The time had come. The runes had spoken.
Richard Wright dialed up the Auctioneer. “It’s been awhile since we took down a celebrity.”
“This will be great training for Rose.”
“What about the internet? Our takedown won’t be buried on the newsgroups anymore.”
“It’s time we got some publicity. We need it.”
“Hmm. Very well.”
“Listen to me, Richard. I’ve already been making plans for this eventuality. The Realtor has sped up the process, that’s all. You didn’t think we could run our organization under the radar forever, did you?”
“No. I have thought about it, as well.”
“So. You mustn’t let this bother you. Our operations will continue, as they always have.”
“Yes.”
“The world knowing you’re still alive will not change your role, nor lessen your anonymity in the long run.”
“Right.”
“Besides, once he’s sold, no one will know the difference. There will be rumors, innuendo, and nothing more.”
“Yes.”
***
March, 2007
Houston, Texas
Roger Clemens sat on a lawn chair, feet propped up under a couple of pillows, receiving a massage from a local masseusse. Sipping on Chardonnay, Clemens smiled at his good fortune.
By all rights, his career should have been over after the 2003 World Series. He had gone out on top. Everyone acknowledged it, even though his Yankees had lost. Heck, he thought, the opposing team gave him a standing ovation during the World Series!
It was a good ending … good enough to eclipse his failings in 1986 when he asked to leave what would become the most famous World Series game in the history of baseball — a game his team lost — but not good enough for his massive ego. He wanted eclipse Nolan Ryan’s longevity. He wanted to leave Greg Maddux in the dust.
He wanted to be eclipse Cy Young. He wanted to be the greatest ever. He wanted the award for best pitcher renamed the Roger Clemens award.
He knew he was better than old Cy. He had access to far better training and diet than his pitching ancestor.
Clemens knew that baseball’s history was written by it’s beat writers. He knew logic wouldn’t overcome Bob Klapish and his kind. What did a writer like Bill Madden know about baseball anyway? They had never been down there, in the heat of battle. They had never felt the cheers he had felt! For him! They’d never had boos rain down on them as they struggled to hold their chin up.
What right did idiots like Tom Verducci or Bob Costas have to wax poetic about the integrity of the game? What did Peter Gammons know about integrity, anyway? Maybe he should watch his diet before mouthing off about steroids….
The beat writers in Boston and New York had criticized him over the years, and he had noted every accusation of being a head-hunter and choker. He had laughed in private with his wife about how he had attempted to “Cripple” that pansy Piazza. Any man who dyed his hair blonde deserved to beaned, in Roger’s mind. Besides, he thought, baseball players weren’t playing whiffle-ball, and they weren’t wearing football-style helmets. When you stepped up to the plate to face Clemens, you accepted the risks.
Wasn’t that what good ole-fashioned competition was all about?
He was grateful to have grown up when he did, prior to this generation of pansies that followed. He was still a real man, and was not afraid to take what was his.
The writers, and some fans, just didn’t get it. What was wrong with him endorsing hot dogs and asking for $20 million to pitch 20 starts? Hadn’t he earned that money? Heck, he won the Cy Young in 2004, after everyone thought he was done with baseball.
He was worth it, in his mind. He could make a team a championship contender with his glorious split-finger fastball.
Never mind the occasional blips on the radar, like that bad outing during his All-Star Game tribute. That meant nothing.
“Sir? I believe I am finished.”
Roger looked up and said, “No you’re not.”
Eva Reichensteiner couldn’t wait for this case to be over. Clemens had treated her like a slave since she had arrived at his mansion.
She had studied his dossier, and was disgusted with this man who projected the image of being All-American and wholesome. Sure, she thought, if you think cheating, PED use, and living a lie is All-American and wholesome.
She was not surprised to have found out that Roger was friends with the Realtor, and that the Realtor may have helped him out over the years.
“Ah. Yes,” said Eva, “Perhaps you can help me?”
“Sure thing, darling. You see, you take your hand and….”
“No, no.”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”
“No, no. I mean, can you help me get changed?”
“Changed? Oh, you want to put on an outfit? What you have mind, little lady?”
“Uh, it’s a surprise. Just show me where the bathroom is….”
“Show you? Heh. I’ll take you, baby.”
Eva was not surprised by this pushy side of Clemens. Even without the dossier, a simple Lexis-Nexis search would have produced article after article where some young athlete gave Clemens credit for giving them winning advice … advice that changed their careers and their lives. The truth was that he was manipulative.
In a lot of ways, he was like a baby Realtor, the Icon of Buying and Selling Realities. He had an aggressive yet smooth-talking personality, much like the typical Eagle from the Animalgram or the Three from the Enneagram.
Clemens walked Eva inside, babbling about how it might be better to do this inside, next to the shower when suddenly … zap! Clemens fell down.
Rose stood there, holding the high-voltage stun gun.
“I cannot believe I just did that,” said Rose. “If I must attend these horrid missions, can I at least play a more meaningful role in the capture?”
“I heard the Auctioneer wants you to get a boob job before going after guys who’ve lost ‘It.’”
“What?”
Eva knelt over the unconscious superstar and injected him with a powerful sedative — he would sleep all the way to Dallas, where the Auctioneer would be waiting to “Debrief” him.
The two lifted Clemens unto a gurney, and wheeled him outside to the Soul Patrol van.
“‘Bout time,” grumbled Sean as he helped load the gurney into the van.
“Where’s his wife?” asked Eva.
“She still shoppin’. No prob.”
***
That night, after the “Debriefing,” the Auctioneer stepped up to the podium, with his prize catch behind the curtain.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The reason why we’re here. Some of you have been asking me for slaves with star power, and tonight, I have … the one, the only,” the lights dimmed, “… Roger Clemens!”
Elton John’s Rocket Man played as lights strobed in the auditorium. Clemens stepped out from behind the curtain, with a dazed look on his face. The bidders gasped. Some began to smile at the prospect of owning a seven-time Cy Young Award winner.
“You can use him in any way you wish. Of course, he must keep appearances up as a celebrity and apparently free man … so, no, he won’t be washing your cars on Saturday’s, or cleaning your bathrooms with a toothbrush.”
A groan could be heard from some of the bidders.
“However, in my hands, I hold the papers that officially state that Mr. Clemens has signed away control of his life to tonight’s highest bidder!”
A loud cheer from the bidders.
“This man’s future is in your control. Do you want him to pitch again? No problem! Would you like to embarrass ole’ Roger? It can be arranged! Of course, his earnings are partially your earnings! If you need a quick cash infusion, look no further than Roger Clemens’ next card signing!
“Tonight’s bidder will not only gain control of Roger’s life, they will also receive,” holding up a manila folder, “this dossier. In it, you will find every embarrassing detail of this man’s life — details that he has fought tooth and nail to hide since he was a rookie with the Red Sox. Oh yes, you will not BELIEVE the juicy details in here!”
“All right. Let’s start the bidding at $30 million….”
