) Zdeno Chara is a very good defenseman and very tall.

Dennis Wideman:

Dennis Wideman is a pretty good success story for the Bruins blueline and player development for two good reasons:

1) When he first came to Boston, he wasn’t very good, and by “wasn’t very good” I meant, “he stunk”
2) He had developed (once learning how to play actual defense on occasion) to be a very effective puck-moving defenseman, which appears to be one of those near mythical positions that every team needs (see: Power Forward for another near mythical reference point)

Mr. Wideman arrived as a result of a baffling trade that cost the Bruins Brad Boyes, a popular player and a key component in the Bergeron/Sturm cycling attack line (they had no clever “line” nickname, unfortunately)

His offensive prowess is indeed impressive and frequently overshadows the fact that he can be downright terrifying on occasion at his own end of the ice, especially when teamed with another defender that isn’t playing actual “defense”.

On the powerplay and teamed with Chara he is a force to be reckoned with but still gives me that Gary Galley vibe: he has the rare ability to give either team a chance to win.

Andrew Ference:

Andrew Ference is part of the Calgary connection (the other being Chuck Kobasew) who came to Boston with a fire in his eyes, a passion for the game, an ability to give it all,mix it up, and the propensity for breaking different parts of his body at unfortunate times.

The man has hustle however, and has mixed it up on a few occasions. He’s fought Sidney Crosby and Sean Avery and while neither was a decisive win, it does demonstrate something: Andrew Ference likes to get in fights with well-known players.

What that means in the grand scheme of things? I have no idea.

When teamed with Mark Stuart or (hopefully) the new kid on the block, Sean Morris, he can be very effective for his speed and tenacity. When teamed with Wideman or Hunwick: hold your breath.

Matt Hunwick:

I view the young Mr. Hunwick as “Dennis Wideman Lite”. He has a terrific shot, can appear as if by magic at opportune moments, and can be a tad terrifying in his own defensive end.

He was developing rather nicely before a rogue body part staged an unfortunate coup and caused him to miss the remainder of last season’s playoffs. This kid shows a bunch of promise.

He is not just a defenseman though: he is a BRUINS defenseman, which means he has to learn one more key aspect to his game: Hit people a lot and hard.

Mark Stuart:

Mark is the forgotten defender by most, but is one of my favorites.

He can go an entire game, playing his 15-17 minutes on the third pairing, completely unnoticed, until an opponent gets cute when Chara, Thornton or Lucic aren’t on the ice.

That’s when Mark Stuart shows another talent that everyone, especially Bruins fans can appreciate: He can beat the cute out of almost anyone.

Bruins and their fans, traditionally, have a low tolerance for “cute”.

Mark is a big, strong defensive defenseman, he will not knock your sox off with offensive prowess, but will also not have you screaming curses at him for defensive lapses. Every team needs on of these roles filled, and the Bruins have a good young example.

Derek Morris:

The new kid in the room (if a 30 year old player can be termed as “kid”) is Derek Morris. He is in the Hub to replace the experienced, willing and brittle Aaron Ward, who was traded to Carolina so he could be more close to the guy who sucker-punched him in last years playoffs.

Good thing hockey players are a forgiving bunch (eye’s roll)

Since he is a relatively unknown commodity to me and since he played in the Rangers organization last season (to which I was surprised that the Rangers actually had a defenseman) the jury is still out for me, leaving me to regurgitate stats and do actual research.

Not happening, I’ll wait to see how he pans out, but he has to be better than the disastrous Steve Montador.

In the Wings, chomping at the bit:

Johnny Boychuck: Veteran AHL player that is at the make or break point of his career, either he has the stuff to step up to the big club this year, or he should get used to riding the bus.

Jeff Penner: Impressive AHL rookie last season showed skill, brains and heart. He’s very possibly the next Don Sweeney.

So in conclusion:

Derek Morris is the key. If he can increase the defense department offensive strike abilities without becoming a liability in equal or greater measure, then the Bruins can boast an improved defense.

They are still a piece or two shy, in my opinion, but may have to sacrifice league leading all-around talent for youth and affordability.

Bruins Breakdown; Center Position

2009-07-31T16:08:00.001-04:00

2010 is next year (which is convenient, seeing as this is 2009 and all) and it will be a banner year for the Boston Bruins, and not one of those oversized dyed bed sheets hanging from the non-smoke tainted “Gahden” rafters either.

This one is for the big money, the whole enchilada, the tops of the pops, and all the friggin’ jimmie’s that Dairy Queen can spare-sans cherries (this is hockey after all)
Zdeno Chara will hold the Stanley Cup higher than any skater in NHL history.

Why? (no, not just because he’s very tall-but that does help) but because this is the year that the Bruins have the mix of talent, experience, and still have a salary cap that is higher than the GNP of a small third world country.

Next season? Well, let’s focus on this upcoming season first, shall we?

I’m going to break down the Bruins line-up depth chart, position by position and analyze why my favorite team is better than any non-Bruins team.

