Part 2: Slipping the Noose, Dodging the Wolves

I was pretty goddamn disoriented waking up on the floor in a magenta, camouflage sleeping bag. Thrashing about like a meth-head caught in cellophane, I managed to free myself from gullet of the stomach of that polyester devil! I was even more confused when I realized I was wearing red-lensed sunglasses and a grass hula skirt.

“Morning sunshine,” Chuck said from atop the bed next to me.

“Jesus in Cambridge! What happened last night?”

“Same as usual.”

“Faith and begorrah… did we get attacked by Spanish pygmy witchdoctors?” Air raid sirens blasting in my head, I crawled towards the bathroom.

“It’s a possibility,” Chuck replied. At this point, I’d made it to the bathroom and had slung my torso into the tub. I struggled to turn the nozzle, but really appreciated the cold water pouring over my head.

“Hey Strat,” Chuck said as he poured a stiff, makeshift Mai Tai into a plastic cup. “Come check out the news: there’s some report about last night!”

“Isn’t that something,” I replied, staggering from the bathroom. I went straight to the miniature desk, filled a plastic cup with ice, then mixed vodka and Red Bull. “Turn up the volume.” We listened with disinterest as a local San Francisco news anchor relayed the previous night’s endeavor in San Jose.

“At least they made us sound good.” I chugged my cocktail and crumpled the plastic cup.

“Looks like things are about to get weird.” Chuck began gulping down his cocktail.

It took every ounce of wit and nonsense for me and Charles to escape the maelstrom in northern California. By the time we watched the news, the San Jose police department had issued an all-points bulletin for our arrest. Unfortunately for those totalitarian bastards, they didn’t know the sort of degeneracy they were facing.

After a quick breakfast at a nearby diner we managed to, under Charles’ guidance, locate the closest thrift store. We walked out in moth-eaten suites, paid for with Chuck’s credit card… which was surprisingly still worked. While Chuck was wearing a blue and white seersucker suit, I was some ridiculous green Madras getup. Used car salesmen, 1950’s pimps, and Freddy Mercury would have been shamed by our appearance.

We had several hours to kill, so we made our way to North Beach. By some demented twist of fate, we found a local Tiki bar that was open and ready for action. Needless to say, we gave them a run for their money in their rum supply.

Around 1pm, it was time to make our move. Traversing Powel Street, we headed into the sketchy parking structure where we’d stashed the ‘Serpico’ the night before.

“This cannot end well,” I said as I popped the boat into gear.

“Have faith,” Chuck said, fiddling with the radio. He settled on an oldies rock station. “These goddamn militaristic, Gestapo swine won’t see this coming! Besides, the ‘Serpico’ is one of theirs: no way they’ll find us in time! Let’s rock.”

As we reached street level, the radio crackled and a new song came into clarity:

“Come on people now, smile on your brother, try and love one another right now…”

“Good God,” I mumbled. “These filthy, hippy nutbags haven’t let go, have they?”

It was smooth sailing for a majority of the ride. Cruising south on the 101, I maneuvered the ‘Serpico’ through the incomprehensible driving patterns of Californians. Of course, though… the easy times couldn’t last. Just one mile from San Francisco International, things went sound faster than coke-addicted co-eds during spring break.

“Uh oh,” Chuck said, looking over his shoulder. This caused him to spill half of his strawberry daiquiri on the upholstery.

“What is it,” I asked, tapping the ash of a cigar on the driver’s side floor. “Did the Scientologists finally catch up with us?”

“No… nothing that bad. But there’s a cop car coming up fast with his lights on.”

“Goddamn civil disobedience. When will people learn to obey the basic laws of society?”

“Tell me about it. And the worst part is I don’t think this guy got the message. He seems to be coming for us.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said, biting down on the cigar. “What did we ever do to society?”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve done a bang-up job protecting society,” Chuck said with a shrug. “But, I think we are speeding.”

“Really? I’m only going 102, and I’m making sure to dodge all the slower cars in front of us.”

“Some people just don’t understand decency,” replied Chuck, shaking his head in utter disappointment.

“I suppose he wants us to pull over,” I said, eyeing the side view mirror.

