Innocence On Her Breath

 No. 8 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

The lessons of the murder scene were clear: 1) You're surrounded by psychos; 2) They'll try anything. They're not bound by good behavior. And I'm just going to throw in ... 3) Esmereldy wouldn't kill anyone, let alone 13 men around a big wooden table, a nice table that anyone would be proud to own.

But that's what the old mogul who lived there -- Boris -- would've had us believe. "It was Esmereldy, I just know it!" he insisted, his suit soaked with blood, a big knife with his fingerprints (doubtless) all over it, and him the personal enemy of those killed. How'd we know they were personal enemies? You wouldn't kill a roomful of friends, that's clear.

I got there about the same time as the cops. But they were a little earlier, since they'd already handcuffed Esmereldy, now sitting in the corner. Darling, sweet, innocent Esmereldy! Everyone's friend, not an enemy in the county, generous to a fault, always giving out little horehound candies to anyone not already sucking on something. And she might even stick one in your vest pocket on the assumption you'd want it later.

The cops had done short work on the case, as I said. Mostly because State was playing Tech in the big basketball game. And they were tuned in to it, leaving the suspect to wait till halftime before heading back to the station. I went in trying to talk about the case but they hushed me, waving me back. So I went back in and saw Boris, trying to look all innocent, and Esmereldy, bound but not gagged, bowed but not broken.

I sat there thinking. Then when the first half ended the cops came back in and were about to wrap it up. I pointed out all the pools of blood around Boris, the fingerprints, and as a long shot, even mentioned the life-long feud he'd had with the victims. Then there was Esmereldy, with her endless supply of horehound candies, offered freely, never expecting the slightest favor. Quite the contrast.

The head cop thought it over, scratching his scalp with the barrel of his gun. A second cop went snooping around Boris, dipping his finger in the blood and tasting it. He said, "Hmm, he's right, blood." And the third was even more forward, getting right in Boris' face and saying, "You always hated us, didn't you!?" He used to play in the area as a kid and remembered Boris as the meanest guy in the world.

I was getting anxious. In the confusion it was becoming clear I had no decent way to bill this job and get paid. But even if I didn't get anything out of it, just to clear Esmereldy would make it worthwhile. Yes, Boris was a mean guy when we were kids, and if truth be told he was implicated in every murder in the area for 20 years running. But he always went free, blaming the maid, butler, or paperboy.

I'm no lawyer, but I made a convincing case to the cops. "Guys, halftime's almost over. And if I had to choose between a sweetheart like Esmereldy, always giving out horehound candies, and this old bastard Boris, blood dripping even yet from his sleeves, this time I'd pick...." I paused for effect and alternated my pointed finger toward the suspects: "My - mother - told - me - to - choose - this - very - ONE." The finger pointed straight at Boris! His head sunk. I thought he'd given up, when his hands came up with an army bazooka. "Stand back!" he yelled, then began firing the thing! He took out the china hutch, a nice piece of furniture.

The cops moved back, taking cover. It took me -- remembering my many citations for bravery in the face of psychos -- to do something. Esmereldy saw my personal quandary, that I lacked confidence in the sight of danger, and by sheer intuition tossed me a horehound candy drop. I love the things. Once in my mouth, I was rejuvenated and marched boldly toward Boris -- stomping, really -- and single-handedly disarmed him. But not before he'd blasted out the electricity...

Now the cops really sprang into action! No electricity meant no TV! They moved en masse against Boris and in seconds had him in custody. We got to the police station in separate vehicles, so I had no idea what was going on in the paddy wagon. But there had been a minor scuffle and Boris was dead, somehow decapitated, no one knew how. They had no choice but to chalk it up as "just one of those things." 

Esmereldy let out her great hillbilly girl rebel yell when State beat Tech. We concluded the evening with horehound candies all around. The next morning I woke up with Esmereldy at my side. I'm hazy on the details. But guess I was wrong about her innocence.

