Aaron Boone and Brian Cashman

After five years of a six-year rebuild, a life-long Yankee fan has had enough.  He takes off his sombrero and hangs it on the coat rack to the right of his kitchen door.  He pats his dogs on the head, and opens the door to let them outside.  Careful to compensate for arthritic joints impaired from years of shoveling gravel and a long ago ass injury, he minds the stairs to his basement step by step.  Fumbling a bit with his left hand for the dangling metal string, he pulls down and the space illuminates from a single, bare incandescent light bulb.  In the corner to his right, behind a case of Sweet Baby Rays Original BBQ Sauce - his only condiment-inspired vice - stands a gun case.  

Letting out a sigh, he removes his glasses, runs his hand through his graying blond hair, and fixes a stare at the combination lock.  It's a number he has tumbled on the circular dial in only the most dire of circumstances:  36-24-36.  He smiles at the double-entendre:  the corresponding digits represent his conception of the finest figure of womanhood and the number of steals, outfield assists, and home runs he hit in his last season playing amateur baseball.

He hears the tumbler click with the last turn of the dial, and he pulls open the gun case.  He recalls being offered ten dollars by the previous owner just to haul the heavy fireproof safe away.  It has rested in his basement ever since.  His blue eyes dilate to comprehend the contents inside the dark safe, as the lone basement lightbulb's illumination only reaches so far.  As he last left it more than a decade ago, stands a high-powered bolt action rifle. The Winchester Model 70 sniper rifle chambered for use with 30-06 ammunition along with an eight-power Unertl scope is nearly identical to the one used by Marine sniper Carlos Hathcock.  The Arkansas native and gunnery sargeant had come home from the conflict in Viet Nam a legend with 93 confirmed kills and for 35 years held the record for the longest elimination of an enemy combatant at just over 2500 yards.  

Kneeling in front of the gun safe, his right hand felt the weapon's Black Walnut wooden stock.  Cool and smooth to the touch, his nostrils simultaneously tasted the sweetness of gun oil and cordite.  The olfactory system picked the locked door of his former double-life that he left behind long ago, rekindling a swath of imagery both arousing and deadly.  His head bowed as if in silent prayer as he lifted the rifle out from the safe, resolving his five-year cognitive battle with the new general manager of the New York Yankees and the destruction of a once proud franchise.  "This is worse than the CBS debacle," he thought to himself.  He rose to his feet and pivoted toward the stairs.  His mind made up.  The consequences well understood.  The eerie singular focus overtaking him, like a subroutine of computer coding enacted as a last resort, his mind quieted and his senses sharpened to an edge he had not recalled.  He knew this one last act was over as sure and as soon as it had begun.  One name with two-syllables whispered just beyond his lips:  DoMe.  

He went out to ancient Hummer, carefully setting the gun on the back seat. He climbed in the driver’s seat and the old car started despite the sub-zero summer’s night temperatures.

In older times he would have driven the near-two thousand trip to Dome’s Baja -California compound straight through, but not this time. This time he was serious, he meant business. He drove north instead, he’d be at his favorite spot, the UFO tower in Hooper within 10 minutes or so.

He knew it was closed this time of night during the week, but he kept a nice set of bolt cutters in the back of the truck. He’d snap the Wal-Mart purchased Master lock like it was made of Chinese steel (since it was) and then he’d get the gun out, strap it over his shoulder and climb the tower, all the while glancing over his shoulder to the south west to see if Dome’s light was still on for his evening fivesome with two local girls and some non-descript animals. When he’d reach the top and set up the tripod he had hand built out of local scrap.

He’d set the rifle atop, begin his long wait until Dome was exhausted from his hours long sexual respite. And then, just before the moment of truth, when he could hear Dome’s ladies unleashing another scream of delight like banshees through the crisp cold air, the old man would fall asleep, tumbling from the tower to his death.

His spirit would rise from his body to find a life of wonderful peace and quiet. A world where there were no competitive sports to be concerned about. It would be so peaceful and he would find he could move about with no more pain, no more anxiety and be anywhere he wanted to be in an instant. That was the best of it all. Yes, everything had gone to plan. He said “Now I can get that son of a monkey (no one knew how to curse in the spiritual world.) He wondered if Ruthie would continue to buy the sports package and watch the Yankees games in his honor…

Stay tuned for next weeks portion of “Six Year Plan, My Ass. (I’ll get that son of a monkey.)”

, Well done, rizz. You should write a novel!

I like "The Ingerson Dilemma"