If you missed part one, well… here it is. Now, part two:
Thanks for getting down to the lab so quickly.
No prob. You’ve been drinking?
Of course. Now listen. There’s something that’s been gnawing at me. Nibbling on my soul. Tearing at my very fibers.
Is it… Hazel-related?
Don’t be an idiot. This is bigger. I made a mistake. Game two of the ALCS last October. I should have taken you out. Should have pulled the trigger. But I couldn’t do it.
Well, I would have beaten you senseless with the elk bladder I keep in my pocket for such occasions.
Whatever. I just want you to go back. Tell me to take you out. Make me do the right thing.
“The right thing”? Man, I’m not good with that shit.
Look, I’m asking as a friend, manager, and, more importantly, a fellow Jim Belushi enthusiast.
I can never say no to you, boss. Get me to that f@#king time machine.
::One burst of the flux capacitor later…::
Okay. I’m in the dugout… but this doesn’t look like…
WHUZZA? JOSH BECKETT? MY OLD TEAMMATE? WHAT THE HELL YOU DOIN’ HERE? AND WHY YOU DRESSED AS A RED SOX?
Kevin Millar? This ain’t no 2008 ALCS!
HELLO, McFLY! THIS IS 2003! AND WE FINALLY GOT A LEG UP ON THOSE MUTHERFRIGGIN’ YANKEES. IT’S GAME SEVEN AND MY BOY PEDRO’S PITCHIN’ A GEM!
Pedro Martinez? Holy shyte! Teets sent me to the 2003 ALCS!
HAW! “TEETS”! WHAT DOES THAT MEAN, PRECISELY?
Look, can you please stop f@#king shouting?
AW, HECK, MAN. THAT’S JUST WHAT I DO.
I gotta get out of here. But I suppose I can at least do one good deed before I go. Hey, gramps!
Get Pedro the f@#k out of there. The boy’s toast.
You’ll thank me for that.
::Flips switch on time machine; disappears::
::ambles out to mound::
::Later, in Copley Square::
Goddam machine ain’t worth shit! Now I’m back in Boston.
BOSTON? YOU SAD FOOL. THIS IS “GRADYTOWN”! WE AIN’T BEEN CALLED “BOSTON” IN YEARS!
YES, GRADYTOWN! NAMED FOR GRADY LITTLE, THE SINGLE GREATEST MAN WHO EVER LIVED! THE MAN WHO HELPED US DEFEAT THE CURSE BY KNOWING PRECISELY WHEN TO REMOVE PEDRO MARTINEZ FROM GAME SEVEN OF THE 2003 ALCS. THE MAN WHO WENT ON TO LEAD THE SOX TO WORLD SERIES VICTORY. THE MAN WHO SHALL NEVER PAY FOR A DRINK IN THIS TOWN AGAIN.
Again with the shouting…
WE SHOUT AS TRIBUTE TO MAYOR-FOR-LIFE KEVIN MILLAR, WHOSE THRILLING, PANTSLESS SNARE OF A LINE-DRIVE MARKED THE FINAL OUT OF THE 2003 WORLD SERIES. SO YES YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT I’M SHOUTING.
But that’s not right. Grady f@#ked up everything. He was run out of town. Christ, there were these two mildy retarded fellows who started a blog about it. Terry Francona’s the real genius!
TERRY? YOU MEAN… THAT GUY? ::points across street::
Apple pie with that?
My god… it’s all my fault. All my fault. All my fault…
Josh. You okay?
My god. It was just a dream.
Look, man, we gotta get rid of that time machine. Nothing good can come of sending various Red Sox players across the time continuum in attempts to alter the future. Unless, of course, we’re talking about preventing Shea Hillenbrand’s parents from spawning.
Good point, Josh. We might inadvertently change the course of history for the worse, not the better. Players can be hurt. Or maimed.
Or accidentally become members of the band “Rush.”
::Meanwhile, in 1970s Canada::
“By-Tor and the Snow Dog”?? The f@#k is this shit!?
He’s driven by rage. Should we call security?
Too late for that. I sent Alex to fetch the tranquilizer gun.
Apologies to McSweeneys, Rush, the Dugout, and readers everywhere.