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Game 67: Red Sox vs. Rays

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The soft sound of a knife scraping across wood, the creak of a rocking chair are droned out by the tinny audio from a small CRT television. The bluish glow from the screen is the only illumination in what appears to be a small, windowless room. The lone occupant, hidden by shadows, drags his knife across the small wooden block, producing unnatural curves that seem to repel the eye, as though the mind does not want to try to comprehend their shape.

The voice on the television drones on, saying little of worth though it is clearly obsessed with someone by the name of "Iglesias." Another voice interjects, trying to feign enthusiasm, but filled with unfathomable fatigue. "Jacoby Ellsbury flies out, and we will go to the bottom of the thirteenth here in Tampa Bay. It looks like it'll be Franklin Morales."

The sound of the knife and chair pause, and in one smooth motion the figure rises. A noise emanates from deep inside. Humanity has no word for this sound so filled with evil and malice, but in the mind of its maker, the closest analogue is "laughter," for he knows his time has come again.

Alfredo Aceves leaves the room. He does not pack any bags. He does not need them. He has his knife.