Not so long ago, I told the harrowing tale of Mark Gubicza, mangled plastic corpse, and the dark malaise it flung over the moribund Kansas City Royals franchise. The twisted, insane smile of that armless crippled puppet still haunts me, as it haunts us all indirectly. Many a night I have spent in troubled, listless sleep, reliving the moment of my cowardice, my refusal to aid the dozens of remaining Royals fans.
Ultimately, I decided that I had no choice but to face my demons. In one hand I held a dented aluminum bat from the sporting goods section, and with the other stared through the preview pane of my phone camera to avoid making eye contact with the spirits of the damned.
Thus armed, I reached the back of the store to face my spiritual oppressor, only to discover among the plastic golden trophies something I never expected:
I do not know who did this deed, or how it was done. We may never know the trials endured by this anonymous hero in restoring Mark Gubicza to its original state, golden arm and bluish glove intact. I do not know how much of their blood, how many years of their life were exacted as the price for such a deed. What I do know is that the curse of Kansas City, now as old as most high school seniors, has been weakened. The time to fulfill the prophecy is nigh.
Only one task remains, and the Royals still need our help. If good men do nothing, evil will return. You must band together and banish the curse forever, by eliminating its last tie to the earthly realm. Find the Yuniesky Betancourt bobbleheads. Smash them, set fire to the dust, scatter the ashes, and disinfect the building in question. Only then will the Royals regain their collective throne. I have done what I can, dear readers. Now it is up to you.