have the shoes on my feet, and Iâve been wearing these jeans for weeks straight anyway. When I get where Iâm going, Iâll get new shit.
I shouldâve bailed months ago. Years ago. I never should have come here. I should have left the country right after high school. Fuck it. Fuck it all.
DAVE KITCHELL
DAVE KITCHELLâS HANDS feel like bricks. Theyâre cold, menacing, cable-fingered mitts. He has sharp calluses that pinch your hands when you shake his. But itâs the inhuman hardness that really freaks me out. Thereâs no fleshly give in his hands; theyâre too solid for that. If he held up his closed fists, it would look like heâs holding an invisible bat.
Daveâs a fearsome hitter. He bats fifth for the Giants. His average is low, but when he does make contact, it rarely stays in the park. Heâs adored by children, loved by the ladies, feared by opposing pitchers, and hated by the media. Heâs played longer than any current big leaguer, and his secret is that Big Mike has been selling him drugs for years.
Daveâs body is a housing for a chemistry set. Heâs been on everything. Not just the ones you would assume, like steroids and amphetamines, but vanity drugs that work better than plastic surgery, and he chews mood stabilizers like they were Lucky Charms. He has an affinity for psychedelics and a particular appetite for military-combat drugs. I donât know how he cheats the leagueâs drug testing, but he must be testing positive for everything.
Dave is notorious for bare-hand catching a bases-loaded line drive at third base. It broke one of his fingers, but he still stepped on third and threw to second for a triple play. His secret? He was geeked out of his mind on a number of drugs. He told me later that he didnât see the ball until it was right in front of his face, but it was floating in slow motion like a fist-sized piece of popcorn.
Daveâs made over a hundred million dollars in salaries over theyears, and, unlike many of his peers, heâs made even more than that in his investments, both legal and otherwise. Laundromats, car washes, dog groomers, landscapers, tattoo shops, janitorial services, and apartment buildings cover the income from drugs, illegal furs and hides, and exotic animal importing.
Youâll read stories about a boxer who owns a lion or a pop star who has his own giraffes. You canât just go down to the pet store and pick one up. You canât score a walrus in the park like a bag of weed. Sure, you can find a boa constrictor or maybe a ferret, but if your girlfriend wants a baby jaguar for her birthday, youâre going to need someone with connections.
Now, a lot of people will ask why a guy whoâs made hundreds of millions still wants to live a life of crime. Well, the answer is, you donât get it. If you have to ask, youâre not the kid of person who would understand or even accept the answer.
The man was a criminal before he was a pro ballplayer, and thatâs what heâll be when his body and the finest chemical science fail him. The baseball salary is only a nice cover for a massive financial empire.
Then there are the assholes who will ask what you could possibly spend that much money on. Whatever the fuck you want. What have you ever wanted? Do you want Beyoncé to sing at your birthday party? Do you want to sit in Spike Leeâs seat at the Knicks game? Do you want to fuck the girls from The Facts of Life ? Everything has a price. You may not get it, but if you have the money, people are open to negotiation.
But my dealing, of course, is with a truckload of whales. I have a truckload of dwarfed, cloned whales, and I need to move them fast, for cash, to someone who has the ability to sell off a dozen whales and doesnât care if theyâre legal or not.
Dave lives in a huge house in Fremont. Fremontâs not what you think of when you think of multimillionaires or
I shouldâve bailed months ago. Years ago. I never should have come here. I should have left the country right after high school. Fuck it. Fuck it all.
DAVE KITCHELL
DAVE KITCHELLâS HANDS feel like bricks. Theyâre cold, menacing, cable-fingered mitts. He has sharp calluses that pinch your hands when you shake his. But itâs the inhuman hardness that really freaks me out. Thereâs no fleshly give in his hands; theyâre too solid for that. If he held up his closed fists, it would look like heâs holding an invisible bat.
Daveâs a fearsome hitter. He bats fifth for the Giants. His average is low, but when he does make contact, it rarely stays in the park. Heâs adored by children, loved by the ladies, feared by opposing pitchers, and hated by the media. Heâs played longer than any current big leaguer, and his secret is that Big Mike has been selling him drugs for years.
Daveâs body is a housing for a chemistry set. Heâs been on everything. Not just the ones you would assume, like steroids and amphetamines, but vanity drugs that work better than plastic surgery, and he chews mood stabilizers like they were Lucky Charms. He has an affinity for psychedelics and a particular appetite for military-combat drugs. I donât know how he cheats the leagueâs drug testing, but he must be testing positive for everything.
Dave is notorious for bare-hand catching a bases-loaded line drive at third base. It broke one of his fingers, but he still stepped on third and threw to second for a triple play. His secret? He was geeked out of his mind on a number of drugs. He told me later that he didnât see the ball until it was right in front of his face, but it was floating in slow motion like a fist-sized piece of popcorn.
Daveâs made over a hundred million dollars in salaries over theyears, and, unlike many of his peers, heâs made even more than that in his investments, both legal and otherwise. Laundromats, car washes, dog groomers, landscapers, tattoo shops, janitorial services, and apartment buildings cover the income from drugs, illegal furs and hides, and exotic animal importing.
Youâll read stories about a boxer who owns a lion or a pop star who has his own giraffes. You canât just go down to the pet store and pick one up. You canât score a walrus in the park like a bag of weed. Sure, you can find a boa constrictor or maybe a ferret, but if your girlfriend wants a baby jaguar for her birthday, youâre going to need someone with connections.
Now, a lot of people will ask why a guy whoâs made hundreds of millions still wants to live a life of crime. Well, the answer is, you donât get it. If you have to ask, youâre not the kid of person who would understand or even accept the answer.
The man was a criminal before he was a pro ballplayer, and thatâs what heâll be when his body and the finest chemical science fail him. The baseball salary is only a nice cover for a massive financial empire.
Then there are the assholes who will ask what you could possibly spend that much money on. Whatever the fuck you want. What have you ever wanted? Do you want Beyoncé to sing at your birthday party? Do you want to sit in Spike Leeâs seat at the Knicks game? Do you want to fuck the girls from The Facts of Life ? Everything has a price. You may not get it, but if you have the money, people are open to negotiation.
But my dealing, of course, is with a truckload of whales. I have a truckload of dwarfed, cloned whales, and I need to move them fast, for cash, to someone who has the ability to sell off a dozen whales and doesnât care if theyâre legal or not.
Dave lives in a huge house in Fremont. Fremontâs not what you think of when you think of multimillionaires or