Why am I doing this by position? So I can spread it out over more time and try to wait until some decision is made on Phil Kessel.

Why am I explaining what I’m doing instead of just writing it? Because I’m easily sidetracked, and having a built in reference point in the article helps me when I forget when or why I’m saying something.

Now just shut up and read before I lose track again.

Center Position:

-Definition: the middle of something (pfft! Who needs reference material?)

-Hockey Definition: The position that defines a relatively fast two-way skater and most defensive minded member of the skating forward trio who, besides having to have to act as a reserve defenseman, also has to feed ammo to two trigger happy gun-slingers who 90% of the time wouldn’t otherwise even need a hockey stick.

Marc Savard:

Savvy, as he is called by people who aren’t me, had a history of being the type of player who started the fad of goalies names being lovingly painted on their helmet, because name tags would have been too obvious for forwards who never met their own net minders after the puck was dropped.

All that changed for Marc Savard after he became a Bruin as he was taught the definition of what “center” means (no, not the first definition, the hockey one. Try to keep up).

Besides being a quick skater and having more eyes than a potato, “Savvy” is able to put the puck in very tight places at very high speeds while telling no one absolutely anything about when or where he is going to do this.

For his wings, the only requirement is to help feed Marc the puck, get near the goal, and wait for something small, black and round to come to him, unless Marc decides to shoot it himself, then wait for the rebound.

Marc is also a somewhat feisty individual (Bruins fans definition) or a bit of a dick-head (29 fans of other teams definition). He also has the ability to randomly snap, toss his gloves off, and get himself beat-up on occasion. This is called “grit” by players who never won a fight.

Patrice Bergeron:

The young Mr. Bergeron had a major setback a few seasons ago when a Philadelphia Flyer defenseman (who subsequently went from being a nobody, to an overpaid nobody, to unwanted nobody in record time) smashed Patrice face first into the boards, causing many Bruins fans (myself included) to require the services of an ambulance because we all stopped breathing.

Patrice is slowly but surely getting back to the level he was at before his unfortunate facial re-arrangement and that level is defined as “pretty damn good”. Patrice has no one single stand-out ability but has the strength of doing several things very well and all at the same time.

Not impressed? Try typing your complaining response to this article on your laptop while walking down stairs, dodging your kids going up the stairs and stepping barefoot on a Lego. See, not so easy is it? Now shut up, buy a new laptop and get some Neosporin and a band-aid.

Patrice also has a bit of a breaking point, beautifully displayed when he humiliated the Montreal Canadien’s (only) defensive defenseman in a two punch “fight”. Poor Josh Georges not only had to endure not being part of the rigged All-Star game voting, but the humiliation of being utterly pounded by a guy who could afford another head injury like OJ could afford another crime.

David Krejci (or Krecji, I never get that straight)

David K. (there, that’s an easy solution, short of me actually looking it up) burst onto the scene last season with a weird and eerie style of playing center.

Somehow Mr. K can skate with the puck, appearing slow-footed, then magically appear in front of the opponents net a split second after he was just seen behind his own blueline.

Personally, I think he’s one of those creepy overlord guys from the Matrix, but I digress.

Besides his time-altering abilities he also has a knack of shooting well and getting the puck to guys with far easier to spell names.

If Marc Savard is a 1A center, and Bergeron is a 1B center, then Dave K. is, without a doubt, a 1C center. Sorry if I moved too fast on that one, the “insightful metaphor” key is broken on my computer.

Steve Begin:

Steve Begin is new to the Bruins organization, at least in the way that he is now far less likely to get pounded by Shawn Thornton.

Seeing as he came from the Dallas Stars organization, one would think he’s a newer face, the only problem is he was with the Montreal Canadien’s for the bulk of his career and he made a name for himself there as a semi-tough, not very good hockey player.

He also was a card-carrying member of Guy Carbonneau’s dog house and secondary chew toy, but that hardly put him in exclusive company as Carbo had more fingers pointing in more directions than that signpost last seen in the T.V. show M*A*S*H*.

Why isn’t the esteemed Mr. Begin ranked higher in the Bruins center depth chart? If you have to ask you’re watching the wrong sport.

So, In Conclusion:
The Bruins are in pretty good shape up the middle. They have three theoretical first line centers and one at least has enough skill to run for pizza during the extended road-trip poker games.

Two other centers are also in reserve and will be called up at some point of the season because a) Providence isn’t that far away b) Centers, especially Bruins centers, get hurt c) because Providence also has the “Bruin” name attached, generally a dead-giveaway that they are somehow affiliated to the Boston Bruins franchise.

Next, I will provide a thorough breakdown of…something. I don’t know what yet because I haven’t started writing that yet.

When I do, you’ll be one of the first dozen to know, unless you aren’t.

2010 Winter Classic

2009-07-25T18:58:00.000-04:00

Boston’s New Years gift, the Winter Classic game between the Philadelphia Flyers and Boston Bruins, should prove to be a watershed moment for both Boston and Philadelphia hockey fans and possible future hockey fans.

