In Honor of His Retirement, A-Rod Fanfic

Today, the majestic Alex Rodriguez retires from baseball. He leaves the game with an A-Rod-shaped hole in its heart and the Yankees with a bill for $27 million, which they will continue to pay through next season.

However, in my novelette, Sluggerhunt, Yankees management takes a different approach. Inspired by the legacy of George Steinbrenner and the blockbuster movie American Sniper, they decide to kill A-Rod so they won’t have to pay his salary.

We join the action halfway through Chapter Four, as Yankees execs Randy Levine, Brian Cashman, and Jean Afterman express their frustration to the famous French assassin Sébastien, who has botched several attempts on A-Rod’s life. Enjoy the excerpt, and please consider buying a copy of the full e-book on Amazon or directly from Mouse House Books. It’s only 99 cents.

Thanks for the memories, Alex.

“Goddammit,” says Levine, playing the heavy. “You fry Bob Kraft in a tanning bed and break Taylor Swift’s nose? Are you working for us or the gossip rags?”

Levine, Cashman, Afterman, and Sébastien stand around the same waterfront bench at which they’d met just days earlier. It’s even colder today — pushing single digits — so they stamp their feet to stay warm.

“We heard you were the best,” adds Afterman, almost pleadingly.

Sébastien sighs. This job is turning into a real headache. He takes a last drag of his Gauloises and flicks it aside.

“You said you want it to look like an accident. This increases risks. But I will complete the job.”

“It may have to wait until Tampa,” says Cashman. He gestures to the dirty snow and abandoned factories around them “I can’t imagine you’ll be disappointed to leave this.”

Sébastien actually will be disappointed to leave New York. His decade-plus of killing across continents has made him something of a cosmopolitan, and he’s enjoyed his stay in the city — perhaps a little too much. Sure, the failed attempts look like dumb luck and probably were, but maybe if he’d spent a few more hours practicing cork shots instead of browsing exhibits at MOMA or tapping his toes at Broadway shows, he’d have succeeded.

The truth is, Sébastien is getting tired of killing. Every assassin who’s lucky enough reaches this point. He just can’t believe it’s here already. It feels like it was just yesterday, he had his first kill, a clean shot in a café in Tangiers…

“Sébastien?”

There’s another possibility. In spite of himself, Sébastien is beginning to wonder if Rodriguez may be l’enfant invulnérable, the mythical, unkillable figure in French assassin lore. Sébastien has always dismissed the concept as superstitious nonsense, but Rodriguez’s luck makes him wonder.

“Sébastien?”

Sébastien snaps back to the moment. “I am a professional. I don’t care where I go.”

“One more thing,” adds Cashman. “If you do it at Spring Training, make sure Girardi is in our offices or the owner’s box when it happens.”

Sébastien raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Capiche?” asks Levine.

“Yes, I capiche,” says Sébastien. “Your bosses must be fond of him.”

*

Alex is back in Barry Bonds’ workout facility, shorts pulled below his ass and syringe in hand, when his phone rings. It’s his lawyer, Jim Sharp.

“Jim,” he says, trying to sound like one of those self-possessed tycoon types, like Pat Riley. “Talk to me.”

“You need to write your apology letter to the fans,” he says.

“Oh, man, I forgot. I’m not using Jeter’s site, though.”

“No, you’re going to handwrite it.”

“What am I going to say?”

“Check your e-mail,” says Sharp. “And if the police try to talk to you about these incidents with Bob Kraft or Taylor Swift, call me right away.”

Alex jabs the needle into his ass and depresses the plunger. He moans softly.

“Alex?”

“Yeah, Jim, I’m here.”

“You ever wonder if you were the target? If someone has it in for you?”

“Of course someone has it in for me. Did you ever think otherwise?” Alex can feel it now; he’s really hitting his groove. He paces back and forth as he raises his voice, holding the phone directly in front of his face so he can shout into it. “Welcome to the top, Jim! Enjoy the view!”

