That Ain't the Way to Have Fun, Son.

The decision to flee came suddenly.  Or maybe not.  Maybe I had planned it all along, subconsciously waiting for the right moment.  The bill was a factor, I think, because I had no money to pay for it.  Our on-field tabs had been running somewhere between 690 and 700 thousand dollars per game for 127 consecutive games.

Incredible.  How could it happen?

But by the time I asked this question, there was no one around to answer it.  That rotten general manager of mine, Dr. Jocko, was gone.

He must have sensed trouble.

Open up the window, let some air into this room.  I think I'm almost choking from the smell of stale perfume.

Open up the window, sucker, and let me catch my breath.

The radio is blastin', someone's knocking at my door.  I've seen so many things I ain't never seen before.  Don't know what it is, but I don't wanna see no more.

This is the craziest party that ever could be.  Don't turn on the lights, because I don't want to see.

Suddenly, there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car...

No point in mentioning these bats, I thought.  Poor bastard will see them soon enough.

The Cincinnati Reds have lost 5 in a row, 8 of 9, 10 of 12, and 22 of their last 32.  They face the Atlanta Braves - winners of 5 of 6 - in Great American Ball Park tonight.

David Holmberg will be on the mound for the Reds.

The possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real.  No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind.

35 games left.  I want some whiskey in my water.

You poor fool!  Wait 'til you see those goddamn bats.

That ain't the way to have fun, son.

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep in Las Vegas and look west, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.