Why? ‘Cause its in Fenway, in Bahstin. We can freeze, drink and get those wonderfully deadly Peppers and Sausage (Peppah’s ‘n Sahssage to us locals) gut-bombs in front of the game.

Shh, Don’t tell the Philly fans about our secret weapon, alternative-energy methane cleverly disguised as junk food. When they run to the can we can grab their seats.

Ask around town amongst the Bruins fans about the Boston Vs. Philadelphia Winter Classic game and changed are, you will likely hear that it should be “Wicked Pissah” (that means exciting/good)

Ask Montreal fans about the same game and they will probably say “The Flyers? They should be playing the Canadien’s, the Bruins don’t have a rivalry with the Flyers.”

Get over yourselves.

After last season it’s not like the Bruins have much of a rivalry with the very punchable Hab’s either. Go play with the Leafs.

For all those prospective “24 cups” ranter’s that are almost guaranteed to show up whenever something like this is written, time’s change guys, Hudson once ruled NASCAR and the Dodgers were once in Brooklyn, move on.

This Winter Classic is a big deal for the NHL as it will represent two teams that have learned the lessons of the hockey lockout better than most, and are subsequently similar teams, both in present execution and history.

Both teams had a dreadful season in recent memory, keeping fans away in droves and forcing substantial changes.

Both teams learned the post-lockout lessons well, i.e. draft well and protect your youth assets.

Both teams have a history of beating the cheese-whiz out of other teams, and when they fight each other it’s a sight for the ages.

Both teams were run by guys who had far exceeded there “best if used by” date by more than a decade, and were replaced by much smarter guys.

So in the spirit of peace and brotherly love for those brave Philadelphia fans who will descend on our beloved Fenway, I offer some friendly and helpful advice:

1) Parking: don’t hyperventilate when the guy in the booth tells you what it will cost and by all means, be nice. Just pay the money and smile or you’ll end up parked between two leftover concrete dividers from the Big Dig or come back to find a Hummer parked on top of your Civic.

2) By two of the Peppers and Sausage gut bombs, roll up your sleeves and don’t be afraid to lick the grease off you elbows. You’ll feel weird at first until you notice everyone around you is looking like they’re limbering up for floor gymnastics. Welcome aboard.

3) Philly fans fight and drink, Boston fans drink and fight: you should fit right in but leave your Patriots bias at home; it can get you killed here.

4) Don’t bring up Patrice Bergeron, don’t even say the name, just…don’t. We’re trying to get over it but it’s best not to tempt the fates.

And there you have it, Revo’s tips for the winter classic. I don’t actually live in Boston and it’s doubtful I will be attending as I have a refrigerator with beer, a big-ass TV, parking and heat, but I hope to see a loyal turn out while I’m warm, semi-intoxicated, and sitting on a couch.

And to our Little Brothers (the Flyers) and their equally disturbed fans (i.e. just like Bruins fans), just follow my simple etiquette rules and everything will work out fine. You might turn out to like Boston. Grab some seafood, park and walk everywhere and you might find a second home, then we can both get back to what’s more important: ranking on Pittsburgh and Montreal.

Through the Museum...Darkly

2009-07-16T16:08:00.002-04:00

Welcome children, as you’ve decided to leave the relatively secure confines of your safe and rational community allow me to provide you a service as a guide through the dark and dangerous exhibits’ that lay on the outskirts of the area.

Please stay close and leave any questions for after we are safely through the dark museum. Nothing here can hurt you unless you allow it, but please, for safety sake, stay close and listen carefully.

As we enter the display area we will be passing through Panderer’s Row. You may have noticed that the inhabitants look strangely familiar to the people who pan-handle in any major city. It is best to avoid eye contact and walk straight through as too often what you think is kindness is just feeding an addiction.

The addiction is recognition and praise, so be careful where you dispense that particular item children, as many here are a mix between pigeons and leeches. Feed them once and you run the risk of them revisiting you for the rest of your life.

Now you’ll notice that everything has shifted to a sepia tone, we have now entered The Street of Yesterdays. Though everything here is a hologram, the residents are firm in their belief that this is the time where they were in their glory-days. Many have tried to leave here, but some who have been in the museum long enough return here regularly to lament that the current days are too depressing to live in.

Do not tell them that you are relatively new here or you might hear that you don’t “measure-up” to their romanticized but essentially false memories.

If you look to the right, you’ll see the Hall or the Alter-Mirrors, No one knows anymore how many actual inhabitants are here as the reflections have confused and amplified their numbers. In fact, even the inhabitants no longer even know how many reflections they possess.

You’ll note many arguments and praises going on but do not join in, as you do not know whether a reflection or an actual person is communicating back to you. Few escape here.

Please put on your hearing protection as we approach the Peaks of the Ranter’s, notice how everyone has the same size megaphone, but no one speaks in-turn so no one ends up hearing anyone else or even themselves. Everyone gets their own mountaintop though so they may be self-gratified by the carrying echoes, even if it is mixed and mangled into an unintelligible blur.

