Tuesday, September 28, 2021

HoraceClarke66: "Oumuamua Youa"

 From the dark and disturbed, yet still salvageable mind of HoraceClarke66...

Dr. Odu and Dr. Ogu transported down from the Oumuamua to the same, seemingly abandoned warehouse along the Bronx River where they had materialized just three weeks before.

Lying on the concrete there was the same wino they had seen the last time—only now he was sleeping on his back, with an empty bottle of Night Train next to him, a Yankees hat on his head, and a beatific smile on his face. 

 Dr. Ogu and Dr. Odu frowned at each other, causing thunder to rumble over Queens. Then they passed into the warehouse, with its sign reading “JuJu Enterprises.”

 “Well, well, gentlemen, this is a surprise!” exclaimed the chief imp, rushing over to greet them.  “What brings you back to this neck of the woods?”

 “Consternation,” said Dr. Odu.

 “Over a certain series in Boston,” said Dr. Ogu.

 “I thought that might catch your attention!” exclaimed the chief imp, politely offering each of the doctors a bowl of blood. 

 “Management was certain that a soul-crushing sweep was in order,” said Dr. Ogu. “That is, a sweep by the other guys.”

 “Losing to the Red Sox in their evil yellow and blue jerseys. The Wild Card race, pathetic as it is, ending in Fenway before thousands of demonic, Bostonian smiles,” said Dr. Odu.

 “Yes. That’s what The Big Guy expected to happen,” said Dr. Ogu.

 “When he sat down in front of his big-screen for the weekend he was most disappointed. He was forced to switch to the Mets and the Jets for healthy, soulless entertainment,” said Dr. Odu. “Although he still has a soft spot in his heart for A-Rod and Joe Buck.”

 “Well don’t you worry your little…um, heads!” the chief imp told them a little too excitedly—shivering when he noticed how they had drained their bowls of blood without seeming to have so much as moved their strangely nondescript faces in any way whatsoever.  “We have the situation, er, well in hand!  Just you wait and see!”

 “Is it going to be a sweep by the Blue Jays up in Toronto?” Dr. Ogu asked eagerly, his eyes shining like a cobra’s. “You know, The Big Guy bought a patch on that jacket!”

 “Are they going to lose it in The Devil’s Triangle—that stadium down in St. Petersburg? You know he loves that place!” Dr. Odu asked eagerly, his incisors a suspiciously red shade.

 “Oh, you’ll just have to see!”

 “What, what, tell us!” the bad doctors said together, they were so excited. “The playoffs, is that it? Extra innings in the seventh game of the World Series???”

 “Now, now!” said the chief imp. “That would be telling!”

 “It’s all right,” said Dr. Odu, giving the chief imp a shoulder squeeze that left the little rascal wondering if his shoulder blade was broken. “You know, The Big Guy really trusts you, the way you came off that 13-game winning streak.”

 “We’re sure you’re going to outdo yourselves,” said Dr. Ogu, giving the chief imp a slap on the back that almost caused his pancreas to jump out through his throat. “We can’t wait to see what you come up with next on the Season in Hell!”

 “Oh, yes, you can!” laughed the chief imp, and after a few more affectionate nipple twists, head butts and wedgies, the doctors dematerialized again, and left.

 The chief imp look back at his staff, their faces still chalky with shock. Fortunately, that was how most people and even fiends looked around the doctors.

 Impatiently, he pushed back the usual piles of pizza boxes, half-eaten taco shells, and empty Cel-ray soda bottles. Underneath, the JuJu controls were turning bright red with heat, smoke pouring up from the console.

 “Dammit, who the hell stuck this software in?!” he exploded at his staff.

 “I don’t get it. It worked just fine with the Mets,” a junior imp programmer said miserably.

 “The Mets can take this stuff! They always loose in awful, evil ways!” exclaimed the chief imp.

 “Instead, it’s-it’s making the Yankees better!” pointed out another junior imp.

 Instinctively, they all started to back away from the console.

 “I don’t know if this season can take anymore!” an imp with a heavy Scottish accent said, helpfully pointing out the obvious. “I think it’s going to blow!”

 “It ALREADY blows!” yelled the chief imp. “I’m-I’m starting to feel like a fan!!!”


ZacharyA said...

Pitching matchups in the Red Sox/Orioles series:

Tue: Chris Sale (2.57 ERA) vs. Bruce Zimmermann (4.83 ERA)
Wed: Nathan Eovaldi (3.88 ERA) vs. Zac Lowther (7.66 ERA)
Thur: Nick Pivetta (4.52 ERA) vs. Alexander Wells (7.61 ERA)

What a joke.

ranger_lp said...

Oumuamua looks like a huge dookie...

TheWinWarblist said...

What about Dr. Olu? Where for art thou Dr Olu?

Are you with me Dr Olu? Are you really just a shadow of the man that I once knew?

DickAllen said...

Are you crazy, are you high, or just an ordinary guy?

Have they finally got to you?

HoraceClarke67 said...

ranger, I thought the same thing!

Is this some kind of giant, cosmic joke? Or is that the Yankees?

Rufus T. Firefly said...

Is that a real poncho, or a Sears poncho?

Are those zircon encrusted tweezers?

Kevin said...

She had that
Camarillo brillo
Flamin' out along her head,
I mean her Mendocino bean-o
By where some bugs had made it red

JM said...

Duque, this was so crazy I thought it was Hoss.

And I mean that in a good way.

HoraceClarke67 said...

Of COURSE it's me! Who else would it be? Didn't you catch the first installment?

Anonymous said...

That floating turd harkens back to a Star Trek Episode (the original, and I can't remember the name). The turd was a planet destroyer that apparently outlived the civilization which created it. Even as kids my friends and I got a big laugh over the "design", you'd think that Gene Roddenberry and Friends could have come up with something a little more, uh, "tasteful".

"Are up you making fun of my friend, 'Bigguth Dickith'"?

JM said...

Hoss...lol!! Yes, it's you, alright.