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Satan: Little League Superstar
Satan: Little League Superstar
Satan: Little League Superstar
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Satan: Little League Superstar

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Coach Brian Mueller assumed this baseball season would be routine. The kids would pick their noses until they bled, the parents would knock each other’s teeth out with their fists, and a sexually transmitted disease or two would be caught from sitting on those ugly wooden benches. Little did he know, the new member of his little league team would be The Devil Himself, Satan. After years spent in Hell, Satan has risen up with one goal in mind, total domination on the baseball field. Satan has a lot to learn about being a little league baseball player. Lucky for him, his miscreant teammates are willing to help and accept him for who he is. Together they battle angry German parents, annoying potential brother-in-laws, and a surprise guest or two straight from Biblical days. This is their journey. The adventure into turning Satan into a little league superstar.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherTim Boyle
Release dateJul 21, 2012
ISBN9781476008547
Satan: Little League Superstar
Author

Tim Boyle

With a unique world perspective, a head filled with strange opinions, and a dark sarcasm in everything he does Tim Boyle is must read. In the summer of 2012 he published his first book, a humorous fictional tale titled "Satan: Little League Superstar" about Satan joining a little league baseball team. In November of 2012 he published his second book, a short diary based story about a man's outlandish battle with mother nature during Hurricane Sandy called "Surviving Sandy: A Battle Against That Deadly Whore Mother Nature." So far in 2013 he has added to his collection "Silence: My Worst Stand-Up Comedy Performances and Experiences." Unlike the previous two published works, this is autobiographical. Tim recounts his days as a stand-up comedian and as the title suggests, he covers some of the most cringe worthy moments he during his stint in the business. In addition to writing books, Tim Boyle is an aspiring screenwriter. Since 2011 he has been writing a [mostly] humor blog which can be found at http://mooselicker.wordpress.com Stay tuned for more works from Tim Boyle in the coming months.

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    Satan - Tim Boyle

    Satan: Little League Superstar

    By Tim Boyle

    Dedicated to Tim Boyle. You are awesome. Also a special thank you to the following:

    Rob Marsley for the cover art and always helping me with technical difficulties

    Danielle Miess for convincing me to start writing again

    Each of my loyal, talented, and amusing blog readers

    Gerald Esposito of Deptford, New Jersey for being the name my finger landed on in the phone book

    E-mail: TimBoyle109@yahoo.com

    Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/mrtimboyle

    Twitter: @warlordtimboyle

    Blog: http://mooselicker.wordpress.com

    Satan: Little League Superstar

    Published by Tim Boyle at Smashwords

    Copyright 2012 Tim Boyle

    Chapter 1

    Bankrupt Like Vanilla Ice

    He better not be bleeding. If he’s bleeding again I think I might just let him bleed out and die this time.

    This story is not like most. Actually, it might be like the rest. I’m not sure. I don’t listen to other people’s stories or advice. They bore me. This story is different from other stories I tend to tell is a more accurate statement. The stories I tell are usually lies and they are to get women to sleep with me. Usually they involve exaggerations about my days in Hollywood and how I would rub elbows with some of the greats. I was a huge child star back in the 1990s. I made my mark as the bad kid playing on opposite teams of the scrubs who come together to accept their differences and become champions. I always lost in those movies. That is why in reality it’s my turn to finally win. You screw up enough, people begin to pity you. You get your way. This is something called karma.

    As this story begins, I’m standing over our second baseman, Nick Slug Butler. He lies on the ground of the bathroom urinating blood. It’s not so much a bathroom as it is a row of bushes with a bucket the league shares. To be even more vivid, it’s less of him urinating and more his penis has coughed up blood. Sorry for the strong visual. I am told due to lack of funding on pictures for this book I will have to at times describe memories as much as possible. This is what my ugly 5’7 editor told me on the egg shell colored memo I’m currently holding in my right hand between my index and middle finger at 8:33 PM on a Wednesday in March.

    Told you not to stick it up your pee hole. said one little voice.

