Los Angelos

The first in a series of imaginary conversations between Peter Angelos and his underlings…

In this episode, Peter hires a new Administrative Assistant named Elsie.

Elsie: Here's your coffee, Mr. Angelos, sir.

Angelos wordlessly takes the cup. He does not look up from the copy of the Baltimore Sun spread across his desk.

Elsie: Careful, sir. It might be a little hot.

Angelos brings the cup to his lips and drinks the steaming liquid, scalding himself. Blisters immediately form on his lips. His brow fills with sweat. Suddenly, his nose starts to bleed. Oblivious, he continues to read the paper.

Elsie: Good God, sir! Are you okay?!?!

Elsie rushes over with a box of tissues and a glass of ice water, but Angelos waves her off. He looks up from the paper and stares out the window onto Eutaw Street below. Blood continues to drip from his nose, staining the newsprint on his desk. He slowly begins to speak…

Peter: When I was a child, we had a cat. I found him in an alley one day, whimpering quietly next to a garbage can. A piece of broken glass was embedded in his paw. He was a gravely malnourished creature—no bigger then Fahey, really. I took him home, gently removed the shard of glass, and nursed him back to health. One evening, my father was eating dinner—he always ate alone; we never ate until he was finished. “To the losers go the spoils!” he would bellow as he ate, tossing scraps of old meat in my general direction as I cowered in the corner. Have you ever eaten spoiled meat, Elsie?

Elsie [trembling in her seat]: No [starts to cry]… no, sir, I haven’t.

Peter: It tastes like a thousand pounds of Boog’s barbecue dipped into a giant vat of Flying Fruit Fantasy Fruitshakes. A thousand pounds of Boog’s, Elsie.

Elsie [still crying]: Is that…. Is that bad, sir? I had thought it would taste bad.

Peter: Nothing is ever good or bad, Elsie. But thinking makes it so. May I continue?

Elsie: Yes, sir.

Peter: Thank you. While my father was eating, the cat jumped onto the table. I reached out to stop him, but I was too late. The cat knocked my father’s plate to the floor, spilling food across the cold, filthy linoleum. My father reached toward the cat and, with a flurry of motion, picked him up and snapped his neck like a bat across Bo Jackson’s knee. Are you familiar with E-Honda's Hundred Hand Slap from the video game Street Fighter II, Elsie?

Elsie [sobbing]: Yes, sir. Of course.

Peter: It was just like that. A blur of violence. Stunningly brutal, yet strangely satisfying in its finality. My father taught me a valuable lesson that day: Feed the people what they want. And when it all turns rotten—and it will all turn rotten, Elsie—break their collective will with bloodless efficiency.

Elsie [drying her eyes]: Yes, sir.

Peter: Good. Now do me a favor. Call up the Baltimore Sun and tell them that Peter Angelos is minutes away from approving a deal with the Seattle Mariners to trade Erik Bedard for Adam Jones, Brandon Morrow, and Jeff Clement. Then, call up Bill Bavasi in Seattle and tell him that the deal’s off.

Elsie: Yes, sir, right away, sir.

Elsie: Is it always this dark in here, sir?

Peter: Yes. Yes it is.