All of the lights were dimmed at the Devero house. Candles were lit, and the sweet smell of lavender filled the air. Dwayne walked through the front door and immediately became aroused. He knew something, aside from his trouser snake, was up.

He repressed the memory of the photos. He vowed not to bring them up to Estelle. Forward, not backward.

On the entryway floor was a piece of paper. Estelle had scribbled, "Take all of your clothes off and meet me in the bathtub."

Dwayne stripped; threw a bottle of white wine, some fresh strawberries, whipped cream, and two gla.s.ses on a silver serving tray; and sprinted to the master bathroom. He was ready to head to pound town.

Estelle couldn't have looked more attractive. He was taken aback for a moment at her beauty as he turned the corner. He couldn't speak. He approached her slowly, ready to ravage her.

She held an unlit joint up to her voluptuous lips as she lay sprawled out beneath the clear water. She flicked the lighter. Her eyes looked stunning in the glow of the flame. Estelle took a long pull from the joint as Dwayne set the tray on the edge of the tub. She reached up with her free hand and grabbed his manhood, slowly ma.s.saging it as she stared deep into his eyes.

"What are you waiting on, Big Boy?" she whispered. "Why don't you climb in here and make me feel like a woman?"

Dwayne slid into the tub behind Estelle. He let his hand slide from beneath her breast to below her bellyb.u.t.ton, continuing downward. She placed her hand on top of his, guiding him, and began to moan as he kissed her neck and ear. She reached her other hand behind her, up his thigh, until she found what she was looking for.

After a couple of minutes, Dwayne couldn't take it any more. He had to have her. He lifted her up and spun her around, leaving them both standing in the tub facing one another. He leaned down and began to kiss her pa.s.sionately, letting his hands glide over her lower back until they found her a.s.s. He grabbed firmly and lifted her up, carrying her to the bathroom counter, where he placed her gently. Only then did he make his way down between her legs.

Estelle gripped Dwayne's hair until she almost pulled it out. She screamed as she climaxed, and he made his way back up. She forced herself forward off the counter, her body heaving in total ecstasy, and pushed him backward into the bedroom and onto the bed. She climbed on top of him and rode him, her hips grinding skillfully back and forth, harder and harder, until his whole body convulsed, and they collapsed together into complete and total full-body o.r.g.a.s.ms.

They lay atop the bed afterward, twitching and smiling from the euphoria that comes from those rare, once-in-a-decade, mind-bending o.r.g.a.s.ms. The combination of bath water and sweat had made their bodies slick, and Estelle slowly slid her mouth up to Dwayne's ear, offering a tiny nibble, followed by a giggle.

"Oh my G.o.d," she said quietly, all of her energy drained. "You f.u.c.king rock my world."

As he tried to catch his breath, Dwayne rolled Estelle onto her back and admired her body. She was perfect. He drew a line of kisses from her stomach to her lips.

Within seconds, they were full-on making out like a couple of college kids. It didn't take long before Dwayne was fully aroused again. Her rolled her back over to where she was on top of him and sat up. He then stood with her in his arms and walked across the room and back into the bathroom. He pushed her up against the wall by the bathtub. Her feet didn't touch the ground at all for the next ten minutes as they went another round.

Estelle ran her fingernails down his back, and she gripped his a.s.s and screamed until they were finished.

He walked them back over to the tub, stepped in, and lay down with Estelle on top. His legs fidgeted a few times from the muscle strain.

"I feel like I'm living in an awesome p.o.r.no, you know? Like ... a cla.s.sy one," Dwayne said.

"I know, babe," Estelle replied. "I swear, I've never had o.r.g.a.s.ms like that. Holy s.h.i.t, that was good."

"No s.h.i.t," Dwayne sighed. "Maybe p.o.r.n is the wrong word. p.o.r.n isn't really as good as this. It's like mainstream p.o.r.n, like a Mickey Rourke movie that made it into theaters but got picketed by church groups or something, you know? Like ... all of the other aspects of the movie are good too. It's not just the s.e.x that's good. So it's not really p.o.r.n. But at the same time, the s.e.x is outstanding. Maybe like 9 Weeks, but also with a little bit of The Notebook, but so f.u.c.king bada.s.s that it's like The Matrix too."

He paused for a moment as he lit a joint again. Then it came to him.

"That's f.u.c.king it!" he exclaimed. "That's what this is like! It's like Neo banging it out with the chick from The Notebook!"

"And they're wearing Star Wars outfits," Estelle added.