Positioned next to the peaks are the tall buildings that hold The Self-Righteous Bungee Jump. We purposely put this exhibit close to the peaks as many of the inhabitants cross over to both of these exhibits.

We recently installed grates at the bottom of the building to catch the blood and gore of those who have foolishly misjudged the length of their cord. For some this is a one-time-only adventure. It appeals primarily to the Peak inhabitants but many from the other exhibits’ have also frequented this attraction.

Stay close to me and do not deviate from the yellow line on the floor as we enter the most dangerous exhibit, the Cells of Obsession. These prisons are built from the inside-out so no one but the inhabitants has the key. The glass is one-way and very thick, so you can see them but they cannot see you.

Do not be fooled by the appearances of these prisoners, as though many look like what they are, some can actually be quite beautiful. Do not underestimate the danger that lurks here, however. These people have no clear indication of the outside world except for the cells that they have created for themselves.

That is the end of the tour and is the final show I will be presenting. As I was once an inhabitant in several of these exhibits’ it is my intent to leave here and join those who inhabit that much bigger picture called Reality Land.

You have been taken on this guided tour for a purpose, and I will now explain why: Although you came here with the most noble of intentions, it is a seductive path that has you head out to investigate these dangerous areas. Be wary of your adventures and always try to leave a path for you to follow back to where you started. If you can, have a friend go with you, so if the path behind you changes you will not have to brave these perils alone.

Many of the cursed souls who haunt these exhibits’ never had that advantage of warning, and they are now doomed to migrate from one misery to the next, always thinking they are seeking the way out, but lacking the compass to find the door.

Let this be a warning to all who leave their safe little communities, sometimes the monsters are down the path, sometimes they are around the next corner, and sometimes you discover you were the monster all along.

Be warned and stay true to your purpose of coming here.

The long strange trip of Revo Boulanger

2009-07-13T15:58:00.001-04:00

Why’d I do it?

A few people on Bleacher Report have asked me why I’m quitting, like there’s a pat, one-note answer for the question like: “My Doctor says I’m allergic to Top-Ten articles” or “My family is pissed that I forgot three of my four kids’ names”.

Sorry peep’s it ain’t that simple.

When I started out writing for the site, it was fun. I’d never tried writing before and decided to give it a shot. I read a few articles before I jumped into the pool and came to a couple conclusions:
1) There’s some pretty damned good writers here
2) There’s some pretty damned terrible writers here

I figured I could jump in and swim in the middle of the pool, away from the urine warmed kiddy section but not too close to the diving board that I end up with some Hemingway knock-off landing on my head. So I wrote an article.

It was terrible. http://bleacherreport.com/articles/76292-boston-bruins-the-fall-and-rise-of-the-bear was a colossal dud, and for good reason, it sucked.

I followed that with a second article, a little ditty about the events that occurred during a particularly nasty Bruins / Stars game called http://bleacherreport.com/articles/76442-a-galvanizing-event-thank-you-steve-ott , this one was much better (and shorter), I had my first reasonable hit.

A little encouragement went a very long way and the hook was secured to my bottom lip, so I followed that with a canonization piece about the Bruins goalie, Tim Thomas called http://bleacherreport.com/articles/78454-tim-thomas-under-the-radar-and-loving-it . This one was also kind of a dud, but since no one vomited I decided to categorize it under “success”.

Then I went completely off the beam and tried my hand at an avante garde opus called http://bleacherreport.com/articles/81507-a-tale-of-two-goaliesand-maybe-a-third . Overly complicated, obscure, and an abstract play on Homer’s Iliad this one was so toxically bad that it even confused me, and I wrote the damned thing.

By article five I had found my niche and a repeatable formula. Write from a hardcore Bruins fan’s perspective, season with self-depreciating humor, mix in a fine P.J. O’Rourke style humor gravy, and bake for one hour in sarcasm and obscure references. Allow to set for fifteen minutes after cooking and slice thick; feeds a family of six.

I kept to that lane of the highway for another 70-80 articles, amassing a reasonable fan base that seemed to be as mentally unstable as me but not so bad that restraining orders were required. I had arrived: I was now, officially an Amateur, unpaid, acquired taste, internet sports columnist. The world was now my oyster cracker.

Every once in a while the Bleacher Report administrators pass out assignments to appease some advertisers who is plugging some abysmal product or because the paid writers won’t touch the subject matter with a ten-foot pole. This was how I was given the request to write and article on Phil Kessel for CBS.com in the hopes of getting more “exposure”, kind of like a well-endowed but shy flasher.

I took it seriously and wrote the article, all the while pretending I was a serious reporter. All I needed was a cigar, a stained fedora, and an editor who yells every word at 180 decibels.

I submitted the article, which was approved and accepted by CBS.com, and promptly buried when that colossal schmuck Mats Sundin had yet another press-conference to announce that he couldn’t decide between Coke and Pepsi or what team he was going to play for or whether or not he was going to retire. It turns out he’s a Fresca drinker anyway, the pussy.

