The Strangest Dream, Part I

Call from a 310 area code I don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Look outside,” an unfamiliar voice states. “Who is this?” I ask. “Outside,” the voice repeats. I walk to the front door and look through the glass. A limousine is parked by the curb and a driver holds the back door open. “What’s with the limo?” I question. “Get in a suit. Get in the limo. Ten a.m., my office,” he answers. “What?” I ask but the caller hangs up.

I look again at the limo to ensure I saw it the first time. I call for the wife to come here but hear nothing in response. I search the house. Nobody is home. The clock reads three minutes past nine. Limo. Suit. One of my friends has gone to great lengths to pull off a beauty of a gag. I grab my favorite black Armani suit, put on a striped purple and black Thomas Pink shirt and a violet Dolce tie. Might as well look good, I decide, as the thought of who may be behind this comes and goes. For now, I intend to play along.

The driver greets me with a, “good morning, Mr. Scribe,” to which I respond with a good morning back. Mr. Scribe, eh? Surly? Maybe. But this is too rich for his blood. The list of friends with my L.A. Kings lust and crazy enough to do this waltz through my head, each with a degree of improbability that won’t let my thoughts settle. Interstate 5 north to the 10 freeway west, 110, Pico exit, I know where we’re headed. So it is one of my Kings friends. I bet this was a joint effort with the wife. Has to be. I wear a smirk, ready for anything.

The limousine pulls into the Staples Center parking lot off 11th Street and down the private ramp. This is where the players enter. Wow. How much did the boys spend? And why? My birthday isn’t until July.

The limo stops at the bottom of the tunnel and the driver lets me out. An attractive 20 something year old woman with sleek black hair in a high ponytail, dressed in a tight gray pant suit and holding an executive notebook greets me. “Welcome, Mr. Scribe,” she shakes my hand, “please follow me.” She turns and walks swiftly to an elevator and I stay a step behind as her very fit ass forces my eyes low a couple of times. Into the elevator, she presses P, and we head down.

“So, where are we going?” I ask.

She pauses for a moment. “Everything will be explained shortly, sir.”

“What is your name?” I continue.

“Aubrey, sir.”

“Aubrey,” I repeat, “I hope they are paying you well for this performance.” I search her face. Nothing. Good form. She didn’t even crack a smile. The elevator stops and I can’t help but realize we stood in there for a good ten seconds. What is this far below ground, I question? The elevator doors open and before me is an expansive marble laced answer that stretches long and wide. She asks me to follow her. “With pleasure,” I agree.

The furniture in this place is magnificent, antique and turn of the century. The artwork on the walls resembles that of a museum. I slow at a Cezanne to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks but Aubrey’s pace doesn’t relent and I sprint a few steps to catch up. We stop at a set of double doors to our left and she delivers two deliberate knocks. “Come in,” a gruff voice answers. Aubrey opens the door and asks me to enter and I do. At the far corner is a man in a stripped black suit with his back to me. His right hand pours from a crystal decanter what looks like scotch or bourbon into two oblong tumblers. “Please, come forward,” he invites. I walk inside and stop behind two chairs before his desk. He turns and greets me with a rigid grin. “Macallan sixty two year,” he hands me the glass and I stare into Tim Leiweke’s eyes.

The shock takes a moment to wear off. “Holy shit,” I chuckle, “Tim Leiweke. How the hell did they get you in on this?”

“Have a seat, Bob,” he asks and walks to sit at his desk.

Bob. Usually, only judges and colleagues older than me call me that. I sit down and take a sniff into the tumbler. “Are you serious about the sixty two year?” I ask, referring to the scotch.

“A shot of that will cost you about sixty thousand dollars at the Beverly Hills Hilton,” he answers. Suddenly, I hesitate to drink it for fear of getting a bill afterward. I set the drink on the desk.

His grin widens. “You don’t like scotch?”

“Aberlour, 16 year, fifty dollars per bottle,” I respond.

“Maybe by the end of this conversation, you’ll change your mind,” he says and takes a sip. “The Kings are making a big announcement at noon today.”