    I bet I can stick one bigger in mine. argued another while reaching for an even larger screw driver.

    I helped Slug off the ground and pulled his pants up too. My assistant coach, Thomas The Bull Craven, did his best to distract the rest of the team with a magic trick involving removing his thumb. It’s not that corny magic trick some people play where it just looks like the thumb is being removed. The Bull works as a machinist and really lost his finger. He can actually take it off. He passes it around to the kids a lot for good luck. One time it went missing. We searched an hour in the dugout for the missing finger. Turns out, one of the kids on the team forgot he had it in his pocket. Thumbs are the second smallest fingers, very easy to lose track of.

    Slug assured us he would be okay. The rest of the team gave him a round of applause. Mostly out of sarcasm. They are 13 and 14 year old boys. They’re not like the kids you will see on television during the Little League World Series. These are teenage boys. They understand sarcasm and wit. They never get distracted by small butterflies, only the big pretty ones. It generally takes a mom with big tits to make them lose focus. When Slug’s mom comes to pick him up we all focus on those massive milk cannons hanging from her chest. They are so big they should be poking out the sides of a pirate ship, launching cannonballs at British Aristocrats out for a sail. She’s 300 pounds. None of us care. For those two minutes she struggles to remove herself from the car, she is the most beautiful woman we have ever seen. That’s saying a lot because I’ve been to the big city. Salt Lake City. I’m pretty sure that is where the last twenty-seven Ms. Americas and last four Ms. Black Rhode Island winners have been from.

    Man I’d love to rub my hands all over those. said our catcher Pudge Fillmore Stevenson. We call him Fillmore because he’s fat and fills more of his pants than anyone else on the team. He does not like the nickname. His dad named him Pudge after Carlton Pudge Fisk, the famous catcher from the 1970s who obnoxiously waved his arms like an idiot after hitting a home run. His father thought Pudge was a perfect name for a catcher. We thought Fillmore was more accurate.

    Slug walked over to his mom. She cradled him between those big jugs of hers. We envied Slug for once which was unusual because he was the dumbest player on the team. He got his nickname a few years back. The kids told me it was because they all convinced him to fall out of a tree. Kids usually dare each other to climb a tree, grab a coconut, and then climb down. Not with Slug. They wanted him to go to the top then let himself fall down. He broke every bone in his body and had to move around like a slug for 8 months. He still has some side effects. He will be running and all of his bones will go out. He’ll have to slither around until his nervous system kicks back in again. At first he went by the nickname Snake. Bullies agreed Snake sounded way too cool. They threw salted pretzels at him and the name Slug was born.

    One of our backup outfielders put up his hands to squeeze a pair of invisible breasts. Honk! Honk! That’s the sound they would make if I could grab them. This miscreant is Sammy Chen. He’s Asian and 17 years old. Our league has a rule stating you cannot advance to the next level unless you are good enough. Sammy used to be great. He was 7 years old when he made the 13 and 14 year old division. Scouts were already trying to sign him to contracts. Success got to his head. He started showboating and would arrive to practices with transsexual models he thought were women. A terrible addiction to yogurt got the better of him. He’s been struggling to reach the 15 and 16 year old division for a decade now. Last year he was 0 for 39 at the plate with 36 strikeouts and a walk. The walk came when the other team put in a retarded kid to pitch an inning. Some saw it as a kind gesture. I saw it as a way for them to rub it in our faces that they could win with Danny Downs Dryden on the mound.

    Have you ever sucked a tit Coach Brian? That’s me. Coach Brian. Brian Mueller. We’ll get to me later. Instead I want to tell you about the waste of space who asked me this question, Donovan The Pacemaker Erwin. He tends to play a lot of third base. Sometimes pitcher when my tarot cards tell me so. He’s a pretty good player despite his small stature and strange smell. He was born with a congenital disease where his heart cannot grow. He will probably die young and that is why he gives it his all on the field. It’s encouraging in a grim kind of way. Like a suicide bombing toddler. Sure, a baby died. At least he lived long enough to believe in something so strongly.

