“Cistulli,” I said. “How do you like my new Hiroshima Carp fashion t-shirt?”
“Bah,” sniffed Cistulli. “I am a proud and relentless Occidental. I care not for those at the poo end of the spice-trade routes. They are beneath me. Literally. For look at this elderly Japanese man ‘neath my boot-heel.”
I noticed that there was indeed a elderly Japanese man struggling and purpling over underneath Cistulli’s awful stilettos.
“But Cistulli,” I said. “The Japanese play a unique and compelling brand of baseball. Surely you would agree that, considering our game’s global reach, talents from the Pacific Rim will continue to enrich the U.S. major leagues.”
“For God and country,” he whispered as he increased the pressure on the windpipe of the elderly Japanese man to the point of death and then beyond that point. “Now, that’s better.”
“Cistulli,” I said. “Look at the Carp’s logo. Is it not pleasing whimsy? Is it not prepossessing in its use of fractals?”
“To piping-hot hell with the lot of them,” sniffed Cistulli. “Foreordination favors those who look like brawny and alabaster me!”
Then he ravished me.
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