Washington and Lincoln Stand as One for Fired Coach

Usually we live in two separate camps:
The Washington Cherry Hatchets vs. The Lincoln Split Rails,

but not in these days of great trouble...

No more "Our Guy's #1 and Your Guy's 16!" Incredibly, Washington recently put aside the rancor and joined in common cause with Lincoln. They proclaimed, "Today both our guys are #1." Wow! This new sun arose just the other day, right in the bleakest part of the night, as the day first dawned, at the moment nature itself is at its darkest...

Both teams awoke to the same terrible news: "LINCOLN'S BASKETBALL COACH FIRED!" Who took his team to 17-5 last year, including a hard fought victory over those Washington bastards. It was the talk of the town. Gatorade flowed freely in public troughs.

But now everything changed, when, inexplicably, the new Athletic Director at Lincoln, Witt DeMann, instead of a relatively cheap testosterone injection, along with a shadowy cabal of gutless underling principals, including the head principal taking an underling role because his son was grievously overlooked for a letter man's jacket and the ceremonial kiss of the prettiest girl in town -- who is actually homeschooled and thereby assumed to be without the normal diseases -- sacked Coach Mikelson. The whole thing gets complicated, but that's the basic story. They fired him, for no actual stated reason, and said, "Case closed. Move along. Nothing here to see. There's no story."

Until an influential newspaper man, showing the power of the full court press, rallied parents, townspeople, the students of Washington, Lincoln, and this one pretty homeschooler, against the idiotic cabal and their flubber-chinned henchmen on the school board. Not exactly empty suits, if you catch my drift. But were you the head man of a tribe of cannibals, and having them for Thanksgiving, you might want to double check the overall ratio of fat to lean. And if you were from a brain-sucking tribe, lest you end up on the menu yourself, in revenge, you'd want at least to tap into the cranial cavity of one and extrapolate from there. Planning makes perfect.

Anyway, the newspaperman caught the Lincoln AD at his self-congratulatory best, lounging in leisure, who issued chiseled-in-granite comments like, "Under no circumstances whatsoever -- come hell, high water, or Washington victories the next one hundred seasons will I ever accept Lew Mikelson back as our coach." He further put off the newspaper man with a repeated, "There's no story here. Go on, little man, peddle your papers elsewhere!"

It was at this point the Washington team joined forces with their bitterest rival, Lincoln -- and their proud parents, especially those whose children are on the honor roll. The others, who can't be bothered with whether their sons excel -- I'm trying not to diss my own parents too much -- sat out the fray.

Well, it happened that the school board was going to meet that very afternoon. And they were sure surprised when the students, the parents, and a half dozen extras with pitchforks and torches, came into the room. Each stood and in a dignified way offered their considered support for Coach Mikelson. They shook hands congenially with board members. But nothing seemed to sway the board till -- What's this?! -- Till the door opened again, and there stood one scowling woman in a miniskirt, nice-looking, with her homeschooled daughter, yes, the same one. Mom marched with confidence and determination to the blackboard, and said, "I'd like to address this meeting of the---" We'll just cut to the chase...

It turned out she knew all the dirt on each of these dirtbags. Including Bobby Taylor, sitting there, who'd seven times asked her for a date! Mrs. Taylor's mouth dropped open, smelling of ice. The students, each with hidden romantic entanglements of their own, sensed a distinct shift, the tide turning. The school board, the feckless principals, and even AD DeMann, were jiggling their chins and huffing such retorts as, "Well, I never!" and "Be silent, curséd hag!" before immediately voting (without a second) on the motion that they rehire Coach Mikelson, give him double pay for the past week and his inconvenience, and censure their previous handiwork with malice aforethought and the strongest prejudice.

The students erupted in cheers. This meant now, of course, unless they physically catch Mikelson with the entire cheerleading squad and the homeschooled girl, and the homeschooling mother agrees, they can never, not ever, fire him again. He has them -- and especially AD DeMann -- firmly by the nuts today, tomorrow, and henceforth forever. "Squirm, you worm, DeMann! Now, let's talk about that raise." And, "It's been 10 minutes, DeMann, I feel another serious ass-kissing coming on."