    Of course he has. It’s Coach Brian. He gets tang like I get Kool-Aid. was the response our token wigger gave. He thinks he’s the next Eminem. I joke he’s the next Vanilla Ice because a few months ago his dad had to declare bankruptcy. His name is Drew Mize. He told me to call him D-Mize. I never have. I never encourage children to listen to rap music. It’s too violent. Drew always insists he’s a relative of a famous slave. Claiming the black has been bred out of him. When he goes on these rants I tell him to shut up and go out to right field. He sincerely thinks he is black which is fine because sometimes it brings out the passion of white hate our team sometimes lacks.

    The Slug-Mobile took off down the road. Slug, being the friendly kid he is, gave us a wave goodbye. Our cleanup hitter and silent first baseman, Keller, flipped him the bird. I laughed and so did The Bull. We love when kids are mean to each other. Nice one Keller. said The Bull. Once I asked Keller what his first name was. He shrugged. We are all convinced he’s a relative of Helen Keller so on the lineup sheet I’ll write that. He’s a big boy. 6’4 230 pounds while holding a wet pig. If he wanted to he could totally nail Slug’s mom. He’s 13 and has a full beard. Even Chen hasn’t started shaving. It’s probably because he’s Asian. I’ve watched enough Japanese porn to know they don’t even have pubic hair.

    All right let’s get back to practice. I said. I knew if I didn’t say it now I never would. We were still all too focused on the jiggling mom breasts we had just been witness to. You have to understand, being around teenage boys all day makes you desperate for the attention of a woman. We all felt this way and that is what made us a team; that and matching uniforms.

    We got back on the field. I ordered everyone to go into the outfield to shag some fly balls. They thought my wording was funny. Then I remembered what shagging means to teenage boys. Everyone laughed at the joke except for one, the lone girl on the team. Her name is Sandy Steinberg. I did not realize when I drafted her that she was the only girl in the league. I showed up to the draft late and had to pretty much pick by name instead of on mom hotness as planned. My logic with picking Sandy made a lot of sense at the time. Steinberg made me think of Jew. Then I thought about the most famous Jewish baseball player of all time, Sandy Koufax. It was an amazing coincidence really. I thought I had my star pitcher. When she showed up to the first practice wearing earrings and a training bra I was livid. She missed our first game this season because she had a bat mitzvah to attend. I knew then that my number one pick was a bust.

    I pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. The Bull stood near me sneaking some sips from his flask. He was only sneaking it because he knew if I noticed I would have asked for a sip. I pretended not to see the beautiful liquid pouring into his mouth because I had signed documents stating I would not drink or smoke on the premises of the field. The Bull and I tend to follow most rules, but this is one we cannot abstain to. We built up a silent deal where I get the cigarettes, he gets the booze. That way we won’t get busted for both. We’re a good coaching staff like that. We can come together to help our addictions while screwing with the system.

    The first ball flew off the bat and through the sky. Our star center fielder Larry Gomes got under the ball to make a basket catch. He threw the ball back into The Bull. It was a perfect strike. I loved having Larry on the team. He looks like any average kid which is great during games. I would tell him to bring glasses and a razor to games along with 8 other jerseys. Some games I can get him up to bat 20 times. When the other coaches ask me if he is the same kid who just hit a home run I point in the opposite direction to distract them. Little league coaches are very easily distracted. Especially when you say a single mother has car troubles. They race to the parking lot with jumper cables in hopes of sleeping with someone for the first time since their divorce.

    I prepared myself to hit another fly. I saw the next kid ready to shag a ball. He was a kid who ironically probably won’t shag much in life without paying cash. His name is Bernie Whale Zimmerman. He’s not fat or anything. That is not where the nickname comes from. Whale likes to tell everyone stories about his dead father who was killed by a whale. None of us believe it. The most impressive thing about Whale is almost everything somehow comes back to his dead dad. I shook my head then hit the ball to him. The ball traveled over his head a bit. My hope was he might slip then have to retire. The ball hit off his back somehow and squirted away. Sorry coach! I heard him yell. I thought I saw my dad floating above me with wings and got distracted. The kid really believes his dad is an angel who watches over him. He’s a nut. He’ll never get laid. Not until robots are built for sex or sheep can give verbal consent.

