by Richard Oxman

As the Great Matilda and the *former* Lead Inspector Malone attempted to discuss Martinism for the fifth time in two days, “Ivan” Malone turned in his ticket at the turnstile for the late-out-of-the-gate 2007 Major League Baseball All-Star Game. Tough security measures were in place, and the annual event was taking place in mid-July instead of earlier (as usual) ’cause of the intentional food poisoning which took place at concessions near the Founders Club of the Marlins’ Dolphins Stadium…leaving fourteen dead in May.

Nothing could have stopped “Ivan” from gaining entrance, but…Good Al Malone had been defrocked –relieved of his righteous official duties– because of being (”inexplicably,” read the report) out of touch with colleagues “at crucial crossroads.” His duly authorized doors were closed. Padlocked shut.

Nevertheless, Big Bad Good Al remained committed to what he referred to as *The Challenge*…in Matilda’s presence. He felt he was born to solve the case.

In fact, The Great Matilda was fast zooming in on the notion that they had much in common — Ian and Ivan — without knowing that they shared virtually the same name…and birthdate.

Bad Al’s Dream Sequence:

It was during the playing of the National Anthem — led by the newest sensation McKinley Morganfield (who had embraced his made-up moniker as a tribute to Muddy Waters, whose name it really was at birth) — that the starting team members of both leagues were shot simultaneously through the right hands and hearts (over which all hands were lain in pain for the country). The nation’s *creme de la creme* (that had risen to the top that season)…dropped, pinstriped, festooned with animals…neatly pressed one and all.

Bad Al’s and Good Al’s and Everybody’s Reality:

The two leading MVP candidates, one from the Milwaukee Brewers, the other from the Minneapolis Twins, were shot by marksmen (one was actually a woman) in front of a capacity house AND the largest viewing audience in the history of televised all-star games.

The Blue Angel antics preceding the game –and their residue of ear-splitting sound– had barely been shaken by the time that many millions of Americans (over fifty thousand in person!) were shaken to the pit of their beings, pitifully subjected to searches and questions during their expeditious ushering out of the ballpark…trying to reconcile the vile, incomprehensible acts which now ruled their days…and nights…with the three o’clock in the morning emptiness of their collective souls’ clock, crock of crap life.

The fact that McKinley Morganfield had been crushed to death in a momentary stampede following the shots didn’t help.