Negativity Police

Attention all TD Posters: you have the right to remain positive. Everything is perfectly fine. Remember, loyal fans, you cannot spell Twin without 'win.' So, there's that.

A Hero Awakens A play in three acts Cast (in order of appearance): Vanimal (Van) Negativity Police (NP) Setting: Interior of a studio apartment in an undisclosed location in the mid-evening. The date is May 12, 2016. Act I Curtains rise. Vanimal is walking down the dusty corridor of a slum-like residential building. His steps are delicate and increasingly deliberate. He is looking over his shoulder with every advance. Vanimal finds the door to Apartment 301 ajar. He nudges it open. With an agitated creek, the entry widens to reveal a near-empty studio. Save for a green, plastic folding table, an old Cathode Ray Tube Television set, and what appeared to be a discarded passenger side seat of a minivan on the far end of the abode, there was nothing. An empty bottle of Evan Williams here, a stray cigarette butt there; nothing more. The room is groggily dim, lit lethargically by the old TV set, idling with the volume turned off. Behind the light, inside the box, Looney Tunes caper in Technicolor, ignorant of their captive and listless audience. NP is seated in a trance-like state. Suddenly, without turning towards Vanimal, he speaks. NP: What took you so long? Vanimal, startled by his host’s hoarse and casual response, takes a step back, then immediately another step forward to reclaim his composure. NP turns gingerly around to offer a squinted glance towards the entrance. He is presented in a pitiful state of undress. He is wearing an open, greasy bathrobe over a tattered Tsuyoshi Nishioka shirsey, with a pair of blown-out black briefs on his bottom half. After a beat, his eyes jerk open wide. He is at once enraged and terrified. He springs from his seat. NP: You!!! Van: NP, please-- NP: That’s Mister to you, buddy! Van: Sorry—I’m sorry. Mister, please. Just— NP: You’ve got one hell of a lot of nerve to show that sweet little behind of yours in these parts. Van: (Lifting his pants by the belt and seat) NP, I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you. NP: Well, it’s a little late for that, isn’t it? Why don’t you scuttle off to tell King Brock that you found me just as you left me: dead. Rejected. Cast aside! Van: You got it all wrong, NP. No one “cast you aside”—honest. They had to let you go. You fought a good fight, NP…but you…you flew too close to the sun, so to speak. NP: You don’t know! You don’t have any idea what it’s like. You’re Vanimal! People love Vanimal! Me? Tossed aside like human garbage. They banned me, Vanimal! I try to make TwinsDaily a better place! I try to make it safe to feel good again! …and they banned me. NP’s eyes begin to well. His face is flush with rage. He retreats to his chair and pulls a deep slug of bourbon. He sets his gaze on the television. In a bitterly ironic turn, the 1946 Warner Bros. production, ‘Baseball Bugs’ begins to play. NP winces. Vanimal, slack jawed and upright, takes two or three cautious steps towards NP. Van: We thought you were dead, NP. I mean, it had been two and a half months. Where have you been this whole time? NP refrains from responding for a beat. NP: The TD Mod Squad handed me my walking papers. I took it alright. At the time, anyway. I figured there’s plenty of fansites out there that could use a no-nonsense regulator like me. Who wouldn’t want that? A hard-nosed SOB to weed out the wise anchors. TD treated me like an expendable luxury item. How is that? In today’s society? My services are a necessity! …Or so I thought. NP lights a hand-rolled cigarette and attempts to smother the fatigue in his eyes with both palms. I went back to my superior officer, explained the situation. I asked to be reassigned. Immediately. The sooner the better, I thought. “I hear the Reds have been liquidating. Do they need help down there? San Diego?” I asked. He suggested I take some time off. “Sarge,” I said, “I’ll do anything. Atlanta! I’ll do Atlanta! Don’t tell me they don’t need me on the Braves beat. I can help them. Put me in the game!” So, then he told me: “I can’t put you on the fansites no more! You’re finished.” I couldn’t believe it. I knew the times were changing. I’m with it. I’m as hip and groovy as the next hepcat. “You’re old school,” he tells me. He says that don’t bother him personally, and he wish’t he had a place for me. “But it’s too damn risky,” he said. Just trying to cover his own ass. I was crushed. Crushed and desperate. Finally, he told me there was one place I could go, if I really wanted. They were just looking for a warm body, but I said sign me up. Little did I know… Van: Oh, Lord Jesus, no…Don’t tell me— NP: Yeah, that’s right, kid…the next morning, I was redeployed to my new gig…Twitter. Van: NP, I had no idea, I swear— NP: Save it, Van. Just save it. It’s too late. Don’t spend your apologies on a dead man. NP sinks into his chair and ashes onto the floor. He looks up, stares into the ceiling. Van: I can’t imagine…the things you must have seen! NP: You know what? You’re right! You can’t imagine! There’s no law. There’s no civility! The only way to know Twitter is to live it. The torment, the anguish. Aspersions firing left and right! Profane knee jerk criticisms falling down like lightning. It’s a Tourette Syndrome turret gun. And it changes you, Van. It breaks you down into tiny pieces. It wears on you, day after day. It’s like a snuff parody of the movie Groundhog Day. Van: I love that movie. NP: Yeah, well how would you like it… if it was bad?! Instead of learning fun stuff like speaking French and playing piano, I learned how to make a shiv out of a plastic spoon! Instead of Bill Murray, it’s Katt Williams. Instead of Andie McDowell, you get Skip Bayless! And everyone else is played by a Kardashian. So, how’s that sound, Vanimal? How would you like that? Van: What did you do? NP: I’m AWOL, Vanny. I turned my back and ran. Fast and far. Like a coward. Like a golldurn coward. Excuse my language. Fortunately, I was never Verified, so nobody’s looking for old NP. The two pause for, like, I dunno, forty seconds until Vanimal takes a seat, cross-legged on the floor across from NP. Vanimal reaches into his jacket pocket. Van: I brought you something. Vanimal is holding a small object, wrapped in a Homer Hanky for safe keeping. He unwraps the object. NP: Heh...my old policing whistle. Where’d you get that? Van: Never mind where it came from. What do you say, you give it a good ‘peeeep peeeeeeeep peeeeep,’ like old times? NP: My peeeeep peeeeep peeeeeeeepin’ days are over, kid. These days, I’m lucky if I can get it to go ‘poooop pooooooooop pooooooop.’ Van: Aw, come on. Give it a try! NP: Scoot over, Van. I can’t see my Tunes. Van: There will be time for Tunes later. Vanimal is visibly frustrated by NP’s obstinance. There’s a reason I came looking for you. NP: You better not even suggest what I think you’re— Van: We need you back at TwinsDaily. Thereisaidit. NP: You are even more stupid than I thought if you think I’d entertain such a ridiculous idea. DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID, VAN? IS THIS SOME FUNNY JOKE? CUZ I’M NOT LAUGHING!!! Ridiculous. Van: No, NP, you don’t understand. Things are getting bad over there. I mean, they’re really really bad. NP: Leave this place! Be gone! Van: I’m not leaving. Not unless you’re coming with me! NP: You just don’t get it, do you? I’m dead, Van. I’m gone. Finished. It’s over for me. I’m never coming back. So, just beat an egg, will ya? Leave me to my Tunes. Van: 8 and 25! (dramatic pause) They’re 8 and 25, OK? Think about what a record as stinky as that will do to the community. It’s Gomorrah on those game threads. NP’s head lowers. He sits in contemplation, as if Vanimal’s statement would not compute. He winces as he ponders. Van: I didn’t want to say it…Oh well, if you won’t help, I’ll just go and find— NP: How do people feel about Mauer? Van: Oh, well, Mauer’s back to his old form, actually. NP: That’s good. Van: But Rosario couldn’t hit a beach ball with a tennis raquet. I mean, seriously – he couldn’t hit a mail box if Billy Joel was drivin.’ NP: That’s bad. Van: Sano’s keeping his average up with singles and line shots. NP: That’s good. Van: He’s got four home runs. NP: That’s bad. Van: He’s got an RZR of .844 and UZR/150 of -1.5. NP: ? Van: That’s bad. NP: And what am I supposed to do about it? Van: People are mad, NP. They’re out for blood. They want to take TR by the bald of his head and— NP: What else is new? Van: People are talking about Buxton as a bust. They’re calling him names like ‘Byron Buston.’ People want to fire David St. Peter-- they don’t even know what he does! I don’t even want to mention what they’re saying about Hughsie. Vanimal turns away and wipes a tear from his cheek. NP: It can’t be all that bad. Surely, they’ve traded Plouffe by now… Van: I can’t…I shouldn’t tell you. NP: Sano’s back at third, right? So, what’s the problem? Van: Sano’s in RF still! It wasn’t a bluff! It wasn’t some Spring Training prank! People are going nuts! TD is out of control, NP! Completely sideways! Some are writing Articles about trading for Mike Trout! Honest to God! Articles! NP: But, this is impossible! Psychosis Canis Dies? It’s not even June. Van: What do you say, NP? Will you help us? We need you, please! Avenge our good vibrations! We need someone to make people feel bad for disparaging our hometown nine. If someone doesn’t stand up for the duckies and bunnies…I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m scared, NP. The two are now standing. NP draws the curtains from his window, peers through a cloud of kicked-up dust. The faint mid-evening glow appears to sting his eyes, as he hasn’t seen the sun in days. He stares and thinks. After some time, he turns to Vanimal. NP: I don’t do that no more. I’m sorry. NP turns back towards the window, away from Vanimal. Now, get the hell outta here. Vanimal turns and heads towards the door. When he reaches the exit, he puts his hand on the door jamb and rotates once more to face NP, but NP remains fixed on the window. Vanimal exits into the hallway. NP returns to his seat in front of the television. The credits roll on the ending of one cartoon as another begins. NP appears unfazed by this recent interaction. The titles of the next cartoon begin to roll. “Loony Tunes” “A Warner Bros Cartoon” “Crockett Doodle Doo” “starring” … “Foghorn Leghorn” NP’s face becomes snarled, and he rises violently. He lets out a primal shriek and hurls his half-empty booze bottle at the TV set. The bottle crashes straight through the screen and a mirepoix of debris, electric sparks and black smoke spew out from the face of the box. NP stares, breathing heavily, then stands to attention. He runs through the open doorway ala Cozmo Kramer, looking for the now absent Vanimal. NP pivots and runs to the window, looks out and sees Vanimal crossing an adjacent intersection. He thrusts the window open. NP: Vanimal! Vanimal! Vanimal turns and looks up from under the glow of a streetlight. I’ll do it. Van: You serious? You’re not funnin’ on me, are you? NP: PUT ME IN THE GAME! NP rotates towards the TV, gives it one more harsh glance. He turns his gaze towards his whistle, and marches towards it. Halfway between the window and the whistle, he slips on a banana peel, does a big flippidy-do and falls onto the ground face first. The force of the face plant causes his underpants to split down the seat for some reason. NP: I am gettin’ too old for this sh**. Curtains. Act II Act III Gameday.

F. Throw you in the klink for disturbing the peace. G. Throw away the key.

This is a raid! All you Rosario haters have the right to remain silent!