"You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right, babe," Dwayne said with a smile. "You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right."

After his brief erotic escapade, Dwayne grabbed Alex from his friend's house and headed to practice at Jenny Field.

The other three newly appointed a.s.sistant coaches pulled up as Dwayne was unloading the baseball gear. They looked s.e.xed-out and ragged. Russ was extra jumpy, Tommy was hunched over and limping, and Steve had what appeared to be a black eye with a chunk of hair missing from the front of his head, partially covered by a blood-soaked bandage.

"What happened to your face?" Dwayne asked Steve.

"No s.h.i.t!" Tommy laughed.

"What are you laughing at, Tommy?" Steve snapped back. "Why the h.e.l.l are you all bent over and limping, bro?"

"I've got my d.i.c.k stuck to my leg with surgical tape," Tommy replied, wincing, "I took a b.o.n.e.r pill. It hasn't worn off yet. I didn't want to coach baseball with a hard-on. Parents tend to frown on it. What's your excuse?"

"Well," Steve said, glancing toward the ground, knowing he was about to take a heaping helping of s.h.i.t. "I was going to get all funky with Judith, but her bush has gotten out of control lately, like ma.s.sive, so I felt like I had to bring it up before I went to town."

"So she f.u.c.king punched you and ripped your hair out?" Russ yelled. "Jesus!"

"No, no, it wasn't like that at all," Steve continued. "I don't know why I feel the need to justify myself to a guy who had a man's pinky in his a.s.s twelve hours ago, but still ... Judith was actually pretty cool with the bush conversation. I told her I wanted to shave it for her, you know? Get a little kinky."

Russ turned around, walked back toward the fence, and projectile-vomited for a few seconds. The other guys' eyes went wide. He walked back to the group, wiping his mouth on his t-shirt.

"Oh, f.u.c.k, Steve," Russ said, physically ill at the idea. "I'm sorry. Keep going."

"So, anyhow, I got my ball clippers out of my drawer and propped my little lady up on the bathroom counter and went to work. Unfortunately, on the first pa.s.s, the clippers snagged on her hair because it was so thick, and it yanked her bush a little, so she just kicked as a reflex. Her shin got me right on the cheekbone, and it knocked the clippers up right above my forehead and shaved a nice stripe. Took a little skin too."

Russ c.o.c.ked his head, not really wanting to grasp or visualize what he'd just been told. A string of s...o...b..r hung from his bottom lip.

"So that's it?" Tommy asked. "You didn't get to hit it?"

"No, man, that's what's so awesome!" Steve said. "She was still so turned on, we just went at it! We-"

"Wait," Russ interrupted. "Are you f.u.c.king serious? That's like dirty Kentucky Internet s.h.i.t there, man. You're telling me that I'm supposed to think a big-nosed chick with huge calves and half a bush getting it on with a skinny little dude with a blood-soaked stripe shaved out of the front of his head is awesome? Jesus. I'm f.u.c.king totally traumatized now."

"At least you can stand up straight, man," Tommy said. "If I try to stand up straight, I'll need a skin graft."

"Jesus, man, how much tape did that take?" Russ inquired. "I mean, you're black, so I'm a.s.suming you have tape all the way down to your knee."

"Yup, no doubt. We can dance and shoot hoops, and our p.e.c.k.e.rs look like elephant trunks. Some stereotypes are very real, my man. It took two full rolls of tape. By the way, I saw your p.e.c.k.e.r today at the golf course when you drove there naked. I can a.s.sure you I could've handled that with a Band-Aid."

"Yeah, well, I never claimed I'd hit the bottom of it," Russ smirked, then hocked a loogie. "But I'll knock the s.h.i.t outta the sides."

The conversation was abruptly interrupted as the moms and dads who had been accustomed to kissing the previous coaches' a.s.ses, ensuring their children received primo positions on the team, came barreling over to greet the four baseball dads.

"G.o.d bless you men for stepping in during this time of need," one of the large-haired, insincere, fundamentalist, social-climbing moms said. "Would you like to join hands for a moment of prayer before we enter this new chapter with our baseball team?"

"No, not really," Russ replied.

"That's a no-go for me too, ma'am," Steve said with confidence.

"I'm pretty sure G.o.d doesn't care about baseball," Dwayne responded.

"Well, I just-" the lady was unsure how to continue.

"I'll say a little prayer for the boys tonight, ma'am," Tommy offered politely, so as not to jeopardize a future Botox opportunity.

