sparkymat

‘I’m telling ya.. Giambi’s gonna be the man.’

‘What’re you, nuts?’

The silence is broken by another argument from the poker table. I lazily mix another batch of cocktails while listening to them argue. Most days go by peacefully with the guys arguing about something silly, over a harmless game of poker. A few of the big guys too drop by once in a while, usually staying in a corner, keeping to themselves. Many just come by to have a moment of peace in their violent lives. A moment to live like a normal human being, to socialize like a normal human being, to argue like a normal human being, without any bloodshed. Today the argument seemed to be about baseball.

‘Yeah, kid. I mean, Giambi’s good, but better than the Iron Horse? Fugedaboutit!’

‘Baseball ain’t your thing, kid. Stick to what you know.. .. nothing!’

Apparently the new kid was getting heat from others, for a radically different opinion on who’s the best in the game. I smile to myself, understanding very well how the kid feels, for, once I too was a hot-blooded youngster who thought he knew the world better than the older senile generation. I take the cocktails over to the poker table. One of the patrons requests for yet another cup of coffee. I nod and head back to the counter. Meanwhile, at the poker table, the argument continues.

‘Laugh all you want, but remember you guys heard it here first .. When all’s said and done, Jason Giambi’s gonna be the greatest first baseman the Yanks ever had.’

Suddenly an old timer from across the room joins in the argument,

‘You’re just saying that ’cause he’s italian. Nobody who actually seen Gehrig play would say that. Listen to your uncle on this one.’

‘Oh I forgot.. everything was better “back then”, right? Ballplayers were better, groceries were cheaper, the sky was bluer. Five cents got you three hot dogs and a hooker, right?’

‘I repeat: Nobody who actually saw the man play.. and not on this fancy-schmancy SportsCenter B.S., either.. but actually saw him in the flesh, standing twenty feet away from you.. would ever say that Gehrig wasn’t the best first baseman they ever saw.. period.. ‘

‘.. who the @*&$# is this guy?’

All our heads turn towards the direction of his pointed finger. A stranger is sitting at one of the tables. How come I never saw him enter? None of us saw him enter. He was sitting at the table near the cappuccino machine, sipping on a cup of coffee. It was amazing that none of us heard him come in. There was something sinister about him. My thoughts were interrupted by a shuffling all around the room. All the patrons scramble to their feet, pulling out their guns.

‘How’d he get in here? Anybody see him come in?’

They walk upto him, guns covering his every moment. He, however, seems to be least bothered and continues to sip on his coffee nonchalantly. One of the big guys goes up to him.

‘What.. you “no speaka da English”? Who are you and how the hell you get in here?’

The stranger continues sipping on his coffee.

‘Okay, I’ll explain it so even you can understand, ya friggin’ green-horn: This is a private club. That means somebody can’t come in here unless we invite ‘em.’

The stranger doesn’t even bother to look up. Enraged, Big Al swats away his coffee.

‘That also means we can.. ‘.

He never gets to complete his sentence as a foot long knife shoots out from the stanger’s knuckle, impaling his palm. The stranger gets up with a devilish grin.

‘I was drinkin’ that’.

A deadly silence falls in the room. For a long moment, no one moves.

What happened next can only be described as a massacre. While scrambling for my gun, brief glances tell me that the stranger was fighting like one possessed. He was taking on everyone at once, butchering them with what looked like knifes protruding from his knuckles. Some tried shooting him but he seemed inhumanly oblivious to the gunshot wounds. At the sight of this, I stand confused whether to run and hide or to shoot this monster who seemed like the devil incarnate. I cower behind the counter, trying to keep myself invisible. The inside of the hall looked like a blood bath with red everywhere and bodies littered all over. Some even went out the window.

Minutes later, the stranger alone was left standing, his hands and “claws” soaked in blood. With a grim face, he walks up to the old timer.

‘Nineteen thirty-nine. The house that Ruth built.’

‘D-dont come any closer! I’m an old man for $%^ sakes!’

‘”Today I am the luckiest man on the face a’ the earth.”‘

‘An old man, ya ^&%^$%!’

‘Cripes, what a speech. Not a dry eye in the house. Hell.. even I got a little choked up.’

The stranger picks up the old timer’s coffee and slowly sips it. He then looks up.

‘Lou Gehrig was the best first baseman who ever lived’.

His eyes twinkled.

‘Anybody who actually saw the man play would know that..’

N.B: This is not an original composition. This is a narration of the events in the comic Wolverine v2 #183.