Alex feels a set of eyes on him. He turns to find Bonds in the doorway, wearing workout sweats and looking disgusted. Bonds shakes his head and walks away. Alex looks down and realizes that his shorts are still hanging off his ass, from which protrudes the exhausted syringe.

Chapter Five

It’s a brilliantly sunny March day at George M. Steinbrenner Field in Tampa (address: One Steinbrenner Drive). Bats are cracking, gloves are popping, and the hopes of the faithful are as high as the midday sun. It’s too early for the armchair doctors to diagnose the Bronx Bombers with bloating of the salary and anemia of the offense. At this moment, every team is a contender, even the Yankees.

Sébastien doesn’t care about that. He just wants to finish this job — or rather to sit back and watch this job be finished. He has changed out of his Yankee staffer uniform and now wears tourist gear: khaki shorts, Hawaiian shirt, Yankees hat. Munching on peanuts in a right field box seat, he looks like just another fan.

Sébastien has already done his work, replacing Alex Rodriguez’s favorite bat with a bat that looks and weighs the same but is filled inside with explosives, rigged to go off on impact. He’s tested out several prototypes and examined the remnants; with the bat’s springs and reinforced walls, it should appear to those CSI goons that Alex was looking for a little extra pop and just got greedy.

Sébastien laments the coming fate of the umpire and the catcher. Certainly unfortunate, but c’est le mort. He laughs at his joke.

*

The Yankees brass are gathered in the owner’s box: Hank, Hal, Cashman, Afterman, and Levine each hold a glass of white wine.

“To the Yankees,” says Hal.

“To Dad,” says Hank.

“To Jeter,” says Cashman.

“To Rivera,” says Afterman.

“To A-Rod,” says Levine.

A brief pause, and they all laugh hysterically. Levine doubles over. Afterman spills some wine.

“It feels so good to laugh again,” says Cashman.

A knock at the door interrupts their merriment. The staff should know better than to bother them right before the first pitch. Hank struts across the room and yanks the door open.

There stands a large blond man, late middle-age, with a bulbous nose. He is sloppily but expensively dressed: His silk shirt is buttoned only halfway, and strains at the bulge of his gut. He wears short pants and fine leather sandals.

Hank squints. “Who are you?”

“I’m Gerard,” says the man, smiling. He has an accent.

“Gerard?”

“That’s Gerard Depardieu,” announces Afterman. “The actor.”

“I was told to come up here,” says Depardieu.

“Who told you?” asks Hank.

“I don’t know his name, but he contacted my publicist. He paid me $15,000. He said I was to make the appearance.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Depardieu,” says Cashman. “I think there’s been a bit of a mix-up.”

Depardieu eyes the spread and rubs his belly. “Shrimp and white wine,” he mumbles. Then, louder: “May I stay and watch the game?”

“Sure,” says Hank, before the brass can confer. “Why not? We like movies.”

Depardieu pours himself a glass of wine and makes his way to the shrimp. Hank sidles up beside him.

“So,” he says. “You’re from France.”

“I am,” confirms Depardieu. “At least originally. And I love my homeland — ”

“Homeland,” interrupts Hank. “Hell of a show. You know Mandy P?”

“But,” continues Depardieu. “I renounced my citizenship.”

“Why’d you do that?” asks Hank. “I mean, I’d probably have done the same thing if I was French, but still.”

“The taxes are ridiculous,” says Depardieu. “There’s always some no-good bureaucrat looking to punish the success of great men.”

“Sounds a lot like Major League Baseball,” says Hank. “Greedy communists.”

“Oh, no!” blurts Afterman. “We told him Girardi and he heard ‘Gerard D.’ Probably because of our discussion of Cyrano de Bergerac.”

“I was in Cyrano de Bergerac,” says Depardieu, through a mouthful.

The mood in the room is instantly tense, as everyone but Depardieu realizes that death is on deck.