Flyin'

Bob and Bettie began a walk that started through the woods, carried on through a thick brush of snipers, sauntered on through a patch of hateful strawberry bushes and ended at some acre-filled nothingness that reminded them of why they started in the first place: to get lost. And they did.

Bob murdered Bettie with a handful of leaves and a look of indifference that was as chilling as the act itself. She didn't seem to mind though, because she appreciated the effort and ultimately, the ending.
Bob ran. Then was caught. By the very people who pushed him to run with that idiot friend known as Bettie. They decided to run during the middle innings of the Phillie/Rays World Series, she, not even being a baseball fan, he, a fan, no, a fanatic of the great game.

His first game was in August of 1987, Tigers versus Brewers. Walt Terrell of the Tigers, against Teddy Hugera of the Brewers, Tiger Stadium, Detroit, Michigan. On that humid day of the late summer, it was just Bob, his older brother, Dwight and their father Dean, sitting in the front row, orange seats, in the upper deck in left field, in the glorious catherdal of Tiger Statdium.

"Kirk! Kirk, hey, look up! Kirk!" yelled the brothers, older one first, Dwight, followed, meakly, by the younger Bob. He finally looked up, not as a nod to his younger followers, but moreso, as a look of disgust, a look that said, "Fuckers! It's not me that's a fan of the Flying Burrito Brothers, but that pussy-ass father of yours, I like the Nuge! I went to Michigan State! I was a flanker! I can't wait to leave this shit-hole that is Detroit. I CANNOT wait to leave to Detroit! Fuck y'all. The Dodgers sound mighty nice. Here it is! Waaaaaaaaaaaave! Happy??!"

Hey, at least he looked up. At least that bearded-freak looked up. He didn't do shit that day, and the Tigers still lost 8-6. Recollections tell me that Johnny Grubb hit a home run. No where near us though. Fact is, I went to my first Tiger game in 1987, and it took four more games, May 1989, to be exact to see my first win. My dad, through the first four times we went together, all losses, had me convinced the losses were MY fault. My first win came in May of 1989, Dave Bergman, one who played an average first base at best, caught a foul fly near the A's dugout on that cold May Sunday to secure my first win in person as a Tiger fan.

I just killed Bettie with a mouthful of leaves and I don't know why. The leaves were there, and well, Bettie was an annoying twat. She never gave me eye contact, whether it be a conversation, or when she was sucking my cock. I always hated that. No respect. What's amazing was how easy it was: I simply grabbed the nearest thickest branch, told moron Bettie to look at the pretty bark, despite the darkness, in which she did, and just flat out hit her in the mouth, knocking her out, but not killing her. In her dark unconsciousness, I pretty much just filled her body and soul with dead leaves, leaves that were as dead as her body would soon be anyways. It was so simple that I felt guilty. Guilty because it was too easy. Guilty because I'm afraid it will be too easy to find her body. Guilty because I know I'll go to jail and hopefully go to to jail for the rest of my life, waiting to die, on my own, knowing the State won't do what the citizens want....

What's the score? I heard the Phills were up on those dasterdly Rays, 2-0?