The Hammer

The Hammer

Posted on July 30, 2020 at 11:21 pm by RICK

“You’re the hammer, Rick.  It’s all up to you.”


They were Doozer’s words, and I’d been thinking about them ever since.  They hit home like stray bullets in a drive by.  Like Bobby Brown hit Whitney Houston.  Like Paul Walker hit a tree.


Earlier in the evening I was relaxing with the rest of the boys, discussing our recent foray into the coffee business.  How we finally got to steam their milk.  How we gave them an extra shot of espresso with a flavour shot of fuck you…


Well, they were discussing.  I was listening, as usual.  Sometimes having a limited vocabulary was great…other times not.  This was one of those times it was most definitely not.  I wanted to be able to tell them what I saw…tell them all about how much it made me smile to see them so out of place in their own sanctuary – or maybe it was their version of hell masquerading as sanctuary.


The looks on the Bruvs’ faces were priceless when they walked in and realized what was going on.  It was made all the more satisfying to know that we were dealing with, “two dipshits who would be stupid enough to fall for one of those Wile E. Coyote traps,” according to the popular consensus.


The conversation evolved, as it always does, from roasting the Bruvs like their favourite magical bean, to boiling up a solid plan for our upcoming matches.


When it came to Darin Matthews, there wasn’t a shortage of criticism.  Oh no, far from it.  When it came to Darin Matthews, the yolks were crackin’.


Most centred around his lacklustre performance of late when it came to facing one of us Bandits, how he wasn’t able to fight his way out of a wet paper bag, or about his preference in women (or men, I mean, it is 2020 after all).


If only I was able to add in my random Darin Matthews facts:


Binge watching Caillou is more entertaining than watching a Darin Matthews match.


Eckrich used Darin Matthews as the life sized model for their Li’l Smokies.


And finally:


The average hot dog machine will have 574,000 weiners in it, and catch 4,379 gallons of juice in its trap, just like Darin Matthews.


Yes, I’m sure we could go on and on, and believe me we did…but one can only burn Zion – I mean, Matthews – to the ground so many times before it loses its fun.


Before we all went our separate ways is when Doozer pulled me aside to impart his wisdom…how I’m the hammer.  How it’s up to me to keep the Bandits’ streak alive.  How I needed to visualize the outcome beforehand.  How I needed to scramble Matthews’ yolk.


The last bit seemed odd…but it was said, and the message received.  That’s when he handed me the hammer and told me I’d know what to do with it when the time came, along with a little smirk that hinted at something more.  I wasn’t sure what he meant then, but after having a few days to think about it, I had a pretty good idea.  At least I thought I did.


This morning a small package showed up at my apartment.  Plain brown paper wrapping, neat twine bow tied around the outside along with stickers claiming the contents to be fragile.  No return address.  I signed for it and brought it inside, gently setting it on the kitchen table littered with junk mail, and stared at it blankly.


Part of me wanted to tear it open and look inside like the Tasmanian Devil, but I realized that unlike him, I wasn’t a cartoon.  Who knows what’s inside there?  I mean, it wasn’t ticking…and well, if it was one of those Schrödinger’s experiment things, I’m pretty sure the small animal is dead.  The box was definitely not cat sized, that’s for sure.  More gerbil sized…which brought a smile to my face as I pictured Darin Matthews taking directions from Richard Gere on the subtlety of gerbiling.


I reached across the table and pulled the package closer to me, gently undoing the bow and removing the twine and plain brown paper to reveal a neatly taped up box, the words: “The Only Motivation You Need — D” scrawled on the outside in black marker.  Thankfully, Doozer’s handwriting was unmistakable…aggressive block letters, all in capitals, and just a bit more legible than chicken scratch.


I carefully cut the tape, opened the box gingerly, and peered inside only to see Darin Matthews’ smug, shit eating sneer staring back at me.  Almost like the climax of that awesome movie Se7en, except if the head in the box at the end was actually an egg that had the wife’s face printed on its shell.


I picked it up and looked at it flatly.


Was this what he meant by visualize the outcome beforehand?


I checked the box again with my free hand, removing the egg carton bits used as cushion during transit and a folded up piece of paper.  I unfolded it to reveal a picture of a hammer…the words “BE THE HAMMER” in the same handwriting as on the outside of the box.  Say what you want about him, but at least Doozer knows how to keep people focused and on track…always an admirable quality.


I shot Dar-egg an annoyed look.


What the fuck are you lookin’ at?


What the fuck is an egg lookin’ at?  Come on, what the hell was going on here?  What the hell am I doing talking to an egg?


Yeah, I bet you wish you hadn’t pissed in Brian Hollywood’s Corn Flakes when you left him high and dry, eh, Dar-egg?  Bet you wish you had his backup now…


I blinked and shook my head in disbelief.  Was I REALLY trash talking an egg?  Trash thinking?


They do NOT make strong enough meds for this.


Know what you really need to understand, Dar-egg?  You’re 0-3 versus the Bandits.  Zero.  And.  Three.  I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be the reason you put a W on your record from one of us…I’m the GODDAMNED HAMMER!!


And that’s when it happened.  That’s when it all came together.  I had to visualize the outcome beforehand.  I had to be the hammer.  I HAD TO BREAK DARIN MATTHEWS’ YOLK.


And that is precisely why I am now cleaning bits of hard boiled egg from places I didn’t even know hard boiled egg could go.


Upon realizing what Doozer meant, I found that hammer…and I proceeded to introduce Dar-egg to it – me, figuratively – over and over again…until it wasn’t anything close to recognizable as an egg.  There were pieces of egg everywhere.  It reminded me of an old limerick.


“There once was a lady named Jill,  who tried a dynamite stick for a thrill, they found her vagina in North Carolina, and bits of her tits in Brazil.”


Well, now that I’ve had a chance to visualize my success?  Saturday can’t come fast enough.  Saturday, they will find Darin Matthews’ vagina in North Carolina…and undoubtedly, bits of his tits in Brazil.


And now I have a weird craving for an egg salad sandwich.