Dwayne was ready to begin and asked the parents to take a seat on the bleachers. He'd made an honest effort to look the part of a baseball coach. He sported a light gray pair of bad "coach shorts" that were so skimpy his b.a.l.l.s nearly dangled out of them and carried a very official looking clipboard. He kept the black Wayfarers on at all times to mask how high he was. Good coaches, he convinced himself, were always high.

Once the parents were seated, Dwayne, with the Jedi Alliance supporting him, addressed the crowd.

"h.e.l.lo, parents. Most of you are at least lightly acquainted with my a.s.sistants and myself. For those of you who are not, I'm Dwayne Devero. Behind me are Russ Paisley, Tommy Johnson, and Steve Winwood-no relation. I just wanted to sit you folks down for a moment and let you know a few things about the way we coach.

"You see, there are two main types of coaching in children's baseball: There's 'playing to win,' and then there's 'daddy baseball.' Playing to win is just the way it sounds. You put players in positions and batting lineup slots according to their level of talent in a way that is most likely to advance the team toward winning baseball games. Daddy baseball, on the other hand, takes talent completely out of the equation. Daddy baseball is typically comprised of a group of a.s.s-kissing parents who tickle the metaphorical ball sack of a head coach in order to ensure that their dips.h.i.t, talentless child plays a position far outside his respective wheelhouse. As most of you might have noticed from our horrific record this season, we've not been playing to win. We've been playing daddy baseball. And now, with the four of us coaching, we're simply not doing that anymore. I'm sure this news paints an awkward picture for most of you, seeing how I laid out this story and knowing what your role in it has been."

Dwayne scanned the crowd to see if the parents were smelling what he was cooking. Judging by the number of mouths hanging wide open, he knew they were.

Dwayne continued. "I know that this angers some of you. Lots of people don't like being told things that are true. And that's okay. I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that I don't give a s.h.i.t. I know that sounds harsh, but on some level, isn't it refreshing? You may come to appreciate my candor. I hope you do. I'm like Obi Wan and Neo, and I can give you multiple o.r.g.a.s.ms. I know that may not make sense right now, but that's how I roll. I'm taking over. The other guys ... the old coaches ... aren't here anymore."

"News flash: they're dead," Russ interrupted with a jolt. "Sorry, boss. Please continue."

"Thanks, Russ." Dwayne kept going. "That's right. They're dead. Or missing. Or whatever. They're not here, and I am. And I'm playing to win. We're going to be in the championship game, come h.e.l.l or high water, because that's how I motherf.u.c.king roll up in this b.i.t.c.h. Oh, and one last thing. Some coaches love getting input from parents about who should play where, batting order, game strategy, and so on. And that's great. I'm just not one of those coaches. If you feel like you have some good insight on what might help us win, or if you think you might have a helpful suggestion, I want you to do me a favor, okay? I want you to make a fist, clinch it up really tightly, and then punch yourself in the face as hard as you can. Then, I want you to take that same fist and stick it up your a.s.s. If you still feel like offering suggestions or advice after that, then you either didn't punch yourself in the face hard enough, or you didn't stick your fist far enough up your a.s.s. Any questions?"

The parents looked at each other in dismay. No one spoke.

"Cool," he said. "We'll see you back here at 7 p.m. I've got a team to coach. Take care." Dwayne turned and marched toward the field with his clipboard in hand. The other three coaches scurried behind him. The crowd in the bleachers slowly dissipated after a few moments, as the parents made their way to their vehicles and left in almost PTSD-like shock.

Dwayne had the boys form two lines, facing each other, so that they could get warmed up throwing the ball back and forth.

"I think that went well," Dwayne said to the other coaches confidently, while staring intently at the warm-up exercise. "I expect you all to be dressed like coaches at every game and practice from this point forward, by the way. No one will take you seriously without small shorts and a clipboard. f.u.c.king step up your game, men."

The practice began to take shape after a half-hour or so. Dwayne and the baseball dads started to notice what Dwayne had suspected all along: some of these kids weren't half bad. They just needed to play positions according to their talents and be given a bit of direction. The two worst kids on the team ended up being the sp.a.w.n of the deceased, Ace Dale and Eric Rearden. Still, Dwayne thought there might be hope for the team.

Dwayne noticed that T-Bone Sprinkle, the head coach of the team Dwayne's team would play next, had come to do some not-so-secret scouting.

T-Bone was a short, bald, goateed, burly little animal of a man. He owned a prominent commercial real estate investment agency, and was an obnoxious a.s.shole, through and through. He had a reputation for arguing with every umpire and every coach on d.a.m.n near every play, and he verbally abused every child on his team.