“It’s not Trent Klatt as a top six forward, is it?” I shoot back suddenly feeling like my old self. Leiweke scowls and we exchange a moment of tense silence until he explodes into laughter that nearly lifts me off the chair. “Trent Klatt!” he blasts in mid roar, “that is funny. I remember that fuck. Those were good days. We sucked but at least we didn’t spend sixty million doing it.” He drinks the scotch in one shot and slams the empty glass back on the desk. “So you really don’t have a filter, do you Bob?”

“I have a filter. It’s just bigger than your glory hole, sir,” I respond with an internal wince as soon as I say it.

“HA!” he snaps. “My glory hole has been under assault by Anschutz the past three seasons. Do you know why?”

“I can guess,” I tell him.

“And you would probably guess right. Just under six years since I hired the son of a bitch and here we are, still on the outside looking in.” He walks to the mini-bar to pour another glass. “I give Lombardi full control of the team but for a few minor interventions, we spend to the cap and we still SUCK! Tell me why.”

“You really want to know?” I ask.

He suddenly turns, the rigid grin returned. “I do.”

He sits down.

I take a breath. “Because Dan Cloutier was garbage before he came here, players who have a history of injuries repeat them despite a change of scenery, first round picks a million miles off the board don’t pan out, a former captain who ripped the C off his chest isn’t a mentor and shouldn’t get a no movement clause, trading skilled forwards or letting them walk because they don’t muck and grind are symptoms of stubborn ignorance, coveted free agents want money and years and the L.A. lifestyle doesn’t bridge that gap, defense first and defense last coaches leave the offense wanting, Jamie Kompon couldn’t hold down a roller hockey career and trading away players to whom you assured longevity dents credibility and makes you an asshole…”

“Are you done?” he asks.

“No,” I tell him, “Stupid slogans with equations, Daryl Evans on legends night, hiring a Cubs fans who knows shit about hockey as your beat writer, piss poor video editing on the big screen and raising the fucking ticket prices when we have won exactly dick. You want to know why we suck? Because everything we do embraces it with both arms,” I find my frustration mount, “and what is this big announcement you intend to make? Another dumb move labeled as the one that will finally put this franchise on track?”

“Exactly right,” he states.

“You’re fucking awesome! Can’t wait to hear it. What is it this time?” I ask, my anger piqued.

“You,” he points with a glare, “as the next Los Angeles Kings general manager.”

Part II, “The Press Conference” coming soon.



Categories: L.A. Kings News, Surly & Scribe Skits

21 replies

  1. When is that podcast with you guys on it going to go up? I want to listen to it this second because Im bored but its not there.

    Also about the power-play, I really, really dont understand why Kompon isnt fired. Of course I didnt understand a long time ago, but maybe in Dean’s mind, there was room for doubt. Is it really Kompon’s fault, or do we lack the talent? Maybe he thought that. Maybe.

    But now, with Jeff Carter, there can be no doubt. You have your hockey sense guru slash playmaker in Mike Richards. You have another smart player in Kopitar with a lot of talent. You have one of the best shots in the league in Jeff Carter. You have a Norris candidate in Drew Doughty (although I dont personally believe he’s the best at running powerplays yet, he has all the physical tools to do it with better coaching).

    Mike Richards, Jeff Carter, Anze Kopitar, Drew Doughty. That’s four all-stars to make up your team’s powerplay unit. If Drew Doughty doesnt know how to run it yet, or get his shot on net, Slava Voynov might actually be better than him at the powerplay right now. Oh and Dustin Brown is a gritty power forward you can put in front of the net.

    There can be no doubt anymore. I dont even believe Lombardi has doubt.

    So doesn’t that seal it? You have the talent of a good powerplay, but a bad powerplay. Doesnt that leave only the coach of the powerplay?

    So what’s the hold up? (I already know the answer, unfortunately, it’s loyalty. Kompon is probably a really good guy… it would hurt Lombardi to fire him… and that’s more important than actually helping the team).

  2. Bobby the Messiah. I prefer a couple of pints of warm Potters.

  3. Bobby, can I participate in your dream, where I can be your body guard. I mean, I really want to be apart of your entourage and I would really work my butt off. Would you make sure Aubrey is promoted to your entourage. Oh, please accept beong the GM and give us the holy grail cup. I wish you did not wake up to write this dream at this end point. Maybe you can dream more tonight and tell us more…..