The newspaper recounted the joyous event, the historic day when Washington, Lincoln, and the homeschool mother all came together and socked it to the whole bunch of 'em. But they were generous enough to leave out of it the scofflaws' names. An appearance of graciousness that probably has more to do with future access than anything else. "We were just channeling public sentiment, not burning our own bridges, harumph..."

As for the Washington and Lincoln students, it's back to Total All-Out War! No one owes anyone anything! Come Fall, you filthy bastards, it's back on! "Your boat's going down, Washington!" and "Lincoln, how'd you like that play?"

NBA Justice - Live In Peace or Face Obliteration

I like NBA justice, very swift and certain. The replays don't lie. A muscle-headed jock says something, he can't unsay it. It's a quick suspension or thousands of dollars in fines, just like that!

I really haven't followed basketball at all till just recently. And even now I'm not diehard to the point that I know very many people, their careers, their records, etc. But now that I've dipped at least my toe into the clear waters of major league competition, over the last year or so, I'm starting to hear the news. Had you heard Michael Jordan retired? Me either!

Now, if a guy like Roy Hibbert, who I hadn't even heard of before a couple weeks ago, says something stupid and immediately gets a $75,000 fine, actually before I even heard of the fact that he made the remark(!), that's registering with me. Or if Chris "The Birdman" Andersen pushes a guy to the floor and proceeds as if nothing happened, then gets a suspension, I'm noticing. I've been listening to some of the commentary on the games, although I've usually got the sound down and my iPod on, and the guys are weighing whether the fines and suspensions are adequate to the various offenses. Only to a certain extent are they questioning whether the NBA should be able to go back and look at replays, then come up with charges beyond what the refs called. Essentially, they're OK with the system.

And I'm OK with it, too. That's the way it was when we were kids. If we had a pact and someone ratted out on us, it wasn't even a formalized process, you'd be immediately suspended from club activities. I'm happy to say, I was a pretty faithful club member. My clubs were The Bee Club and The Spy Club. I'm a little ashamed of the bee club, but I guess it had scientific value. We'd get a few bees in a jar, keep them till they were very worn out, then let them crawl on us. The fact that they never stung us was amazing to people. As for the Spy Club, we investigated things and thought we had an enemy club, although there were never any actual confrontations. We did a lot of sneaking around. In both clubs, as I've mentioned before, I was the baton twirler.

Clubs and teams -- sports leagues -- have it better than the normal justice system. Like the justice system in Kafka's "The Trial" has it better than the normal justice system. They're able to make their own rules, and no matter how inscrutable they are, you either abide by them or pay the price. With sports leagues, maybe they're somewhat scrutable; I'm only speaking in ignorance of their rules; it's hard to believe they're entirely arbitrary. If Roy Hibbert says something that is currently socially-unacceptable, though, it's different than if he would've said it several years ago. So there's a varying standard, no doubt. Whereas flagrantly pushing a guy to the floor would've always been frowned on.

It must be a big responsibility for those in charge. Because how do you decide precisely what the penalty's going to be? $75,000 is probably nothing to someone with tens of millions of dollars. But it's immediate cash flow, rather than something tied up, and maybe he needed it for daily expenses, dinners out. Suspending someone from a game where he might make a difference in the series, that's a pretty big penalty. But it had to be something like that. It'd be sad if basketball went full hockey.

I like the old movie "The Day the Earth Stood Still." We used to see it all the time as kids and it terrified me. Klaatu came to Earth and made it stand still to give us a message from the other planets. It seems they all formed a big league, the major league of planets, the National Planet Association, and put their own created robots in charge of the law. And now we have to adhere to the same law ... or else! Klaatu says, "It is no concern of ours how you run your own planet, but if you threaten to extend your violence, this Earth of yours will be reduced to a burned-out cinder. Your choice is simple: Join us and live in peace, or pursue your present course and face obliteration. We shall be waiting for your answer. The decision rests with you." So far we've done OK, having not found life. But I'm sure if we ever do find life out there, we'll ruin it.