Normally I would have been heartbroken for these events if it weren’t for two things that stuck out in my mind:
1) I felt like I sold-out for not writing what I wanted to write (as I am not a Kessel fan).
2) The article, in my estimation, sucked anyway and I was relieved to see it buried.

It was about this time that I started making friends, this not a natural thing for me as I am someone who takes a while to get to know. Open and gregarious is not in my personality skill-set.

After a couple months of writing, I attracted a couple of fellow writers who were as unbalanced as myself and weren’t afraid to admit it. Pete Toth and Saraswathi Siriginia had become “Patron’s of Revo” for reasons only fully understood by them.

Saraswathi Siriginia (who from now on will be referred to as “Sarah” as my spelling is only marginally ahead of my typing skills) is one of those exotic and rare birds, she followed F1 racing, Tennis, and is adept at the kind of poetry that makes me wonder is my last IQ test was not overrated by 20-30 points. The fact that this woman actually enjoyed my bizarre ramblings amazes me to this day. This I interpret as having some quality in my writing.

Pete Toth on the other hand, I understood right away. Here was a guy as twisted, sarcastic and funny as me (we think we’re hilarious, anyway). He could well be the equivalent of my slightly older brother, except for the fact that I have no brothers and we’d probably hate each other if he actually was. If anyone encouraged me to bounce ideas higher off the wall, it was Pete.

I had written an article that both of these fine people had enjoyed apparently, a little piece that I jammed out mentally while nodding off during a work related “Value-Stream Mapping” seminar. The article was http://bleacherreport.com/articles/122896-the-bruins-entropy-and-security .

Personally, I never thought the article was that strong as it had precious little to do with the Bruins except in a beer-fuzzy kind of metaphor. These two genuinely seemed to enjoy it though and it was a good thing, because everyone else ran from it like it had the swine-flu virus attached. They tagged me as “underappreciated”, which I adored.

B/R, apparently not learning their lesson, sent out a request for writers to come up with some sports video related work that would tie in to an abysmal made-for-HBO piece of dreck that involved a retired baseball player who coached junior-high. High jinx ensued at some point but I have yet to meet anyone who has actually seen the show, I once caught ten minutes of it and was glad I decided to not write another “sell-out” article that was related to it.

Instead I went in a semi-related yet somehow vindictive direction and came out with, what I considered, my magnum opus, the mean-spirited http://bleacherreport.com/articles/122980-the-five-worst-sports-movies-ever . It was a fun piece that managed to bring together many elements that I enjoy, like bad-movies, some sports, sarcasm, wit and typing while drinking. Out 0f 100 or so articles, it is still my favorite.

Like every great piece though, it has to be followed with something equally horrible. I did not disappoint as my next article was a complete abomination, a Hockey Private-Eye story called http://bleacherreport.com/articles/124203-blade-steel-hockey-troubleshooter-the-monreal-file . Words can hardly describe the awfulness of the execution, setting and basic premise, but like a rose that grows out of a manure pile, it planted a seed.

It made me realize that I wanted to write some form of book, preferably without pictures.

I continued on my pre-destined path of Bruins worship mixed with a healthy dollop of associated weirdness for most of the regular NHL season. The ship sailed smoothly along and my friends and I had some good laughs.

When the NHL playoffs arrived, I had (for me) a brilliant idea. I would do articles with a writer from the opposing playoff teams stable! The world would be rocked to its very core as Bruins and Canadiens writers got together for the first time and wrote about every game! The articles would be a perfect display of both sides of the street in a new and daring idea!

All I needed was someone as delusional as I am (even if only temporarily). Luckily I found a sweet, innocent, respected, talented and open-minded Hab’s writer by the name of Miah who accommodated my bat-shit insane idea of mixing two groups of people who, historically, have less in common than asparagus and whipped cream.

To my amazement, Hab’s writers actually embraced the premise and several volunteered for the project. To my disappointment, Bruins writers did not, and all we had for writers was David Allan (Captain Fear) and Revo Boulanger (Captain Bullshit).

Almost everything went well, and the first two articles featured Miah and me, then Matt Eichel and (again) me. This was for games one and two for the Canadiens / Bruins playoffs, of which the Bruins won both, decisively. The Montréal writers were good sports about the whole thing though and I went out of my way to be polite and not pick on a team that looks at my favorite team like steaming dog-poo.

Games three and four (both away) would be handled by my good friend David Allan. The third game of the series was represented by Sebastien Tremblay for the Montreal corner. It was also a reasonable but not huge success but it was nice to see my idea in action without me actually having to do actual work, all around a win-win for Captain Bullshit.

At this point it was readily apparent to anyone with a sense of sight, hearing or smell that the Canadien’s were dreadfully overmatched by the Bruins, and article four never happened due to the fact that the fourth Canadiens writer (who shall remain nameless) pussied out and went into seclusion, unfortunately he eventually returned but maintains a much lower profile.

