“Klotz” As In “Blood”

Nothing like 3 hours in a dentist’s chair on a Monday morning to sweeten one’s disposition, y’know? He had only had to stick me 5 or 6 times this trip, using a different kind of anaesthetic whose name I forgot but I do recall his saying it was used on bovine herds in preparation for castration. Quite a card, my dentist.

I figure this visit earns me a nerve-steadying shot of afternoon Jack Daniels, so I stop in at the Liquor and Rubber Balls Sports Bar and Grill and Bar. And there’s Duck Diamonds, (alleged) professional gambler, having a burger.

I tell him I’m surprised he’s not having a celebratory steak after the ALCS.

“Fat chance,” he says. “I had Cleveland in 6. I was smart for about 4 games, maybe 5.” He growls. “Every once in a while I go with the gut. I figured Boston’s late-season collapse was overdue, and they’d do their usual self-immolation. They tried, but the Indians are even better at it.” He shoots down what’s left in his glass and pushes it across the bar. “Which I knew.”

Well, that’s why they play those games, Duck. If they knew who was gonna win before they played the game, they wouldn’t bother, would they.

“Thanks for the tip, Einstein,” he mutters, eyeing the barmaid’s shapely ass as she pours him another. “Christ. Only the fuckin Indians could make the shit-eatin RedSox look like heroes. Remember that 14-year run where the nutless Braves finished first and got themselves exactly one World Series win? It was ‘95. They played the fuckin Indians. That’s how fuckin choke and lame the fuckin Indians are.”

Nice logo, though. Classy.

He laughs bitterly. “Yeah. ‘Class’ is what I’m thinking right now, too.”

I finish my shot, cringe at the mixture of relief and pain as the alcohol washes across the punctured soft interior of my ragged pie hole, and gather to go. But first I ask Duck who he’s backing in the Series.

“The team that ain’t Boston,” he says. “But remember, I’m not a bettin’ man.”

photo credit: original art by Francis Yellow