“Don’t forget we need to return the car.”

“That’s true,” I said. Just then, I noticed the exit for Rental Car Return. “Shit, I almost forgot: we need to fill the gas tank.”

“Oh man, they charge a ton if you don’t take care of that.”

“Noted.” I quickly checked my side mirrors again then yanked the wheel all the way to the right. The ‘Serpico’s’ wheels screeched as the elongated chassis lurched, strained by the G-force. We swerved over a set of plastic pylons onto the nearby exit ramp. We came to a gliding halt before turning right, away from the rental return.

“Oh man,” Chuck said, looking back towards the highway. “That cop car just plowed into a minivan!”

“Belligerent pugilists! Always harassing the innocent. He probably just hit some demented Swedish tourist, too!”

“They’ll probably go home with a bad impression of America now.” Chuck lowered his head. “Such a shame.”

The ‘Serpico’ skidded to a halt at a nearby 76 gas station. As we pulled up, an obese man in an ill-fitting suit screamed and gave us the finger.

“Watch the Benz you fucks!”
“Hey now,” I said through the open window. “We’re all honest, hard-working pilgrims here!”

“Fuck yourself, you queers!” And with that, he stormed off… leaving the catch lever on the pump to fill his tank.

“That was uncalled for!”

“What can you expect,” Chuck said. “He’s lacking in basic social skills. Turn the car around.”

Chuck abruptly jumped out of the car, slamming the door shut in the process, and then jogged towards the Mercedes. I’d learned long ago not to argue with my associate, so I put the ‘Serpico’ in gear and backed up to the pump.

Chuck took control of the fat guy’s pump. After ceasing pumping, he quickly deposited the hose into our Crown Victoria’s gas tank. Soon enough after, the pump stopped: apparently the ‘Serpico’ had taken its fill of the fossil fuels and was rearing to go. Chuck returned the nozzle into the Mercedes and jumped back into the Crown Vic. I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal and the ‘Serpico’ darted out of the gas station like a PCP-addicted buffalo!

Part 1: The Puck Drops and the Games Begin!

“Sweet holy Hell,” I screamed as I jerked the steering wheel to the left, swerving around some banged up excuse for a Buick. My associate and perpetual partner in crime Charles looked surprised. He was busy making a batch of daiquiris in a portable blander we’d stolen from K-Mart, of course. Steadying the wheel, I gained control of the vehicle: a pitch-black Crown Victoria, which we’d christened the “Vehicular Serpico.” After all… this monstrosity was no ordinary automobile. This… was a land boat.
“You say something,” Charles asked as he poured a generous amount of rum into the AC-powered machine. I snatched the bottle of Bacardi from his hand, took a long swig, and hurled it out the window. “What the shit? That was the last of our rum!”
“There’s no time for that now! What the hell was that back there?!”
“Hey… it was an accident. How could I have guess that would happen?”
“Where’s your common sense, you incomprehensible pygmy devil?!?” I keep my eyes on the road as my hand fumbles around for the bottle of rum. Then I remember I threw it out the window, so I punch the horn and yell “FUCK” at the top of my lungs.
“See,” Charles asked.
“Don’t you realize what you’ve done,” I plead. Of course my associate remembers, but thanks to the perplexed look on his face, I can tell he doesn’t understand my frustration.
You see, I had been sent out to cover the Boston Bruins as they played the Sharks in San Jose. And at one point during the second period, Charles inadvertently dropkicked the natives’ beloved ‘Sharkie’ mascot over a railing in the upper deck. I mean, the dropkick was intentional; the falling over the railing onto horrified fans bit… THAT was unintentional.
“What’s the big deal? I’m sure all that foam-rubber padding kept him alive.”
“But it was there mascot,” I howl, really wishing we still had the rum. “Hockey fans are a disturbed breed, you bastard! And it’s San Jose! It’s the California equivalent of backwoods West Virginia! Those mouth-breathing goons were ready to string you up by the neck! Hell, didn’t you see the players trying to climb over the damn glass?”
“I just figured that was some local tradition,” replied Charles with a shrug.
“You’re just lucky I maced that security guard and grabbed his taser! Those freaks were out for blood!” I glanced into the rearview mirror, panic-stricken... convinced of impending doom.