I tried the experiment again for the next round for one game with a Carolina Hurricanes writer named Sterling Eby. It was a decent piece but we didn’t know each other and were far too polite for it to be an interesting read, but Sterling was a class act and I admire his writing to this day. Too bad his piece of crap team had to knock my Bruins out of the playoff picture.

It was at this point that I noticed that the herd had thinned significantly for the Bruins writers’ stable, as wounds had to be licked, yards tended to, and Red Sox to be worshipped. Soon I was near alone in a field with the occasional tumble-weed blowing past, but I was still writing Bruins to be enjoyed by next to no one.

Now I started to notice that certain flaws existed in the whole premise of B/R. It’s hard not to notice when someone is a top writer for jamming out sports blurps that look like and extended haiku. There is also a rampant buddy-network where equally incompetent people get together to for an addle-brained union of sorts, the focus of which becomes to promote each other and ignore inconsistencies in the uses and applications of contractions like “you’re”.

This really wasn’t that bad as most of these “writers” would have gotten laughed out of a kindergarten creative writing circle, but then I made the dreadful mistake and looked closer at the top of the B/R heap.

Apparently altitude made people crazy-competitive and virtual oral-sex was not out of the question for those whose life appeared to revolve around garnering the holy grail of sucking-up, the POTD (either Pick of the Day or Poop of the Day, depending on the article).

I read a few POTD articles and the vast majority read like the obituaries as interpreted by Bob Costas and Danielle Steel. It wasn’t a winner if it wasn’t written about someone, or even something, that died tragically, horribly, and had a deep effect on sports (????).

The primary theme appeared to be “How my dead goldfish led me to realize that the Yankees might be somewhat overrated” or “My Uncle played catch with me twice so he’s the ultimate sports figure in the history of the universe, before he got drunk and run over by a bus.”

The ultimate expression of this literary masturbation is on display for all to see, as this morning I read the POTD article (7/13/09). It was no word of a lie, about a dead dog. I don’t think he even once got past the conference semi-finals.

Needless to say, my blunt and dispassionate side eventually ate my open-mindedness as yet another bizarre mentally defective scenario appeared on the rubber-room horizon, alter-ego’s became the upper-echelon BR hot button as it turns out that the site, out of over 10,000 members, has only 150 that seem to actually write articles (if you believe the naysayer’s) or 350 writers (if you believe the supporters).

Either way I never knew when I was having a six way conversation with only one person, as the personality splits could be so violently opposed (even to themselves) that any statement made was as dangerous as pogo-sticking in a minefield.

Knowing myself to be an impressionable sort, I managed to try to avoid this situation for a while, but it was only a matter of time before too many beers mixed with too much people generated bullshit (like there’s any other kind) poured over a friends strife caused the solid propellant in my brain to ignite and send me at an uncontrolled velocity to the suspected target.

The short story: I joined the insane and was welcomed with open arms. I went from “Revo the oddball” to “Revo the nutcase”.

I only semi-extricated myself from this self-righteous bog when I had yet another revelation: In addressing the myriad of issues, battles and misconceptions that were floating around the upper-strata of the site, the administrators had mirrored my own countries flawed tactics used in Vietnam, i.e. they showed up four months late and bombed the wrong country.

This set me on a new path that ensured my mental stability would fray even more. I set my sites on the powers that be, including my own “rank” (a fitting description on several levels) the Community Leaders AND the clueless Administrators.

Here’s where the light of deductive reasoning started to break through the canopy and showed me that I needed to get out, soon.

Between the Admin and the CL’s I realized that either party was ill-equipped to handle the nuttiest people on the planet, i.e. writers.

By ignoring some issues and sweeping others under an increasingly lumpy rug, the admin had abdicated all visible power to the CL’s, which was the moral equivalent of providing Cannibals with machetes and hibachis, then sending them out to baby-sit the children.

Also at this time I had performed some mental arithmetic, and came to the stunning mathematical conclusion that;

(self-righteous indignation) x (numbers of articles written) x ($0.00) = 0.

I had finally broken the situation down into terms that even I could understand, after only 9 short months. I am not a quick learner, apparently.

So now we have traveled full circle, and I left with exactly what I came with (nothing), I hope I have learned something from all this but the heat of up-close involvement tends to obscure the big picture. I can’t see the forest through the pine-needles.

I shouldn’t really say that I came away with nothing, as I’ve met and stay in communication with several fine people, so perhaps this is a lesson for others so that they can somehow avoid the aggravating pit-falls that I have endured on this arduous but depressingly circular journey.

People are nuts, lots of people together are more nuts, and lots of writers together are a free-range insane asylum.

Count me out.

Growth by shrinkage

2009-06-29T07:31:00.000-04:00

As we here are probably all aware, business can be ruthless. Successful business, anyway.
Hey, we've probably seen some ruthless moves and assessments here, and we do this for free.
The NHL, like it or not, is still a business at heart, a cold, black, inky heart, just like the big boys.
They have employees in Human Resources, Sales and Marketing, Quality Control, and Production.

They have one overriding objective: To get more profits from customers and to expand their market position.

