clock menu more-arrow no yes

Filed under:

The Moonlighting Galaxy

New, 8 comments

There really isn't enough magical realism written about MLS teams, and we at LAG Confidential aim to fix that. Tune in every week to find out who among Arena's Acolytes are serving suspended sentences, and who is a crossing guard on the 110 dressed as a scarecrow. I hear there is a menacing new street gang led by two midfielders who are stealing dog cone collars from downtown vets.Check it out.

Brendan Hoffman/Getty Images

The season ended like none in recent memory; November rain, a dearth of hot dog buns, the Galaxy’s title defense pried from their dead fingers, El Nino’s return and a trip to the dentist. Oh, and how could I forget the mauling of my native St. Vincent and the Grenadines at the hands of them damn Yankees. Altogether now, U.S.A ,Yoou Ess Aa, U.S.A. The latter I do out of respect for the nation I live and  work in, besides the Vincentians siphoned only a liter of their opponent ’s fuel with the first goal, leaving more than an adequate supply to spark the flame that would eventually become a conflagration.

The L.A Galaxy used to be adept at sparking flames, and not just the kind that would enfilade, burn and consume opposition to bare cinders. No, they were once capable of interstellar bursts that led to stars being born, and the expansion of the universe.

On the morning the Galaxy’s season came to an end, I awoke to find my hot dog stand filled with dung. Some fowl, or flying raptor, some store bought manure, and some, I think, human. Yes, in fact, I am certain it was human, and mountainous molehills of it capsized in an alley hidden in the Capital Hill section of Seattle which I don't remember walking into.

In the fifth pocket of my button fly dungarees was an incisor and a bicuspid. Strange that I should know precisely what those were, considering I have never voluntarily walked, nor have I ever been forced into a dentist’s lair...or garage, or wherever it is they set up shop.

If these were my teeth, I would put them in a glass of milk and rush off to a dentist, but as implied by the aforementioned, I wouldn’t know where to find  one. And even though these appendages occupied some space in my mouth for some time, I wasn’t born with them, and they were never mine to begin with.

Besides, a glass of milk at that moment would have only aided in the eructing of  stomach contents up my throat and out my mouth. Imagine someone walking by as I puked more filth onto the street. How would that look?

Well, as fate would have it, the thought of milk alone was enough to send a labored series of partially digested hot dogs surfing through my mouth and onto the pile of excrement. My luck continued to streak when the beacon atop a department issued vehicle driven by one of Seattle’s finest, lit up the alley.

"Hey, that’s just indecent man," said the siren speaker. "What’s your name?"

At this moment, a fly, most likely pissed off at having his meal of crap interrupted by raining crap, flew into my mouth and lodged himself in my windpipe. The muscles that are usually at work in the involuntary process of swallowing, were no match for this fat fly whose body allowed only a flow of air  into my lungs when he batted his wings.

Constable Donovan Ricketts (yes that is what they call cops round the Puget Sound) reacted quickly to my predicament and came running to my rescue. With two rapid swings of his Billy club, he connected with my trachea and then  swung again in an attempt to dislodge the bugger from blocking my airflow. He failed.  My neck began to swell, causing the insect to slow its movements inside my constricting throat. His movement was crucial to my breathing.

Just before my complexion took on a deathly hue, a deft kick was delivered by the foot of another constable whom I only caught a ghostly glimpse of as I darted through the air. I felt a bump against the fleshy disco ball in back of my mouth. It was the fly being ejected from my maw. He died instantly between the cheek and palm of assisting officer Zardes. I awoke hours later handcuffed to a mortuary slab, just in time to stop a guy from making a Y-incision in my chest. Even if he was wearing a surgical mask, I would still recognize those ears as the funnels of Jose Villarreal.

"Oh, too bad," he said. "You would have been better off. The boss is on his way to collect the dentures paramedics Rogers and Rowe found on your person. I suspect he will hand you over to the ferryman himself, who helms the ferry to a place far worse than hell."

"Does Liverpool ring any bells," chimed his Finnish assistant in Swedish. "Soon you will learn what we all do in the off season."

As he cackled like a maniacal hyena as a bag was placed over my head, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would be minced up and turned into a football shoe with interchangeable studs. I passed out from the lack of air, but death would still not receive me. The first method of transport was a yam wagon bound for somewhere, and I know not the destination.

To be continued