I closed Denivar Broncovsky's Denver Broncos 2009 Season with a slow, weighted sigh. I had just read through Part 2: Chapter 3 -- Skinned. Why? Why would Denivar write this way? What compels a man to bring us to 6-0 highs, and then destroy us with a three game losing streak, the third being a complete and utter slap in the face to our triumphant beginning? I stewed for a moment and then said, aloud, loudly, with volume, I might have been yelling, "NO WAY!"
That's all I had. No way.
So I sat my butt back down and put not-so-secret trick fake field goals and twisty ankles and disappearing run D behind me so I could rip into what I was sure was going to be Part 3: Chapter 1 -- New Beginnings at the Hands Of Old Foes.
I opened up our dusty friend and it was in fact not Part 3. It was still Part 2: Chapter 4 -- Dumped. Oh dear God.
Author Denivar Bronkovsky was a tortured soul who was born in Poland (orignally Bronkovski), and later moved to Minsk. Like many Russian (or pseudo Russian, or transplanted, or wannabe, or neighbors of old babushkas who were from Russia once and like to write a thing or two in the small hours) authors, Bronkovsky does not like happy, unless it is disguised as misery, which he then likes very much.
What Bronkovsky excells at is bringing emotions to titillating highs, bringing his readers to clearly happy places, and then watching them burn as they furiously hurtle towards the sad lands of a swampy Earth. Like watching the swedish bikini team being launched out of cannons, their scraps of swimwear shredding away as they sing siren songs of love, effortlessly gliding through our rareified air, only to come crashing down into a peat bog. The tremendous squirch and flibbert, pop and ooze, as they get sucked under, gone forever....
Part 2: Chapter 4 -- Dumped
I was outraged. We were not in love with the Dolts. We were in love with beating the Dolts. But we got dumped. Broncovsky. You cur. With Part 2 I was certain he was setting up the beating of the Dolts, as the beginning to Part 3. Nuh! Not happening. Love gone bad.
Freedom was unavailable. Sometimes Freedom drives crazy kids out into the woods where they sort out their stuff. He's good at it. They needed him.
I was alone.
I ran out into the street. It was slick with rain and the sun long gone. Tires on further streets splished. I turned up the hill, running. Headlights crested over the top of the hill and came directly at me. I had purposeless purpose. (I would like to take a quick moment to congratulate myself on just writing what may very well be the dumbest sentence I have ever concocted, and in only 4 words!) My heart quickened as I knew a collision was imminent.
I slammed into the hood with my two hands flat, staring into the darkened seats.
"WHAT THE @#$%!!"
"What is your problem man!?! Get off my car!"
I peeled off the hood, spun past what I clearly identified as a KIA Rio. Poor bastard.
I topped the hill and carried on into Zupan's, grabbing a tulip on my way through the door and stuffing it in my mouth.
I ran down the baking aisle frantically pulling bags of flour and pancake batter off the shelves and slamming them into the linoleum, kicking them freely, without regret, without a clue. A dude in his little Zupan's apron and holding a carton of eggs turned into the aisle and said, "What's no way, man?"
"Dude. NO WAAAAY!" I grabbed the eggs out of his hands and hurled them, one by one at bok choi, Erath Vineyards Pinot Noir 1994, some lady. And then, a revelation, I ran to the little locked case they have with the $200.00 3 ounce bottles of Italian vinegar, and just punched right through. The egg in my first squirted would be chicken all over the bottles, mixing with the blood that streaked my hand. I pulled out the tiniest bottle, 1/2 an ounce, $89.00. I ripped of the top with my teeth, and took it. To the head. Vinegar, blood and egg. In my mouth.
charged careened out the sliding doors into Belmont St. They were not ready for this pancake battered and bloody mess. I kicked a tire. It hurt. So I didn't do it again.
I ran up Belmont and into Stumptown Coffe Roasters. Let it be said, they make fine coffee. I was not in the mood. Especially for those hipster dipsh#$%.
I picked up the cream jug and shook it like champagne in the Broncos locker room circa '98. When it was empty, I stopped. They looked at me. Patrons with fear, employees with boredom. (Never were there more bored people than the hip ass coffee roasters). "NO WAY!!!"
I was slowing down. I slumped back on to Belmont. I got down on my knees in the middle of the street and raised my hands, Shawshank style, and got clean. Cars drove around me. Passerbyes did just that. I don't know how long I was there. Until I got clean I suppose.
Then I walked back into Zupan's. They froze. The counter lady couldn't even dial the cops. I went to the deli as they stared in dismay.
"Turkey leg please."
"I would like a turkey leg if you have one."
"Um. Sure. Um. You're not going to throw it at me, are you?"
"No. Sigh. No, I'm not going to throw it at you. Here's a hundred bucks. For the mess and all. And the turkey leg. Sorry if I scared you."
The manger came up behind me , swinging his KIA Rio car keys on his middle finger. "Look here man, you can't just come in our grocery and wreck stuff."
I took my turkey leg and shuffled home.
May Thanksgiving bring my friends at MHR, and Bronco fans the world over (get a dog up ya' you Aussies), Denivar Broncovsky's much awaited Part 3, some new beginnings. I'm hoping Chapter 1 is titled something like Dwarf For Dinner, or some such variation where the Giants are not so, well Giant. Eat well, treat each other kindly, even the in-laws, and as always:
HAIL THE BRONCOS!!