Obliteration! Couldn't they just suspend the Earth's rotation around the Sun a few years? That way we'd behave ourselves and never grow old. 

March Madness -- Punish The Coaches

I'm a victim of March Madness this year! Watching basketball. Not all of it, but a bunch. I should say, the phrase March Madness is a trademark of the NCAA, as is March Mayhem, Final Four, and maybe the Big Dance, and who knows what all else.

And after I get this blog done, maybe Punish The Coach will be a trademark, too, because I believe it would be super popular.

The coach, as everyone knows, is the man in charge. He's the one who's taken a bunch of rough-cut know-nothing guys and introduced them to basketball. He's shown them the ball and explained to them what it is. They've learned the basics from his hands and lips, that it rolls, bounces, flies, and goes through circular things called hoops, then through net-like things called nets. After the basics, it's on to the advanced stuff, like the court, the various lines on the floor, and the rules of the game.

Having learned all that, it's time to form a team and chalk up some victories. The way I understand it, by the time they're allowed into the NCAA Tournament, they have proven themselves on the court in something called the regular season. It appears the criteria for admission is to win more games than they lose, then they apply another factor, the quality of their opposition. If they've got all their dunks in a row, they're in.

Now it's time to win or lose in the tournament. And lose they do! In fact, any rational survey of the situation has to conclude that they're nearly all losers. Only one team makes it through the tournament unscathed. The others have signed up more or less for a completely predictable loss. They're putting themselves through all the agony (which is up to 99% assured) for the rarest of chances that they'll win.

My proposal is, if they lose, as most of them must, we should let the coach experience some of the anguish. As the representative of the team, the head, he must submit to the worst rigors.

OK, we'll leave the last two teams, those in the championship game, aside for a moment. (The last losing coach will face his rigors just prior to the winning team getting their trophy). So this means we have 66 teams who have already lost. At halftime of the final game, we want to bring the 66 coaches out, and have them submit to punishment. Obviously they've done something very wrong that their teams haven't won, although, yes, it's assured that all but one will win.

We line them up by first out, with statistics of the game governing final placement. Then it's on to the festivities, dunk tanks, pie throwing, children pelting them with Nerf balls, and rotten tomatoes. It's a gentler form of what we see in mythology, in tribal societies who are concerned about fertility and crops, the death of the king. I can see that coaches would love to do it, because it might just work, swaying the gods to give them a more fruitful season next year.

All the nastiness out of the way, we have the same line-up, and we pass out the laurel wreathes. I'm very merciful, so I'm saying we add one to the Sweet 16 for purposes of this ritual, 16+1. The top 17 coaches get a bigger laurel wreath for their head, along with a kiss from the prettiest cheerleaders. Of the next two divisions (16 each), one gets slightly smaller laurel wreaths and a kiss from the more average cheerleaders, and the other gets even smaller laurel wreaths and a kiss from the below average cheerleaders.

The next-to-last division is only 15, to account for the 1 we added to the Sweet 16. They get a laurel sprig and a kiss from whoever's left. The last four teams of the 68 in last place, the coaches of the teams, get to sniff a laurel sprig, and look at whoever's left. Plus a kick in the ass.

Over And Back -- My Favorite Basketball Infraction

Like everyone else, I'm completely absorbed in the big basketball tournaments. I really appreciate sports on TV. It saves you all the headache of buying expensive tickets, fighting traffic, and wasting your time actually being there. I look at the people in the stands and wonder why they haven't discovered this.

Being here in the quiet of my home, I have a lot of time to reflect on the games. I put on my comfortable slippers, brew a hot cup of tea, and sit there relaxing. Then when my own teams come on, I scream, tear out my hair, and bite my nails to the quick. Truly the best of both worlds.

