Look, a soiled overcoat is a fact of life. I get that. I'm not a child. The futility of hope, the dank void of the she-succubus -- I know all about it. So I'm not asking for the plum of the fruit of the edenic bountifying orgasmo here. But a home blowout to the Rosacrucian Blazoo? Seriously? Must fate lower its septic battle-axe with such haste? Can't we at least ooze slowly towards irrelevance, like the olden days? This trapdoor to Hades is a bit abrupt; I prefer the elongated descent, best personified by Rod of Ye Half-Smoke.
Antawn, Father of Antwan, can't you do anything to stop this madness? We questioned you, yes, your defending and offending and everything in between -- but that questioning was the questioning of a child, the curiousity of one who does not seek answers. And now the answers are upon us nevertheless! And they are vile! Which is what we deserve, of course -- but must deserts always come so soon? Cannot our delusion linger at least through the all-star break? Yes, even the playoffs will soon be a sad fantasy, but if what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, shouldn't what comes to Vegas never leave Vegas? And if so, could we not hope to at least arrive in Nevada with dignity intact?
Ruffin is no savior. Bulletproof is but a child. Constable Hayes will soon be on the dole. Donnell is twin to incompetence. Booth is a cavernous jaw. There is nothing to do but mount my steed, a nag too decayed to even summon a bestial flicker in my rotted loins, and ride to Norra Begravningsplatsen, where I may degenerate in peace.
Even the Agent, especially the Agent...I cannot even discuss such sorrow. There is only one glimmer in the damp oblivion of the present future: the Lithuanian Carolinian, Dar-Dar Sinks, tie-dyed champion of the early 90s.