Bat Boy

Zvi A. Sesling

          Back in the 1950s Dickie McGregor was the Washington Senators’ centerfielder and his best friend was Walter (Stem) Stemcarzyk. The two were inseparable after the baseball games and usually could be found in the same bar downing beers or maybe the hotel lounge where the team was staying sipping martinis.

          Stem, a bachelor would often pick up a couple of women and he and Dickie would then have some entertainment for the night.  One evening Stem told Dickie he had a ticket to the rodeo but could not go because he had a date, so gave his ticket to his friend.

          Dickie went to rodeo held in Virginia, about forty minutes from Washington. After a while he got bored watching men in cowboy outfits ride bulls or horses and get thrown to the ground.  He found his car in the parking lot and began driving. Though the traffic was as usual in the Washington area it took him a bit more than an hour to get back to his suburban home. There he saw a car parked in front of his house.  Dickie turned off the motor, reached into the back seat for his baseball bat, and left the car quietly closing the driver side door and tiptoeing into his home. There he found his wife with Stem on the couch, her blouse off, his pants down to his knees.

          “Some date, you rat,” Dickie blurted. Dickie’s wife sat up, put her blouse back on and Stem pulled up his pants. 

          “It ain’t what it seems Dickie boy, it ain’t what it seems.”

          “Yeah, so what is it?”

          Dickie’s wife ran out of the room crying and Stem tried to think of what to say.

          “Look, I … we ….” That was as far as Stem got as Dickie brought up the bat from behind his back and with a swing that had hit twenty home runs struck Stem squarely in the temple. 

          Three days later the Senators game was postponed so a funeral could be held. The whole team attended, including Dickie McGregor, who gave the eulogy.

Zvi A. Sesling, Brookline, MA Poet Laureate (2017-2020), has published numerous poems and flash/micro fiction and won international prizes. A five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he has published four volumes and three chapbooks of poetry. His flash fiction book is Secret Behind the Gate. He lives in Brookline, MA. with his wife Susan J. Dechter.

If Charles Addams, Edgar Allan Poe, and Willy Wonka sired a bastard child it would be the fat asthmatic by the name of Michael D. Davis. He has been called warped by dear friends and a freak by passing strangers. Michael started drawing cartoons when he was ten, and his skill has improved with his humor, which isn’t saying much. He is for the most part self-taught, only ever crediting the help of one great high school art teacher. His art has been shown at his local library for multiple years only during October due to its macabre nature. If you want to see more of Michael’s strange, odd, weird, cartoons you can follow him on Instagram at mad_hatters_mania.