In my reflection, I pay attention to the rules. I don't know the rules 100%, even though I was briefly out for basketball in school. I was never a player on the team, but practiced with everyone else. But it's been a long time, and rules may have changed a bit.

One of the infractions I know is traveling. But I wonder why it's not OK to take a puny mini-step here and there but it is OK to run the distance from the key to the basket while driving. I keep trying to reconcile that one. I tell myself it must be legal, the refs know what they're doing.

Basketball is a rough sport, and you wouldn't think it would be. There's elbows flying, tripping over each other, and being whacked in the face. They've upped the penalties now with things like Flagrant 1 and Flagrant 2 fouls. The higher the number the worse the infraction. Depending on how much worse the injuries might go, they have plenty of numbers beyond 2 to use. Flagrant 10, intentional emasculation with malice.

My own personal favorite infraction is over and back. Not double-dribble or palming the ball. (Speaking of palming the ball, do they still have that? I don't see it.) I've just always liked the over and back. Once you've left the unfriendly confines of the opposing team's court, you can't go back. Does that make sense? Why would you want to be there in the first place? Where they could steal the ball and more easily score on you.

I like over and back so much, anytime a guy gets close to the line, I'm begging him to cross it. All it takes is a toe. And I get my way more times than you'd expect. But even so, in my opinion, there aren't enough over and backs.

I think the over and back rule is probably archaic, vestigial in basketball. Before they had a shot clock, let's say there wasn't an over and back rule, a team would have the entire court to hold the ball and stall. It was boring. Heck, it was bad enough as late as the '80s, before the shot clock, when they held the ball for 10 or 12 minutes in one court without taking a shot. It was a strategy, a very boring one.

Now, though, with the shot clock, there's no obvious reason why you'd want to linger in the back court. You have to make forward progress or you're finished.

Speaking of forward progress, this is where I get a little philosophical. I like the over and back infraction for that reason, too, because we're a forward-looking people. We don't believe in going over and back, and when you see someone get caught doing it, it cautions the rest of us, in life over and back isn't good.

Really, think about it. When immigrants came to the United States, they had to pull up roots. They spent their money and took the first ship for the New World. They couldn't go over and back. The ship went one direction. That's what the expression "You can't go home again" means; it's too damned far to swim!

And that's not all. We've  always had that western thrust. "Westward ho!" went the cry, as the caravans and wagons headed west. It literally wasn't till the early 1900s that anyone went east, partly because of avalanches in the passes and ambushers in the hills, but mostly because booze was cheap in the western saloons. But they also lived by principles. The old drunk parson gave them the Bible verse, "He who looks back, hic, is not worthy of me, hic."

Then there's the whole linear scheme of things, and that's tied in with our predominating fear of death. We advance, we don't recede. We know death is coming, then the judgment. So, no, over and back isn't for us.

It's different in other parts of the world. Have you ever watched a basketball game in India? They don't care about death, so it's totally different. About the only thing they do is over and back! They're centered in the court, then it's back and forth. No forward progress. Cyclical. They frequently have 0-0 overtimes, the tie only broken by a few token players brought in from the west, who in the end can't help themselves.

Washington Vs. Lincoln -- The Pregame Show

The Big Championship Game was already played, on Sunday, March 25, with Lincoln beating Washington. In the newspaper account of Wednesday, March 28, we learned the score, seeing that the Lincoln hardcourt boys had edged Washington in the cager classic, 56-54. Today, Monday, April 2, we're listening to the pregame show, which of course was recorded before the game but only now is presented, thanks to the miracle of tape delay.

The voices we hear are those of the various announcers, whose identities are not all that important. But they include Bud, Bud, Dick, and Ralph.

-- Both teams will be giving it all they got. They are well aware, you can be sure, that there's no tomorrow for either team. Today, right now, this very minute, is all they have. There's no more days to count. It all comes down to this, the present moment, the eternal now, if you will. If they don't leave it all, everything's they've got, on the floor today, and I mean today, it's not going to make one damned bit of difference tomorrow. You can take it to the bank, it's gonna happen...

