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Reader writes by Scott Fullerton: True evil, in silver and black

December 07, 2001

"Mike! Mike, c'mere! Looka this!" I screamed, running across the Southwest High School quad to the burly security guard.

"What is it?" he asked in consternation, taking the newspaper I thrust into his hands.

"Read this," I hyperventilated.

After a moment of the Evelyn Wood treatment, the veins on his neck bulged as his eyes fairly popped out of his head.

"Kofford … that dirty … " was all he could utter. Our eyes met, his by now peering through slits worthy of a Panzer tank's.

"Y'know, I can handle all the political stuff, but this time, this time he's gone too far! How can he call himself an American?"

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"American? How about human?" I shrieked. "We've got to do something about this," I said, reaching for my heart pills. " ‘Cute little team,' ‘shaky fairweathered weak-kneed … pantywaists!' " I exclaimed, checking my own briefs. "And this —‘peepee yellow and Iraqi Navy blue …' Hey, aren't those Brawley's colors?"

"Brawley's a hotbed of Raiderdom," he replied, the paper now nothing more than pulpy shreds in his clenched fists.

I knew what I had to do. I hied my Charger Blue-and-Gold butt immediately down to the Press' offices on its fetid corner, only to see the building sandbagged to the roof. A few preteen paperboys manned twin-50s from a turret above. As I exited my Charger-blue Lumina, they opened up on me but their aim, naturally, was poor, which was no big surprise.

The door appeared to be locked, if the half-dozen padlocks, chastity belts and oak crossbars were any indication. Yet my righteous indignation was not to be denied. With a mighty running block (using proper leverage technique, of course), I found myself in the lobby, where I stood toe-to-toe with a monstrously huge blonde receptionist, her twin blonde braids resting upon her enormous twin … shoulders.

"My name is Ilka and, nein, Herr Kofford iss not afailable," she announced impassively through her face mask, which mercifully obscured what I took to be her face. Thinking quickly, I pointed to a nearby counter.

"Look! A steaming bowl of Al Davis' special Raider kraut!" I shouted.

As she turned her head to check out the putrid delicacy, I smacked her upside her helmeted nogging with a tightly rolled copy of the L.A. Times, a real paper, and burst into the very lair of the evil wordmeister.

The newsroom was empty, save for one occupied chair amid the sea of desks and cheap Raider memorabilia strewn about. The highbacked black leather LaZBoy, trimmed in a delicate silver brocade, faced away but I knew it was him: the top of a shiny pink skull was barely visible over the back of the chair.

Then the chair swiveled slowly around, revealing its occupant, who stared at my trembling presence through a twisted grin.

"You!" It was all I could say.

"Yes, it is indeedy, infidel. Under the guise of a ‘shaky, weak-kneed …"

"Liberal?" I ventured.

He plucked the weathered, bloodstained K-Bar from his teeth. "Don't say that word!" he hissed as he leapt to his cloven hooves, the craft store skulls rattling from his customized shoulder pads (size small). "Yes, I have committed to the Dark Side! And you, and all your do-gooder Chargerite friends, will finally submit to the New World Order!" His right arm automatically sprung up in a fascist salute, which he struggled to suppress with his other arm. "It is Oakland and not San Francisco that will prevail both ideologically and on the gridiron!" he cackled. "San Diego is not even a part of the equation."

"A lie! How could you, once a decent, humble human being, succumb to the flatulent sloganeering of the Evil One? ‘Pride and Poise.' ‘Commitment to Excellence' …"

"You forget one. ‘Just win, baby.' Ah ha ha ha ha ha," he laughed fiendishly.

"Why, you …" I muttered, taking a step forward. My progress was brutally halted by two inhumanly strong arms that had clamped around my ample girth.

"Good work, Ilka," he crooned as a sudden stench of kraut, B.O. and English Leather made me swoon. "Please escort this insignificant blip on the radar screen of life from the premises."

My feeble attempts at resistance were for naught as I was rudely hustled from that den of filth. "You … you closet conservative! You just wait … lemme go, you meanie … You wait until Dec. 15! I'll see you at the Quuuuuu …"

I woke up in a heap on the sidewalk, next to my heap, er, car. Fifty-caliber rounds from above chipped the pavement around me as I sauntered casually to my vehicle. I clambered into it, gunned the engine and drove off madly, careening north on Eighth. Through tears of rage, I vowed that I would make him, the truly Unfaithful One, pay for his unforgivable perfidy on a mid-December Saturday.

>> SCOTT FULLERTON is a teacher and coach at Southwest High School in El Centro.

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