But T-Bone Sprinkle won. A lot. Every season, he would finish in a top spot. The Yankees, his team this season, had won all but two games. After those two losses, he made every player on his team run bases until they vomited, and then he went home, got drunk, and beat his son and his wife. His team won because of one simple factor. Fear.

"Oh, man, you dips.h.i.ts sure have your work cut out for you, huh?" T-Bone yelled out to Dwayne from the other side of the infield fence.

Dwayne didn't acknowledge him. He continued running an infield drill with Steve while Tommy and Russ ran the outfield drill.

"What a bunch of r.e.t.a.r.ds!" T-Bone continued, still unable to shake Dwayne. "I swear to G.o.d, if I looked up and saw those boys on my team, I'd drive into the woods and put a shotgun in my mouth!"

Tommy and Russ looked to Dwayne. He remained unfazed. They were impressed. They hadn't reached that level of Jedi meditation yet. They were fast becoming ready to kill.

T-Bone was irritated that he couldn't rattle Dwayne. He'd have to step up his game. He moved along the fence, closer to where Dwayne was running his drill-directly behind home plate.

"Jesus, you guys are awful," T-Bone said, now less than ten feet from Dwayne. "I'm gonna take a victory tomorrow, and then I'll go have my way with your wife for a little while. If she gets home late tomorrow, don't worry. I'll take good care of her."

Dwayne paused. He lowered the bat he'd been using to hit grounders, and stared down at the ground for a moment.

"Oooh, that got you, didn't it?" T-Bone taunted. "I guess I found your weak spot. I'll remember that. You know, if Alex is free tomorrow after he loses, he's welcome to hold my beer while I make your little lady squeal. He's gotta be good for something."

Dwayne tapped the bat on home plate two times, and then smiled as he lifted up the bat to inspect it. A wave of fear swept over Steve. He knew what Dwayne had become capable of. He was afraid that T-Bone was about to find out.

Dwayne looked out at Tommy and Russ. They hadn't been able to hear the last barbs from T-Bone, but they could tell something was up. Dwayne motioned for Russ to head over.

"Steve, take over for me," Dwayne said. "Hit some grounders to shortstop and third. Have them work on the double play. I'll be back in a few."

T-Bone puffed up his chest. He had a feeling he was about to be in a fight. That made him happy. He didn't lose fights.

Russ and Dwayne walked off the field together, not saying a word. They headed toward T-Bone. A small flash of concern hit T-Bone when he saw the look on Dwayne's face.

"Parking lot. Now," Dwayne told T-Bone. "I'm not doing this in front of the kids."

"Jesus, Lawn Boy, relax." T-Bone attempted to maintain his bada.s.s demeanor, masking a growing fear. "I'm just trying to rattle you. You don't want to do this. I'll f.u.c.king rip you to pieces."

Out of nowhere, Dave the umpire appeared. He had been watching the confrontation unfold from the scoring box above the concession stand. And while Dave and Dwayne had their differences lately, and he and Russ had often been at odds, there was no parent or coach at Jenny Field that belittled and talked down to the umpires more than Coach T-Bone Sprinkle.

"You fellas want to borrow the scoring box for a few minutes to settle your differences?" Dave asked, looking at Dwayne with a sinister grin.

Dwayne grinned back. Russ watched the manner in which the two of them looked at each other and figured there was something larger between them that he was unaware of. Russ and Dave certainly had developed some history. Maybe this was some form of reckoning, Dwayne figured.

Or maybe Dave had become a Jedi, too.

"The scoring box is probably a good idea," T-Bone responded in a s.h.i.tty tone. "You don't want Dwayne to leave on a stretcher."

Dave held open the door to the scoring box. The four men made their way up the stairs above the concession stand, and the three coaches sat at a small conference table by the scoring window where the pitch count was kept and the scoreboard machine was operated. It was a small, dark, cheaply decorated room, with an old ceiling fan spinning and squealing overhead above brown s.h.a.g carpet.

Dwayne and T-Bone stared at each other across the flimsy off-white conference table in silence as Russ looked on in antic.i.p.ation. He was anxious to see what the new and psychotically improved Dwayne would do next. Dave dug around in the lost-and-found closet behind T-Bone. The sunlight tore through the mini blinds into the dankness of the room, and a horizontal fraction of light caught Dwayne across the eyes in a perfectly evil way.

"So, what was it that T-Bone said that had you so upset, Dwayne?" Dave the umpire asked from the closet.