Walking down the sidewalk before the start of Game Six, Ron Santo was in another bad mood. Cubs management had just informed him that, due to a last minute switch, he had been scratched from the Cubs' tentative plans for the Game Seven festivities.
Apparently, reports of another former Cub's inspirational battle with cancer and his subsequent nervous breakdown had caused a surprising outpouring of sympathy and support from Cubs fans. As a result, the Cubs organization had chosen to invite him, not Santo, to attend the game as "Mr. Cub" Ernie Banks' guest of honor.
"Fuck," Santo thought to himself. "This deranged fuck runs around ruining the spirit of Christmas for everybody, and yet he is more worthy of honor than the greatest third baseman in the Cubs' pathetic history. Bunch of assholes."
But the loss of his Game Seven seat of honor wasn't the only thing pissing off Santo tonight: As a result of the Cubs' new Brant Brown-inspired cancer-awareness program, he'd been sent off on another one of those awful PR visits. Tonight he was en route to the local hospital to meet with a long-time Cubs fan who was terminally ill. He had to watch Game Six alongside Jack Boomer's hospital bed.
As he approached the hospital entrance, Santo crossed his fingers. "With any luck, this guy will blow his head off during the pre-game just like the last one."
Brant Brown paced anxiously. He had just received the phone call inviting him to attend Game Seven, but that was the furthest thing from his mind right now. He was waiting for one of Varsho's men to come pick up Tsang's car, which was full of drugs, stolen goods, and Tsang's own body wrapped carefully in garbage bags and duct tape.
"You know," Gyp said, "in a funny way I'm sorta gonna miss Brooks."
"Who the fuck is Brooke?" Brant responded.
"Brooks. I mean Tsang. I just called him Brooks because it doesn't feel right to call him by some stupid nickname, now that he's dead and all. Brooks is his real name."
Brant now realized why Tsang, beneath his greasy stubble and sunglasses, had looked so familiar. Brant and Brooks Kieshnick had played in the same Cubs outfield just a few years ago. He was a fellow "outfielder of the future" who never panned out.
Just as Brant made this connection, there was a loud knock at the door. Brant opened it to see a short man with a finely groomed mustache and a friendly grin. This was an ex-teammate that Brant was able to recognize easily.
"Matt Meiske!," Brant exclaimed happily. "How the hell are you?"
"I'm good, Brant, but we've got business to attend to. First things first, do you know a guy named Daniel McConnell?"
"Yeah, he lives with her," Brant said, pointing to Gyp. "Why?"
"Well, apparently he was talking to the cops about his friend's suicide, and he may have revealed some sensitive information about his friend's gambling debts to the Costa Ricans." A genuinely nice guy, Meiske was visibly uncomfortable relaying this bit of news. "Well, when Varsho heard about it, he wasn't sure how much information this guy might leak, and so he decided that the safest thing to do would be to have the guy wiped out."
"You mean he's dead?" Brant asked.
"Umm, yeah," Meiske replied. "One of Dejesus's guys took care of it."
Upon hearing this, Gyp clenched her fists and stared blankly straight ahead. She needed to get out of here.
She'd experienced too much death, too much violence. She needed to talk to someone anyone who was far away from this whole horrible scene, away from Brant, away from Gary Varsho's network of disgruntled ex-Cubs. Without saying a word, she ran out the front door.
Back at the hospital, Ron Santo and a barely conscious Jack Boomer had just watched the Cubs score nine runs in the first inning of Game Six. By the fourth inning, with the Cubs up 13-4, Jack was out cold, and Santo was left to watch the game by himself.
Santo then heard the sound of a nurse presumably the very shapely one he'd passed on the way in speaking with a woman in a neighboring bed. The hospital room curtain prevented him actually seeing the women, but he could hear the unmistakable snap of a rubber glove. An intimate medical procedure was about to take place.
Santo immediately lost interest in the game and focused on the sounds coming from the neighboring bed. The patient let out a husky groan, and Santo could hear the erotic rubbing (and the occasional slapping noise) of latex on flesh. Santo glanced about the room to find that he was perfectly alone. The curtains were drawn, and Jack Boomer certainly wasn't going to wake up any time soon. With a sneaky smile, he quietly unzipped his pants and began pleasuring himself.
As the woman's groans grew deeper, Santo's hand moved faster. He closed his eyes and eased back his head when, suddenly, the curtains flew open. He scrambled to cover himself, but it was too late Gyp had seen everything.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!" the masturbating Santo shrieked. He hastily zipped up and ran from the room.
The shapely nurse, alarmed by Santo's shout, ran to Jack Boomer's bed. She leaned over his unconscious body to check for a pulse, but there was none.
A serene smile fell across Boomer's face, as if his soul were soaring with life's final triumph: He had breathed his last breath with a Game Six victory glowing from his television, with a fully erect Cub penis throbbing at his bedside.