53.02 The Messenger

[shoeless.db]

Okyay Nisancî bellowed in laughter, falling to his knees and pointing at his teammates. At fellow outfielder Todd Rice. At Kei-thing Law. At them all. As his eyes moved from one to the next, his laughter became louder and more boisterous. He held his stomach. Threw his head back and cackled.

The entire team had just witnessed new Assistant GM Carlos Camacho, naked as the day he was born, walk from the visitor's dugout to deep centerfield. Once there the man simply vanished in a splash of green.

And now Nisanci laughed at them.

"What the hell, Okyay?" Rice said. "You just saw the same damn thing we did."

Nisancî turned to Rice and the laughter poured out of him all over again. "You gotta see your face, Ricey. Like you saw the ghost of your dead büyükanne -- your grandma."

"That fucking guy just disappeared right in front of us."

"You don't get it, do you?" Nisancî glanced around the outfield. "All of you, children."

Rice, a 15-year veteran of six BBA teams and career .325 hitter, had had enough. He lunged towards Nisancî. His thick fist cocked and ready to strike.

"Do it, Ricey-child." Nisancî said, a toothy grin on his face.

At that, Rice let his fist fly. Hard through the air. And time and motion and the sound of a bustling Sacramento outside the stadium slowed and silenced. Rice's fist trickled towards Nisancî, and, just as it reached its tarket, the Turkish outfield, Nisancî, dissolved into a cloud of green.

Immediately, time and motion and sound came back to them all, but it now contained an echo of laughter from every seat in the stadium.

[Dington]

Commish, we're gonna have to delete Nisanci from the game. Not fair play.

[shoeless.db]

Commish, we're gonna have to delete Nisanci from the game. Not fair play.

I paid for it in PPT. Fair is fair.