Just like every other business they have to realize that at some point you have to batten down the hatches, stockpile what you need, get rid of excess, and ride out the storm. It's not fun: feelings get hurt, lives are affected, and security feels to be non-existent.
That's why, generally, only the strong and smart survive.

Surviving is great, but the truly visionary develop a plan that would put them ahead of the curve when the storm finally lifts. While a gamble, this is what can create greatness.

The storm appears to have only just started, so survival is objective number one. The dead have very limited options.

Objective number two is to see how to swing survival to one's advantage. If you're going to survive a situation, try to end up stronger than your competitor, if they survive.
The NHL, if it plays the chess-game correctly, has an opportunity to have a power and domination not seen in its entire history within the next five years.

You may want to take a moment to think about that sentence and consider the possibilities, or to swallow that drink before you scatter remnants of it all over your keyboard. Those with dry sinuses please read on.

In it's primary marketing target area (the United States); the NHL has never been higher than number four on the professional sports landscape. It put up a good show and fight for a while, but has slowly been losing ground over the last 20-30 years as NASCAR, Golf, Tennis, and (ahem) Poker have all had tried to move up the food chain with varying success at staying there.
In its secondary marketing target area (Canada), the NHL has a product that dominates the sporting landscape. Much as baseball is perceived in America, Hockey is bolstered by History, Tradition and Mythology. It is a revered and romanticized entity. The church is already filled to overflowing (so to speak): the sales pitch is not needed.

But the U.S. is a fickle and elusive beast. So much size, population, and ethnic variation make its reactions far less predictable, but the rewards are immense. The money pouring into Baseball and Football in this country, while bound to be reduced over the next few years, would still boggle the mortal mind with astronomical figures. Everything below second most popular may well be up for grabs soon. That's the brass ring that the NHL needs to target, the number three position.

...then sink its hooks in deep enough to stay there.
The NHL has several ingredients for success percolating along nicely:

1) Youth hockey in the U.S. is on the rise. The popularity is slipping down the age brackets at the amateur ranks.

2) Say what you will about the southernmost franchises, they have helped to raise “awareness” of the sport, where none previously existed.

3) Carbon fiber, advanced electronics and lightweight materials make hockey one of the more technologically savvy sports products (excluding F1).

4) Filmed right, hockey can pick up dramatic and sensationalistic attributes not available in other sports.

So how does this make Hockey more of a saleable product, and why does it need a five year plan to reach its ultimate success?

More quality product will be available:
The rise of interest in hockey, at a younger age, will increase the available amount of talent that is coming to draft age. Couple this with the inevitable dissolution of the KHL (nice try guys, but no cigar) and hockey may no longer look quite so…diluted…as it has for the past few decades.

Awareness of product in new areas:
Hockey is perceived as, for the most part, a Caucasian dominated sport. No one race has a lock on all talent, so consider all the untapped ability and talent out there that is just waiting to be nurtured and cultivated.

Techno-savvy:
America is technology obsessed: everyone knows it and everyone caters to it. Hockey is a natural as it could readily accept all sorts of gadgets and gadgets sell.

Camera presence:
Filmed capably, hockey has a bit of everything: Racing speed, screaming crowds, obscene chatter, and John Woo levels of violence.

F*#! art, baby…lets dance.

Hockey has a certain “traditional” filming technique, pick up a few out of work rock video guys to inject some new blood into the filming crew and see how interesting the results are.

Put all these factors together and Hockey could dominate the landscape, accommodating and evolving with they future while keeping its past identity. The best of both worlds.
So what’s the catch?

The catch is that thing have to get worse before they can get better. A lot worse.
…and by worse, I mean contraction. When the market tanks and the purse isn’t big enough, that means lay offs and sacrifices.

The NHL has to sacrifice some parts to keep the rest of the body healthy. It cannot sustain maintaining franchises in area that are not capable by either population, available disposable income or marketing interest, of supporting their own survival. It’s time to cull the herd.
Who to cull? That’s a possible avenue for future discussion, and I’ve expressed enough conjecture and theory for one article.

But consider, for a moment, the possibilities. Younger fans probably have little recollection of when Hockey was a viable force in the U.S. of A: but older fans remember a time where most hockey players would be recognized on the street, when a hockey game could be found on a major network, when local sports radio actually discussed hockey on a regular basis.
Believe me kids, these things once existed.

…and could again.

Traditions of Rivlary

2009-06-29T07:12:00.000-04:00

Traditions: So hard to change, so easy to accept.

Tradition can hold an important place in people’s lives, providing a link to the past and keeping us aware of the history of a given event.

Tradition has families setting up the Christmas tree on a set date prior to the main event. Tradition has certain meals and certain guests for certain holidays. Tradition can even influence the political party we vote for, the beer we drink, the cars we buy or the teams we root for.

At what point does tradition become an impediment? Can tradition hold back advancement and evolution of our perceptions and understanding?