It had started out as a simple assignment. In actuality, I guess it would more accurately be referred to as a ‘trial run’. You see… ever since I was a kid, I’d harbored a fairly psychotic addiction. I’m speaking, of course, about my love for the Boston Bruins hockey organization. In the grand, demented, twisted tradition of genuine New Englanders… I was raised as a belligerent zealot to the Boston sports teams. And while I’ve always supported my teams… something about the savagery, barbarism, and bloodshed about hockey was addicting. Combined with the legacy of the Big Bad Bruins and I was hooked.
Obsessively watching hockey eventually led to a dive into the maddening world of insomnia known as journalism. In college, it was chain-smoking cigarettes and taking shots of bourbon on the fire escape while hiding from my editor and writing a piece on city politics. The freelance market was far, far more depraved: blurbs about restaurants written in strip clubs, travel articles compiled atop a barstool, and pretty much every assignment completed under a nebulous haze of stimulants and shenanigans.
But this was all hollow. I’d managed only superfluous assignments which, if I must say, I barely remember. I can’t even be sure that I did finish them! What I’d always wanted was to hit the sports beat… and specifically, the Boston Bruins. But apparently, professional sports teams don’t appreciate unsolicited attempts at employment. Some bullshit about wanting journalism students and people with legitimate credentials! As if experience wasn’t enough, not to mention my tenacity and composure under pressure! A true sports writer needs serious gumption… the ability to pull an all-nighter at a bowling alley bar while simultaneously watching five games on TV.
For several years, I’d attempted to land a job as a travelling journalist for my beloved Black and Gold. This was to no avail, and after countless rejections and one or two ‘cease and desist’ orders… I thought it was finished. But Lady Luck cackled her manic laughter: the Bruins were out for a three game road trip in California, and the travelling journalist had gone down with a case of Botchulism. And as I had recently moved to California, I was ready to rock. So, I got contracted to cover the Boston Bruins as they took on the San Jose Sharks, the Los Angeles Kings, and the Anaheim Ducks.

“You know,” Charles said, pouring out two daiquiris, “you weren’t any better back there. You threw a beer at that kid, remember?”
“Couldn’t be helped,” I replied. “Besides, I didn’t mean to hit the kid. I was aiming for that loud mouthed old bag sitting behind him.”
“The one wearing the beret?”
“Precisely. Have I said how much I hate people who wear berets?”
“On more than one occasion,” said Charles. He fished into his pockets and produced a pack of Marlboros then lit one. “So how’s the article coming along?”
“Pretty atrocious. I suppose staying for the third period would have helped.”
“I don’t think the locals appreciated your presence.”
“What are you talking about?”
“For starters,” Charles said, sending a cloud of smoke out the window, “you were screaming obscenities and insults, you deranged monster! Not to mention the fact that you were wearing a Bruins jersey and threatened to unleash cannibals upon the crowd!”
“Too much,” I asked.
“Ehh… who knows.” Charles downed the rest of his daiquiri. “We need more rum.”
“Screw that, we need to get the Hell outta San Jose.”
“Under the gun, trailed by wolves again ol’ chum?” Charles grinned like the unapologetic deviant he is.
“What else is new,” I grumbled. I snatched the cigarette from Charles’ hand, took a drag, and flicked it out the window. “I swear… I’ll kill you for this!”
“Let’s rock.”
I stomped down on the gas pedal, flooring it. The Crown Vic lurched for a moment before shooting forward like a charging bison on PCP. Speeding north on the 101, we rode the “Serpico” into the hellish night… unaware of the decadence and depravity awaiting us.

Fixing the Facts

This blog, if you couldn't tell, is about the Boston Bruins. I'm a desperate fan of the original six team and take pride in my status as a fan. So this is going to be a place where I rant about the Bruins... and I hope to start dialogue.

But first, I'm going with something different. What follows is going to be a multi-part series covering the Bruins' recent California road trip. I attended the games, living in Cali, and decided to write about them. But instead of the vapid repetition of standard sports journalism... I wanted to give you something more entertaining. So enjoy.

-s/j.@