-- I'm picking Washington, Ralph, and I'll tell you why. Washington was our first president, and any team that takes that name knows it has to fight like George himself to be Number One. There's no second place for a team called Washington!
-- But of course Washington has lost before, Bud. There's no team in America with an perfectly unbeaten record over the years. They've come in second before, clearly, as you well know, so it could happen again, but I believe I get your point.
-- Exactly, my point is not that they haven't lost before -- even they would admit the obvious truth, not being able to tell a lie. My point is they're going to give it all they've got, not just for the sake of the game, which is big in and of itself, but to bring honor to their name and Washington's primacy.
-- Agreed.

-- Lincoln's looking good this year. And you have to hand it to them, I think they're going to come out ready to play. And I believe with a lot of scrappiness and gettin' on it from the git-go. I can see them throwing Washington off their game. You know, Washington may have the primacy in terms of being the first president -- that's indisputable --, but Lincoln in poll after poll is people's favorite president, hands down. Get me?
--I do, Dick, I get you. It's like this: Washington, being first, never had to live up to someone else's reputation. But Lincoln, coming after, knew he had to be a scrappier president, and get on it from the git-go, if he was going to overtake the previous giant. He started a Civil War, for crying out loud, that's damned scrappy, if you ask me! But that's what he had to do! If you want to fill a giant's shoes, you gotta go for the glory. And I think that's exactly how Lincoln's going to play today.

--Who do I like? I like Zeke Denominator for Washington. He starts down low but divides the crowd and comes out on top. And they've got Kelvin Celsius, whose had the hot hand lately. He's a lot like Denominator. He gets down low and before you know it, rises high to the rim and has the other team sweating it out. And of course Lincoln has Phillip Nozzle. When they put him in and he's pumping shots, Lincoln's miles ahead. And their big man, Wilt Redwood, stands head and shoulders above 'em all, dropping the ball in for quick scores or giving cover to the rest of the team.
-- Don't forget Washington's Abe Lanky, Bud.
-- No, no, of course not!
-- It's a bad name for a Washington man, but it forces the big man to play that much harder, to show he's not a Lincoln plant. I can see him matching Redwood point for point.

-- Everything's set for a great championship. The setting, the rivalry, the atmosphere, it's all just right. We have the Washington Eagles, with their hatchets and cherry tree branches, and the Lincoln Panthers, pushing their angular faces forward with fake beards and tousled, nondescript haircuts. Someone's hopes die today, and course Lincoln's always watching their back. Will Washington remain standing to cross the river of victory? Or will Lincoln leave the building, not in a box, but by the power of their own two feet? Time will tell. The coming together of past, present, and future will tell the whole story. And we already know the outcome in part: One of these two great teams will go down in history for glory, and the other in shame.

Hardcourt Boys Play Cager Classic

A good-sized crowd was on hand in the Lincoln High gym Sunday to watch the Lincoln Panthers edge the Washington Eagles, 56-54. The two presidential clubs faced off in this year's cager championship.   

Enthusiasm was high as the hardcourt boys marched up and down the floor. The cagers of Washington took an early lead, in keeping with their namesake's primacy as president, but the lead shifted back and forth throughout the game.

Cager Wilt Redwood, Lincoln's big man, was their high scorer with a total of 16 points, by a happy coincidence tying their president's place in the list of U.S. chief executives. All the other Lincoln hardcourt boys put up points, with high-flying Hawk Sandpiper nearest Redwood in nested shots.   

For Washington, their big man, the unhappily-monikered Abe Lanky, was the highest scoring cager, adding 17 points. Fans breathed a great sigh of relief when the hardcourt boy sank a late free throw to put him one over 16.

The other Washington cagers did their best in the losing effort, in part sparked by the torrid play of Kelvin Celsius, playing at fever pace. Zeke Denominator often found the bottom of the net, but was called for numerous infractions and fouled out.