The tradition that has me questioning evolution is with a time-honored rivalry. The Bruins vs. Canadiens is considered one of the most storied rivalries in professional hockey. It breeds tradition on the part of fans and players alike. Reality and rational thought can be excused as history overwhelms us and brings about Pavlovian responses.
Ring the bell (or sing the anthems) and we salivate, like the conditioned being we’ve become. These games are a little more intense than against 28 other teams.

But is this a good thing?

Even the most fanatical of Bruins fans has to admit, over the last century (yes, century) the Bruins have usually ended up with the short end of the stick when the inevitable comparison comes around. Montreal has the skill, speed and passing. Boston has the power, physical play and scoring. More often than not Boston wins the battles, Montreal wins the wars.

I question if this rivalry is even relevant anymore, does it translate to the new millennium?

It’s time for the Bruins and their fans to change their mind-set. Perception CAN change; history can be allowed to fade before it can impair natural evolution.

It’s time for the mythology and mystique that surround les Habitants to be scrapped, Boston no longer needs it and it’s run its course. It’s time to turn the page, so to speak. The Bruins no longer require this historical baggage that they’ve toted around for SO long now.

Montreal is no longer that high-scoring, high-flying, French player dominated team it was in decades past. The Bruins are no longer the cursed underdog with more knuckles than brain-cells, an earnest but doomed collection of middling talent. The league has evolved past the point of needing those perceptions; they haven’t been accurate assessments of the two teams for several decades now anyway. Only the uniforms have remained the same, underneath it’s a very different collection of ingredients.

Fans may lament the “Old School” NHL as it struggles to regain ground lost over the past few decades, and to a certain extent, they have a point. Hockey HAS become less gritty and emotional. Players are more politically correct (nobody asked you Mr. Avery, so keep your non-playing posterior in its seat). Conditioning and fitness are on a different planet than they were in hockey’s “golden ages”. Is this for the better? Maybe not, But it is what it is, and for hockey to survive the league and the fans have to accept and embrace evolution.

Evolution can be fought, but ask how the Dodo, the short faced bear, eight track tapes and Oldsmobile have faired. Short answer: not that well.

The Bruins are a much different team than they were decades before, even the league itself has disregarded many of its “traditions”. When was the last time anyone witnessed a bench clearing brawl? A helmetless player? A toothless goalie?

The league has tried to move beyond uncontrolled random violence (I said TRIED for all those readers who are readying Bertuzzi, Simon and Ruutu references), It’s shown interest in players health and safety, it’s moved into climates that barely have rain, never mind snow and ice. It’s attempting to evolve.

Is it successful? The jury is still out on that.

Would it survive if it didn’t accept change? Not a chance.

So I return to my primary point (thought I forgot, didn’t you) in regards to the Bruins and Canadiens rivalry. It’s time to stop catering to elaborate window dressing and dated perceptions. We as fans can do better, and so can the Bruins.

I realize that I risk being accused of heresy, from both sides of the coin, but the plain facts for the Bruins are:

The Montreal Canadiens are just a team, nothing more, nothing less. Their earth-stomping days are a fading memory. Like any number of 60’s era muscle cars would be put on a trailer if they went against a modern turbocharged 4 cylinder sedan, the myth holds more power than the reality, and at the end of the day, reality trumps perception every time.

The Habs are stocked with European players and are owned by an American. The only French spoken ends for the most part, after the Canadian national anthem. The times, they are a changin’, and this is a good thing.

Small, fast, good passing players when on offense, a left wing lock when protecting a lead, these are no longer solely Montreal trademarks. The strategy has been refined, adopted, and yes, evolved, into something utilized by several other teams, to varying degrees of success.

The sooner these mystical and magical demons are purged, the sooner the Bruins can move on with their own destiny. Whether or not their historical position, when compared to the Canadiens, is deserved or just an elaborate psych-out is irrelevant. The Bruins no longer need the historical excuse/crutch to inhibit success. It’s become a monument to itself and even monuments crumble and fade with the passing of time, sometimes for the better.

A new age of fans has no patience for the “Montreal curse”; the Bruins lost most of those games due to a lack of depth or flawed strategy. There was no Gypsy fortune tellers, Tarot cards or passages from Nostradamus involved. They lost because Montreal played the game better. They lost because Boston, for the most part, had less talent. The fates had nothing to do with it; reality is what has let down the faithful Bruins fans. As painful as it is to write (and it is painful) romanticizing those times has provided zero benefit for the Bruins and their fans.

This team no longer needs the excess baggage of the past, they’re a hybrid: traditional Bruins physical play meshed with a cohesive strategy and balanced attack. They don’t need to overwhelm and engulf opponents anymore. They just need to score more goals while allowing fewer goals against. That’s all there is to it. Everything else is historical balloon juice.

Does this make me less of a fan? I don’t believe it does. It makes me rational and reasonable. I’ve written my share of romantically rhapsodized articles glorifying a mythological past; I’m as guilty of over-glorifying those heady times as anyone.

But I’ve moved on, and so can the Bruins.

Here’s to the future and the glory that can be achieved.