A Visit From the Goon Squad

By HoraceClarke66

Dr. Odu and Dr. Ogu beamed down from the flight deck of the Oumuamu together, as was their wont. They materialized simultaneously next to the seemingly abandoned warehouse near the Bronx River, where there was only a homeless wino who had been there since the 2004 Debacle to scare witless.

The two of them proceeded in lockstep to the inner sanctum of the “warehouse,” where of course Juju Enterprises, Inc., was now in full operation, all “working from home” exemptions having long ago been canceled with a sneer and a threat.

 

The chief Juju imp rose tremulously from his control console to greet the visitors, while the rest of his staff hung back amidst the piles of accumulated fast-food wrappers and empty Cel-ray soda bottles, dreading what was to come next.

 

No one liked a visit from the doctors, with their strangely nondescript faces, their matching gray suits and ties, and slim briefcases. It usually meant that heads were going to roll. Literally.

 

“We have returned from headquarters after a full briefing on your activities,” said Dr. Odu.

 

“And after much consultation, we have reached a conclusion,” said Dr. Ogu.

 

“Yesssss?” asked the chief imp, though he feared that his soul might be ripped from his body if he so dared to open his mouth.

 

Dr. Odu smiled. So did Dr. Ogu. It was a bizarre sight, one that caused much of the console glass to shatter, and milk to curdle throughout the greater Tri-state area.

 

“Congratulations!” said Dr. Odu.

 

“Wha-what?”

 

“Congratulations! Headquarters was unanimous. Never have we seen a fan base so brilliantly played as you did with the New York Yankees’ slavish followers this season!”

 

“Congratulations!” added Dr. Ogu.

 

“The Big Guy was almost in tears, it was so beautiful,” Dr. Odu said, removing his glasses for the first time in that last four millennia to wipe away a tear of his own.

 

“First, you have a team predicted to excel, even make the World Series, by the many foolish mortals on this planet,” Dr. Ogu recapitulated.

 

“Then, they stink for the first half of the season, losing one heartbreaking game after another. What a set-up!” added Dr. Odu.

 

“Then, they start to win. Cashman, our evil thrall for all eternity, seems to make some savvy deals at the trade deadline!”

 

“The fans, they-they start to believe! Even the hardened cynics who have endured so many years of Cashman!  They think it’s really possible that this team can win something!”

 

“They start to compare it to 1996, the poor saps!”

 

“They win 13 in a row. Thirteen!  The devil’s number!”

 

“Which should have told them something. But it didn’t,” chuckled Dr. Ogu. “Believe me, though, the Big Guy appreciated the tribute!”

 

“But it’s how you have crushed their hopes that contains the real stroke of genius!” gushed Dr. Odu. “Not through some simple, Black Swan intervention, satisfying as that always is.”

 

“No! Rather than have players get injured, you have them get well!”

 

“Just in time to have the Yankees play their last month like it’s spring training! Brilliant!” 

 

The doctors actually high-fived, which made a sound like a cat being gutted with a rusty spoon.

 

“So I guess that’s that, then, huh?” asked Dr. Ogu. “You’re not going to let them make the playoffs, are you? Or do you have something in mind for the big finale?”

 

“Well, we-we do have something up our sleeves—” stuttered the chief imp.

 

“Wait, wait, don’t spoil it!” cried Dr. Odu. “We’re going to be circling this neck of the galaxy for a couple months still aboard the Oumuamua, and I can’t wait to see how you pull this off live!”

 

“And from the Big Guy himself, all of us at headquarters can only say: ‘You complete us.’ ”

 

The doctors dematerialized. Down in the warehouse, nobody moved or breathed for the next ten seconds. Then the chief imp slumped back in his chair and swallowed half a bottle of Maalox in one long gulp.

 

“Where is it?” he asked threateningly, getting up again and sweeping away the accumulated Kit-Kat wrappers and day-old burritos that covered the relevant part of the console. “Holy hell, where is it?!”

 

“You gotta believe us, chief, we just got distracted working on that Mets program!”

 

“You’ll see, it’s a doozy we got goin’, chief!”

 

The chief imp ignored them, staring down at the controls—set as they had not been for 25 years on “Miracle Win.” With a grin that would make a saint vomit, he clicked the switch off.

 

“I’ll deal with you two moaxes later. Let’s just say we got lucky. Now—how do we bring this baby home?”