On the Lincoln side, Phillip Nozzle pumped in a quick four points, fueling a short spurt. 4 foot 9 Al Soran was the low man on the boards with a single free throw.   

The boisterous crowd was the sixth cager for each team. Tempers flared and the game was stopped three times to warn them against throwing hatchets and fake beards to the court.

Lincoln fans mocked Washington when their hardcourt boys lost the lead, holding up signs referring to the cherry tree, such as "Sharpen Your Axe!" and "The Tree Still Stands!"

But Washington fans gave as good as they got when the Lincoln cagers fell behind, their signs referring to the 16th president's arguably premature death, "It Only Takes One Shot!" and  "Sic Semper Panthers!"

Lincoln Upsets Washington, And Ghosts

Ready for a freaky story, true in every detail, right down to the ectoplasm spewing from the lady's mouth? This happened just as I'm writing it, and it was just yesterday, so it's clear -- crystal clear -- in my mind.

I was at the Heaven bar for the championship basketball game between the Washington Eagles and the Lincoln Panthers. It was exciting, not just because we watched it on the big screen, but for the obvious fact that Washington and Lincoln are high schools from the same town. Meaning we were all mixed together, with periodic clashes, like with every lead change.

Thanks to Washington having cut down the cherry tree, of course the Eagles feasted on cherry pie. But because Lincoln isn't associated with any particular food, they were eating a la carte. This turned to the Panthers' advantage, because there's nothing Washington can razz them about when it comes to food. But the cherry pie thing can be deadly when Washington loses the lead, and they have to suffer the famous Lincoln quote, used as a taunt, "If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend six sharpening my axe."

But the Panthers hate this taunt of Washington's just as much: "We should never despair, our Situation before has been unpromising and has changed for the better, so I trust, it will again." Lincoln sees in that a mean-spirited reference to the Assassination, Washington as much as saying, "Wait 'em out! Lincoln can't go the distance! He couldn't finish a stinking play, he doesn't stand a chance at basketball..."

OK, I was paying close attention to the game as it went back and forth and as the bar rocked with cheers, boos, and the occasional, but rare, flying hatchet. But there was something else going on in the bar. Every TV was tuned in to the game, every one except one, a small set in the corner being watched by local psychic Madame Sosotris. Always in touch with two worlds, she was watching Ghost Hunters.

For most of the time, those watching the game prevailed, as far as the noise, but the psychic was tolerated and semi-respected when she would periodically whistle and call for silence. We'd look over and hear a brief comment on her program, such as, "Grant just saw an eerie light at the end of the hall!" Then it'd go to commercial, and when it came back, she'd learn it was just Jason's flashlight. We'd go back to the game, only to be interrupted a few minutes later with a whistle and again the silence, "Jason just heard a thump in the wall!" After the commercial, she'd announce, "It was just Grant in the next room tapping the wall."

Everything was building to a climax in the game, Washington and Lincoln exchanging the lead as it came down to the final minutes and seconds. Hatchets and cherry pies were flying around the room, and a few of the Washington partisans had grabbed the fake Lincoln beards from the Panthers and were throwing them as well. Then as the last few seconds wound down, the score tied, Lincoln stole the ball from Washington and hurried down the floor for the game-winning shot.

It was pandemonium in the Heaven bar, total chaos, until it was amazingly broken and silenced by the presence of Madame Sosostris literally floating through the place, ectoplasm spewing from her mouth and the stuff forming enormous mounds wherever they fell. The Ghost Hunters show had actually hit on something important! She brought a message -- President Washington's concession to Lincoln -- channeled through Grant and Jason:

"There is a Destiny which has the control of our actions, not to be resisted by the strongest efforts of Human Nature. I shall not be deprived of a comfort in the worst event, if I retain a consciousness of having acted to the best of my judgment. We'll get these Lincoln bastards next year!"