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Tales of the Supernatural with Nap Lapkin (Part 4)

It’s at this point that you can be forgiven if you’re clenching and unclenching your fists and asking aloud if I ever plan on getting back to the mascot-eating dragon that started off this whole mess of a story. I mean to say, this really got away from me. But, ever the thoughtful writer, I will do my best to try to stay focused and return to the realm of the supernatural.

Let’s see what Nap is up to, shall we?

Nap arrived too late to save the UC Santa Cruz mascot. The half-eaten banana slug lay draped across a bench in the locker room and gave off a pungent and sluggy scent. What you might ask is a sluggy scent? I have no idea. At some point, I have to be honest and say I have no idea what a giant five-foot-eight banana slug would smell like. I think everyone’s banana slug corpse will smell a little different. I gave you pungent; you’re on your own for the rest.

Nap reached into his pocket and produced a red phone that acted as a direct link to the President. It was red because Nap refused to address the President as anything but Commissioner Gordon. A fact that irritated the President but nowhere near as much as the endless string of late-night calls from inebriated cocktail waitresses asking him if he really was the President. “Yes. Yes I am. Yes… THE President. No, I’m not a Sagittarius. Put Nap on the phone please. Ok, well, when he’s done vomiting please tell him that if he calls me again I’ll have him shot. Yes, really.”

It wasn’t really necessary but Nap pressed in the required digits and heard the call go through. After a few rings he heard a familiar voice.

“What is it Nap? This better not be some drunken slut asking me if I’m really…”

Nap cut him off.

“It’s not. I just wanted to tell you I know where the mascot killer is going to strike next.”

 

This might be a good time to come right out and tell you that I’m not going to explain the how or why of mascots turning into the actual creatures they are pretending to be. Face it, whatever explanation I offered up would fall flat compared to the one you already came up with. Nor do I have a good back story about why an out-of-work mascot would suddenly turn into a dragon and what’s more if I were to sit and come up with one, you’d only roll your eyes and think to yourself “Lame!” While you might have been a bit thrown by the first paragraph of the story, I’m sure by now your imagination is really cooking and there is a part of you that hopes that I will not screw things up by trying to explain too much.

 

What I will tell you is how Nap knew the dreaded dragon would end up back at Miller Park in Milwaukee. Because he was about to offer him a treat that no self-respecting demonic entity could pass up: a sixth competitor running during the seventh inning stretch. The wolf in meat’s clothing. (#6) Pepperoni.  (#6) Nap Lapkin… dressed to kill. A salami out for justice. Out to avenge Sammy the Slug, Speedy the Geoduck, and Arkansas-Monticello’s noble boll weevil.

While waiting for the seventh inning fireworks it might be interesting to mention that there was something about listening to Take Me Out to the Ballgame that always got to Nap. Not so much a wave of melancholy as a deep resentment that Cracker Jack is no longer available at ballparks.

“It’s in the fucking song” he would rage to himself. He couldn’t shake the thought that somewhere there was a really crappy Cracker Jack salesman who slacked off and allowed other snack foods to waltz in and take the baseball market.

The casual baseball fan did not escape Nap’s wrath either. “How can anyone sing Cracker Jack and then not want Cracker Jack? Why isn’t there a stadium full of people with their head’s swiveling around wildly looking for the Cracker Jack vendor?”

It baffled him that peanuts make the cut but Cracker Jack did not. He was about to scoop up his red phone and discuss the matter with the President but then realized that there were more pressing matters at hand. Plus, his giant Pepperoni hands would not allow him to dial.

But before the pressing matters could commence he had a race to win. Although he was told prior to the gate swinging open that it was Chorizo’s turn to win, Nap was damned if he was going to lose a footrace to a pork product. Sensing what was afoot, Madonna, situated in an ill-fitting Polish Sausage costume, tackled him about twenty feet from the finish line. The sight of two Racing Sausages getting to their feet and engaging in an impromptu martial arts battle was an unexpected treat for the thousands of baseball fans in attendance.

Once back behind the confines of the hallway, both Nap and Madonna heard a familiar growl.

It’s here I have to warn you that if you’re expecting some epic showdown between good and evil, you might be a bit disappointed. The thing is, even if you’re a dragon, you’re still susceptible to the kind of weaponry Nap and Madonna were packing inside their mascot attire. Before Madonna could even raise her plasma-spewing vibrator, Nap had unloaded a clip of hollow point bullets into the demon’s head.

It fell over without even a last snarl.

The problem is that countless fantasy authors have filled your imaginations with completely unrealistic expectations regarding the durability of dragon scales and dragon teeth and all the other things that make up a dragon. The truth is that they are basically just as sausagey inside as any other animal.

Obviously I’m not any happier about it than you… I ended the damn story with the word sausagey for fucks sake.

Totally not epic.

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