Placing one foot in front of the other, you jog steadily toward Sheffield at third base. He doesn’t run at you, but stands there, lackadaisically chewing. Dead, bloodshot eyes seem to look through you as you continue. One step, two steps, each one fills you again with anger. At this point, anger is the only thing propelling you forward. Like a slack-jawed, hillbilly cow chewing its cud, you see what looks like a chicken bone, but isn’t. It’s a human hand. Probably belonged to the now-dismembered third base coach. Sheffield looks you up and down, always chewing, and now you are near enough to hear the small bones grinding against each other as he works them around his mouth. You stand, feet apart, his one dead eye meeting yours, and without looking away, he spits a mostly-bone pinkie into the dirt at your feet.
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