“We lost today because I failed to do my job,” a dejected Shaun Suisham spoke into a reporter’s microphone. “My job is to make field goals, and I didn’t do that today.”  The sure-footed kicker had uncharacteristically shanked two short field goals.  The resulting 6-point swing was just enough for the Oakland Raiders to claim victory. 

“Uh, no more questions now guys,” he said as he put on his over-coat.  “I have to get going.”

“Getting out of dodge huh, Shaun?” a reporter asked.

“Yeah, something like that.”

He rushed out of the locker room, deflecting the glares of defensive lineman and wide-receivers.  As a kicker, he was used to the criticism.  But it didn’t matter right now.  There were more important things at hand than the fickle stares of teammates.  He pushed past a group of press people and made his way into the hallway.   

He felt a singular vibration in his pocket.  It was a text message from an unknown number.  Eight o’clock on the dot.  “Right on time,” he thought.  The message contained another phone number.  From what Shaun remembered about his initial instructions, he was supposed to call that number from a landline exactly 6 minutes after he received the text.  That’s when he would receive his final instructions.

Suisham ducked into a shadowy hallway of the Oakland Coliseum.  This stadium was built in the 60’s so the hallways were still hardwired with payphones.  He dropped his duffle bag onto the tile and rummaged around until he found some change.  His hand shook as he dropped the quarters and dimes into the small metal slot.  He placed a small device on the end of the receiver and dialed the number.

The phone only rang once before the voice on the other end started speaking.  “Your end of the
bargain has been fulfilled,” the voice spoke in a muffled tone.

“Fine,” Suisham barked.  “Where are my children?”

“Your children are unharmed.  They will be dropped off in a safe neighborhood.  They will likely wander the street until a Good Samaritan or local police officer finds them.”

“But how will I…” The phone clicked and the dial-tone resumed its cold drone.

The place kicker pulled the small device from the pay-phone.  He went into his duffle bag again, this time retrieving a small silver laptop.  He opened the laptop on the ground and plugged the device into its USB port.  After a few moments, the triangulation was complete.  The screen read, “Kansas City, KS.”

Suisham muttered to himself, “Number three. I should have known.”

He closed the laptop and placed it back in his bag.  He dug a bit deeper down into a secret side pocket.  The heaviness of the lead lining made the bag feel lopsided but it was useful for sneaking contraband onto airlines.  He felt the reassuring cold steel of his Sig 1911 and zipped the bag completely.  There were voices coming closer in the adjacent hallway.  Suisham stood up, adjusted his coat, and walked calmly to the exit. 

There was a plane to catch to Kansas City.  He had a bullet with Jeff Reed’s name on it.

I think as a society we are getting less and less patient with children.  I was on a plane a few weeks back and I saw this guy get pissed at a crying baby. The baby was losing it during takeoff and he just couldn’t handle it. The guy was just mumbling to himself, “God can’t someone get that baby under control.”  It was that classic passive aggressive move, where you say something under your breath but you want it to carry just enough so the person you’re muttering about hears it.  He sat back down and cracked open his SkyMall Magazine, trying to ignore it.

If I was the parents and I heard that, I’d get riled up.  “Oh is our tiny baby bothering you?  We tried telling him it’s rude to scream on an airplane but he doesn’t understand logic or society or words yet. We’ll just stuff him up in the overhead compartment. I can see you’re very busy trying to find novelty alarm clocks shaped like Yankee Stadium.  So sorry to interrupt.”

Really I think babies would have a pretty good argument as to why they cry on planes. 

“Hi I’m Devin and I’m 12 weeks old. Here are the reasons I’m crying right now:

1) This thing is loud

2) When it shakes, I get scared

3) When the air pressure increases I feel like my soft, new skull is going to explode 

So…Waa…”

Wow!  What a season we’ve had here in Pittsburgh.  I would like to thank my staff for providing such a great thrill ride this Fall.  It’s been a while since Pittsburghers were able to be proud of their baseball team.  The Pirates organization had its first winning season in 21 years, as well as its first playoff run in as much time.  We saw record attendance levels and a great boost in our local economy.  Overall, the team has been a big winner for Pittsburgh this season.

And you know what?  You all are so welcome.

I’ve spent the better part of the last ten years being the spittoon of this town.  Every move I made, some dipstick from Verona said I didn’t know what I was doing.  Every time I traded some sucky player for a draft pick or a prospect, some dope in Bethel Park called Bob Pompieni to question my motives.  There were people who nearly messed themselves when I drafted Gerrit Cole in the first round.  You know who you are, and there are a lot of you.

And you know what you can all do now?  You can all suck it.

“Well, how are you going to repeat it?” that’s what some unemployed, tub-of-lard in Monroeville is complaining about right now.  He’s spitting out my name along with flecks of Cheetoh’s at the BP he’s loitering at.  “Bob Nutting needs to sign AJ Burnett and Marlon Byrd and get Pedro Alvarez to agree a long-term deal.”

You know what?  No I don’t.

You see, I own the team.  I can do whatever I want.  I could fire Clint Hurdle for chewing too much gum.  I could trade McCutchen for a box of crackerjacks if I want to.   I could make Starling Marte learn English.  I control this thing that you pour your life into.  Do you understand?  I control it.  And what I did this year was nothing short of a miracle.  After years of calling for boycotts and offering ill-advised opinions to your imbecile friends at whatever local dump you frequent, you mouth-breathing idiots were given something to live for in October.

So you know what?  You know what?  Why don’t you climb in your little piece of crap jalopy that’s parked outside on the Southside Slopes, load up your stupid moron kids, and take them up to Seven Springs for a nice post-season celebration.

Suck.  It.