Tuesday, June 20, 2006

THE BIG EUNUCH


John Vukovich cracked open the door to Ruben Amaro Jr.’s office and peered inside.

“Did you find one?” he asked the assistant general manager.

“Yeah, I just got back from Kensington,” Amaro said. “Here she is.”

A petite, haggard figure emerged from behind a desk. She wore a tube top and flashed a toothless smile. Like always, she was ready to work.

“Meet Consuela!”

Vukovich took a gander at the hooker and shot a look back at the other ex-Phillies utility player. Then he hung his head.

“What’s up?” Amaro asked. “She’s not good enough?”

Vukovich grabbed Amaro by the arm and pulled him closer to the door. Consuela, sensing opportunity, lifted a gold memento from Amaro’s desk.

“Maybe for Larry Bowa,” Vuke said. “But Randy Johnson? Don’t you think she’s a bit…short?”

“What the fuck difference does it make? She’s gonna work, you know, manually.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Vukovich grabbed Consuela by the wrist and leaned down close to her scabby face. “Look. Just do exactly what I tell you. And don’t act like a freak. Here, take this.”

He pulled a glassine envelope from his pocket filled with beige powder and handed it to Consuela.

“Now you’re talking, boss,” she said, relieved.

“Now let’s go, and keep your mouth shut,” Vukovich sternly advised.

They made their way stealthily to the visitor’s clubhouse, hoping to avoid the media horde in town for the Yankees series. But no such luck. New York Post columnist Phil Mushnick was standing in front of the closed door.

“Hey, Vuke!” he said, eyeing the whore. “How’s the triplets? Think any of ‘em can exceed your career .161 average?”

“There’s triple trouble all around,” he replied, laughing nervously. “And how’s your wife and kids?”

“Couldn’t be better. Say, who’s the, uh, lady?”

“Old friend of Randy’s,” Vuke stammered. “Matter of fact, we’re gonna see him right now.”

“I don’t know about that,” the scribe said. “He’s in one of those moods. He’s always in one of those moods. You guys sure pulled a rabbit out of the hat tonight.”

Vukovich had been secretly hoping Johnson would have beaten the Phils last night, or at least left the game with a lead. No such luck. The only consolation was that he pitched well enough to win, but Brett Myers pitched better. Now, the locker room was silent after a 4-2 loss to Team Vomit. Quiet, that is, except for one Yankee.

Vukovich looked inside and espied the gigantic Johnson sitting in front of his locker still in his scivvies and unshowered. He rocked back and forth, shouting “Fuck” in a rhythmic rage. The other players, undoubtedly used to his post-game ritual, left him alone in his misery.

“Man, I thought Jim Eisenreich was bad,” Vuke said under his breath, referring to the former Phil who suffered from Tourette’s syndrome. “This is downright psychotic.”

“What’s that about The Third Reich?” Mushnick asked.

“Never mind,” Vuke told him, and tiptoed inside toward The Big Unit.

“Who the fuck are you!?” Johnson screamed.

“Hi, Randy. It’s me – John Vukovich. We’ve crossed paths before from my old home in the coach’s box, and now I’m in the front office here.”

“Yeah, and the oldtimers tell me you were a worse hitter than Mario Mendoza. You’re a real baseball man. You sure must have kissed some asses to get where you are,” Johnson said. “Fuck! What the fuck do you want anyhow?”

“Well, Randy, Mr. Unit, I have a business proposition for you.”

Johnson scowled at Vukovich’s Croatian countenance as if he were Slobodan Milosevic’s Minister of Ethnic Cleansing. He considered the level of his temerity to dare talk business – let alone to even talk to him – after a loss to his team of mediocrities. Still, he was curious, and, after all, baseball is a business, and he listened to any and all propositions to make more money. Even if this guy were the devil in a Balkan disguise, he could be no worse than the Satanic Steinbrenner.

“Okay, cocksucker, talk.”

Vuckovich considered the irony of that expression in light of his mission. Phillies GM Pat Gillick had just seeded five young heifers with the spunk of Steve Carlton, but he wanted some breeders in the bullpen in case the progeny turned to the bottle or joined an Idaho militia. Lefty was cooked by the time he was 40; Johnson, on the other hand, was pitching effectively at 42, and from all accounts, was only a madman on the mound and in the locker room. A more diversified stock was desirable. And Vukovich was selected to collect the seed.

“Well, Randy,” Vuke started, “how would like to make $10 million in two minutes?”

Johnson was sure this had to be a joke. It will take him all season to make $16 million – and it took him a whole career to make $140 mill -- and here was this jester with his skanky paramour insulting him at his locker. And why was the woman with him, he thought? He decided to let Vuke make his pitch.

“I’m listening.”

“We just want a sperm sample…that’s all,” Vuke said nervously. “And we’ve brought along a real pro to extract it any way you prefer. Take two minutes or two hours, it’s up to you. But after she gives me the cup o’ cum, I have a cashier’s check with your name on it.”

Johnson got that Serbian look about him again, and asked, “And what, may I inquire, do you plan to do with my semen?”

“That’s obvious. We’re trying to build a pitching staff.”

Johnson stood up, all six feet and ten inches of him, and burst in an almost epileptic laughter. Vukovich smiled apprehensively and Consuela, who had been twitching, began to rub her biceps in self-admiration.

It took Johnson a few minutes to stop cackling in mirth. Then he gave his answer.

“You want my jism!? For the Phillies!? Here, come and get it.”

He dropped his jock and stood naked before all in the locker room. The players always wondered why he showered alone, and now they knew. It was gone. There was nothing there. Johnson had no balls. Johnson had no johnson. He was No-Rod. The Big Eunuch!

“Damn! I’ve never seen that shit before!” Consuela said in awe.

Vuckovich’s jaw remained dropped as he gathered the hooker up and hustled out of the locker room. This had to be a bad dream, he thought. He should have known better.

As he made haste, The Eunuch shouted euphorically, “The Boss beat you to it, dickwads!”

Vuckovich just wanted to lose the bitch, get in his car, go home, have a warm milk and latke, and suck his thumb. How could he have been snookered into doing this?

“Hey, slick,” Consuela said. “This ain’t no heroin you gave me. You guys dragged me all the way down to South Philly, and I need the real deal, asshole.”

“It’s human growth hormone, bitch,” Vuke informed. “Now go home and grow something.”

1 Comments:

Anonymous JG said...

Lou,

You are one sick, creative motherfucker. Keep up the good work.

JG

20/6/06 8:50 PM  

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