  4. If you do, please take King out of the top 6 and off the PP1. I like him but only in a bottom 6 role right now. As for the PP1 you can’t tell me that Brown isn’t a better fit than King.

  5. … Dear God. We’ve resorted to fanfic at this stage? Seriously?

    Bobby, you are clearly outside your mind. I’m sorry to hear that the Kings’ season has brought about such trauma within you. Very sorry.

    a former captain who ripped the C off his chest isn’t a mentor

    … Not as sorry as this take, though.

  6. EXCELLENT!!!

  7. Hurry and sign, you SOB!!!

  8. “Aubrey, sir.”
    Aubrey??
    Bwahahahahaha
    Thats good shit, very playboy-esque.
    The beginning read like a weird David Lynch scene. Cool

  9. Very discriptive dream with nice details. Why can’t you describe a wet dream that gets you into trouble with your wife? Something with a midget.

  10. Sounds good…just don’t fuck it up! :D

  11. I could care fuck all about being part of the players management team, but I would like to kick James Cefaly in the nuts, along with Altieri because they are so full of themselves and don’t deserve to be employed by this organization any more.

    Cefaly is a nice guy, but he’s another Philly transplant, which is clueless when it comes to building a real fan base. These fan development guys are more concerned with planning or being involved with these snobbish Kings Care events, which ignore the guys who sit in the 300 section seats, not the empty box or PR level bullshit.

    I would also like to make some changes to the concessions vendors. Fire Farmer John, that Pink Slime they call a hot dog belongs at Dodger Stadium, where they are grilled not steamed to the extent of being blown-up.

    Charging 5 to 7 bucks for a horrible hot dog is a joke. If you are going to gauge someone for being hungry, use Hebrew National or Vienna Beef, at least those taste good.

    I would negotiate with Pinks or Tommys for the basics Hot Dogs, Hamburgers, and Tito’s Tacos for the Mexican food. Fuck Taco Bell and Macdonalds and Pizza Slut, California Pizza Kitchen

    I would then bypass the over priced and shitty sandwich things and chinese chicken salad by getting Canters Deli inside to take care of that stuff. Again they charge the same, maybe a little more but you know what you are getting.

    They can keep that booze, I don’t drink, and don’t want to rain on their parade there.

    I would also like to make sure that Team LA had Kings gear at prices which aren’t stupidly ridiculous. If you want to sell your team, the best way is to give the fan affordable gear that will be seen around where they live, which is the best advertising you can get.

    No more 300.00 Reebok Premiere Replica bullshit. That crap sells for 100.00 everywhere else. If I want to by an authentic jersey that cost 300.00. If I want to spend extra to have a nameplate and number, then I will buy a sewn one, not some cheap vinyl steamed on thing which is going start to come unglued after mom washes it and uses a dryer instead of air drying the thing.

    Fuck it I am ranting again, but please keep me in mind for Fan Development. I live on the border of LA and Ventura County. You have no idea of the fan base they have yet to even bother tapping into. Simi Valley, Moorpark, Camarillo to Oxnard has fans who travel all that way to watch a game. You have a huge opportunity to grow there. The west valley Chatsworth/Porter Ranch/Northridge/Woodland Hills/West Hills/Calabasas are great areas to also farm. Everywhere east of these areas are pretty well covered.

    Vote for me for Fan Development.

  12. First order of business, Christina Hendricks is our new ice girl.

  13. My Strangest Dream
    Jamie Kompon is cruising the Serengeti in a jeep poaching lions. Suddenly, he spots one, stops the jeep, peers down his rifle scope and makes the kill without even getting out of his seat. He approaches the mighty cat and I hear guttural sounds of misery emanating from the once majestic creature. He walks up to the lion and stars at it for a moment. He grasps the lion by its mane and lifts its head up, revealing that the great cat is in fact Bailey. Jaime stares blankly into its eyes for a moment before slitting its throat. He then proceeds to violate the carcass, reminiscent of “shake that bear.”

  14. ***SPOILER ALERT***

    You’ll never guess who is made assistant General manager?

    Hint: He has a big mouth and his last name rhymes with Harry.

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