OPUS MAGNUM: The Lucky Wander Boy Dream
Young Bill Krieger (Mar 3, 2003 or 03/03/03)
THE DREAM, PART ONE: BEEP
I had a dream the other night. Bare with me till I get to the sex part at the end.
It started with a beep, ended with a beep. It was full of flipping beeps. I don't think the beep actually got louder, but it sure seemed to. It was a deafening, maddening beep by the end. Fucking new dishwasher... I wonder if I paid extra for that beep.
Anyway, I was ambling for a while in a surreal landscape. I wandered, combing the base of a hill, well a mound really. In the distance a figure gestured to me with a sort of limp wave. I headed toward it. Toward him. The closer I got the more familiar the cherubic figure was... blue dungarees, yellow shirt. I got close enough to be sure; it was the title character from the book I just read, Lucky Wander Boy.
Or was it? The outfit was the same, but this "Boy" had a fistful of dollar bills and didn't quite have the immediate charisma you'd expect of a Lucky Wander Boy.
"Yo yo, Don Fenton," I said and smiled.
Western Conference Nailbiters
The four Western Conference games were all decided by ten nibls or less. Yow!
THE DREAM, PART TWO: CONFRONTING THE MCP
"Hey Donny!" I tried again.
Don remained silent, distracted by something over the horizon. He stood at the edge of a large crevice, a chasm that traveled further up the mound. For lack of a better word, it was a big crack, a really big one. From my perspective, I could see a rainbowed tinge of something shining brightly in the distance. I continued my climb to get a closer look.
The texture of the hill was bumpy, almost crusty. It had a wrinkled stale feel, like a pair of seldom-washed jeans. This impression was bolstered by the blueness of the landscape. I passed a white sign that said "38." Near the top, I could see the terrain change completely to a smoother, light brown colored slope.
The object of Don's attention also started to become clear. Near the apex of the crack, something was whirling whirling whirling in a swirl of bright color shocks. It seemed impossible (even for a dream), but there was no mistaking the luminous rotating head to be... Eddie Murder, brash headmaster of that new Point Blank franchise.
Well, it was Eddie, and it wasn't. I mean, he wasn't all there... disembodied actually. Eddie's polygon-rendered head was spinning at a quick but deliberate pace. The colors pulsed with each turn. I placed the specter in short order. Eddie was a dead ringer for the Master Control Program (MCP) from the movie Tron.
"Yo yo, Eddie man," I yelled, this time not really expecting a reply from the dervish-like noggin.
Eastern Conference Nibl Trinity
The three Eastern Conference games that mattered were highlight by the gaudy displays of Vegas 341, Cap City 358 and Aruba 362. Nibl inflation is accelerating. The "big three" of the East are indeed on a tear.
THE DREAM, PART THREE: THE SEX STUFF
While Eddie/MCP didn't reply to me directly, he did utter something with each rotation. "Fuck." I also noticed that with each rotation, Don Fenton threw one of his dollar bills into the upper, fleshy part of the crack whenever Eddie/MCP wasn't looking.
My dream spiraled. I grew restless as the cycle turned over and over... "Fuck"... dollar... "Fuck"... dollar... "Fuck"... finally, I had had enough.
"Hey Eddie! How'd that Diablo game work out for you last week," I yelled.
The reaction was immediate. "Fuck!" The brilliant cone that was Eddie/MCP's head glowed an even bright hue and his angular velocity increased significantly. He sure didn't look happy.
"Yo M F'in CP... Al Harrington says he's got another 40 nibl game for you," I taunted like an eccentric frenchman.
"Fuck!" The pace of the spinning was tremendous by now. Its hum and wind was almost louder than the omnipresent beep. Pieces of Eddie/MCP started raining down on Don and I. I seemed close to something... but what.
With that final bit of goading, the cone grew white hot and exploded. "FFFFFUUUUUCCCK!" I turned to Don and said, "Run man, run!"
But, I couldn't move. Don had me by the belt loop. I fidgeted and wriggled to escape to no avail. Finally, I turned to Donny preparing to beg for release, when he spoke for the first time.
"Luke. I am your father."
Before I had time to interpret the mysteries of Don's message, an earthquake hit. The world itself turned upside down. Don and I violently tumbled from the top of the brown crack down the blue hill.
Shaken, at the bottom of the hill, we saw an unbelievable sight. The hill stood up! A giant it was. A giant, I tell you... 500 feet high if he was an inch. Our dungaree-colored slope was indeed dungarees!
"Lucky Wander Boy?" I wondered aloud. Of course, Donny wasn't Lucky Wander Boy... we must be standing on a world comprised of one huge Lucky Wander Boy. I was, of course, eager to talk to him about his screwdriver, mirror and elusive third level.
But no, this was no jolly creature, no Lucky Wander Boy. The malevolent behemoth straightened and turned to face us. Don and I recognized the uber-Danny Bruessel instantly. There was no point in running from this menace and panic surged through my body. I gripped Don Fenton's hand tightly as the giant bent slightly toward us and issued a booming, guttural belch of A-bomb ferocity right in our direction, "Dia-blooooow!"
All went black... and then I woke up.
I awoke in bed next to the most beautiful woman I have ever met in my 41 years: my wife. "Happy birthday," Felecia purred and drew me near. "I hate to give you the same gift every year honey."
"Oh, you know what I like baby," I replied.
beep... Beep... BEEEEEEEEP!
All went black... and then I woke up.
Murder Hopes Killed
The Point Blank newbies took it on the chin last week. Diablo spotted the boys a player as Toine and the Spawn sixth man were both no-shows. Saturday night disappointed Point Blank as Steve Nash and "Uncle Cliffie" couldn't muster the 45 nibls PB needed for the victory. As a result, Diablo rocketed to the top of the West, tying Walla Walla with impressive 11-5 records, and PB fell to the ignominious quagmire of 4 Western teams tied at 7-9.
In response to the dual blasts issued by PB's Justin Murder and Eddie Murder. My first response is empathy. I once reviled Don Fenton, "the evil one"... "lucky son of a..." or "I almost beat..." or "I coulda, shoulda woulda..." were all significant themes in my first years in the Nibl.
Then, I realized something.
Don Fenton is the sole reason for the Nibl to continue to exist... well, that and an excuse for my constant prattling. Without the dark, there can be no light. The unquestioned success of West Chicago shows that this isn't a random exercise. Six years of constant winning is proof: it can be done. If I or the little Murder twins or anyone else in the Nibl were as good as Don Fenton, we'd be where he is... on top looking down.
So, to PB and Danny and even myself, I say sing the praises of the West Chicago Beaters. Don is the Jedi master of our league... live it and learn it, until you can beat it.
vive la thong... yow, bill
PS - Regarding this year's Thong squad... how am I supposed to compete with the daunting trios of Cap City's Kobe, Finley, Mash and Vegas' T-Mac, RayAllen and Marbury? I guess stranger things have happened... see Manila circa 2002, eh.