    Another team member, Vernon Detweiler, picked up the baseball and tried to punt it back to me. The ball did not go very far. It hit off his ankle and sort of trickled away. Vernon is the troublemaker on the team. He means well, but being raised by Hell’s Angels who were raised by wolves belonging to pirates really shows. He could be a great player with the proper coaching. Remember, I’m his coach and that proper coaching probably won’t happen. This day was the first day I have practiced with a round ball.

    I waved the players in, cigarette in my hand. They looked at Larry and waited for him to jog in first. They all look up to that kid. I guess I look up to him too a little bit. His girlfriend is a senior in high school. She’s a little bit chubby, yes. That doesn’t matter. It’s the principle of how badass it sounds on paper.

    Fillmore was the last to make it in. I knew this would be the case. Fat kids usually run slowly and Fillmore is no different. The second to last to make it in was Elias Hernandez, the required Spanish kid on the team. I like to tell myself he’s not slow, just Spanish. He’s constantly humming songs and running sideways. I thought this was some kind of dance or Mexican tradition, but his parents don’t know what’s wrong with him either. They tried taking him to a psychiatrist to figure everything out. The psychiatrist said there was nothing wrong and that he was just Spanish. I’m not sure what the diagnosis means and nobody else does either. It’s an excuse that fits. We leave it be.

    All right guys--Sandy. We’ve got a big game coming up tomorrow. We’re playing Carpenter’s Printing Company, the best team in the league. They were not the best team in the league. But these kids would never know that. They didn’t care about standings or statistics. They were only here to get away from their verbally abusive parents for a few hours and maybe steal some of my cigarettes to sell on the Internet.

    A car pulled into the parking lot. It was a fancy car, German made. I knew this because of the Swastika emblem on the front. I knew immediately who this was, our star pitcher, Rudolph Schmidt. He was late to practice again. Rudolph hopped out and dashed over to the field. The car took off without an apology from the driver for getting him there in an untimely fashion. I thought about violently throwing an object at the car for a brief moment then realized the only thing to throw would have been Whale. I was one player down already with the Slug injury. I could not risk another.

    Sorry for being so late. said Rudolph.

    It’s fine dude. Go over with Fillmore and throw a couple pitches.

    Fillmore threw down his glove. He was the catcher yet he had a normal glove like everyone else. It was for the wrong hand too. Catcher’s mitts are expensive and his dad got fired from the dog food factory for eating the product. Rudolph’s family on the other hand was thriving. They owned an animal extermination company called The Final Solution whose job was to kill all stray dogs in town. Some of their victims were pets. They defended the mistake saying they did not know gas could go around corners.

    The Schmidt’s had a stronghold on the community. I knew I had to treat Rudolph with fragile hands. His father was always creating new companies and products. He was a member of the local government. The mafia had to pay him off to keep their goons safe. The Tooth Fairy used to be real, but Mr. Schmidt crushed her with a tissue. The name Schmidt struck fear into the hearts of everyone in town. Being on their bad side was not a good thing.

    Fillmore continued with his fit Why do I always have to be the catcher? I hate squatting. It hurts my ass.

    Because you’re fat Fillmore. That’s why. said Chen.

    Vernon reached down and picked up Fillmore’s glove. He tossed it as far as he could. Fetch fat boy.

    Fillmore slowly sauntered over to pick up his glove. He left with Rudolph to catch a few pitches in the bullpen while the rest of the team remained near home plate picking their butts and noses in alphabetical order.

    We’ve got a new guy coming in. He signed up for the league late. That’s why he hasn’t been here our first two games. Our first two games were not bad. One was a victory, the other a loss. I told you we were not bad. This isn’t one of those stories where an

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