"C'mon, you can't give up now Jack ol' boy."
"Fuck it, Harry; I'm done, game called on account of pain."
"But the Cubs are only one game away . . ."
"Fuck the Cubs. They're not worth it. Besides, they'll find a way to lose."
"You're wrong, Jack. This is THE year. Everyone's talking about it--even the angels are making I-guess-hell's-frozen-over cracks."
But you said HE's a Yankee fan.
"Nobody's perfect. And big boy's back, Jack. Wouldn't you like to get mud on your turtle one last time? That hot nurse, for instance . . ."
"CLEAR!"
Gyp cringed as the current jerked her grandfather's body yet again. The crash team had worked on him for the last 10 minutes or so, making his frail body dance with repeated jolts of electricity.
"Charge to 300 ... CLEAR!"
"This is pointless; he's gone. And they could cover him at least," Gyp muttered, noticing her grandfather's erect phallus. "Poor Grams, that's the smallest prick I've ever seen. It's like a penis, only smaller. Nothing like Ron Santo's. Now there's a man who should be in the Hall of Fame. Pookee sure would like to meet him." A rhythmic beeping sound returned Gyp's attention to her grandfather.
"Hold on! We've got a pulse. . . . Good job, people, he's back."
BAM! The morning dove exploded in a cloud of feathers. "Stupid bird," Brant muttered as he dropped his--once Tsang's--piece and climbed back into bed, covering his head with a pillow. That's the last time that bird would wake him up at 5 a.m.
After Gyp ran off, Brant and Meiske had met up with Varsho & Co. and raged the night away, celebrating another ĦEse Se Jugada Profesional! victory. Brant had never seen so much coke. And the whores . . . Wow . . . They made a one-balled, ex-cancer patient feel like a porn star. Varsho had relayed how Brant had taken out Brooks (a.k.a. Tsang) to his superiors and ĦEse Se Jugada Profesional! liked his style. He would never have to work as a mall Santa ever again. All he had to do was kill Gyp, who knew too much. But that could wait. He had to shake this hangover first.
A familiar, yet long-lost sight greeted Jack Boomer as he opened his eyes. "Big guy! Oh, have I missed you buddy." Jack reached down and grabbed himself. "Now, where'd that hot nurse run off to?" The door to Jack's room opened. "Ah, here she comes." And in walked Gyp, stirring a cup of coffee. "Fuck."
"Hi, Grandpa. You gave us quite a scare. How are you feeling?"
"Like shit. I need the nurse."
"I'll get her," said Gyp as she pressed the call box.
"How long have I been sleeping?"
"A while. All night and a most of today too. It's 6 p.m."
"So I haven't missed any of game 7."
"Game 7? Oh, right, the World Series, I think that's on at like 7. But how can you think of baseball right now? I mean, you're still alive. Don't you want to do something? Maybe get some fresh air . . ." Gyp had had her fill of baseball--ex-players, gambling and otherwise.
"No, that's all I want to do," snapped Jack, which wasn't entirely true. Doing the nurse was also on the docket. Speaking of which, "Where the hell is that bitch?"
"Grandpa!"
A handsome young man walked into the room. "Someone call for a nurse?"
As Gyp reflectively reached for Pookee, Jack muttered, "Fuck. I'll get you for this Harry."