The world as we know it was going to end in December of the year 2012. Several chains of events had been predicted for thousands of years to converge at a specific point in time. That point in time was September 5th, 2012. There was only one man who could prevent the annihilation of all human life on Earth.
After midnight on 5 September, Brandon had a dream. In his public life, Brandon McCarthy was a professional pitcher in the American sport of baseball. The dream he had resembled the dream he had before every game he was scheduled to pitch. He is the king of the mountain, an ape named Donkey throwing giant barrels at his foes. He is unstoppable and his shoulders and elbows never fail to fling the barrels with amazing power at the Italian men at the plate at the bottom of the mountain. In his dream, every pitched barrel is a perfect strike.
The dream shifts. A barrel flies back toward the mountain. This is different, this never happens. The barrel goes past McCarthy and strikes the small ape Pennington, defender of Second Valley. A zeppelin descends from the sky and lifts the injured Pennington to take him to the hospital.
The dream shifts. Brandon floats above Pennington’s home, a plumber waits outside. The plumber is unaware of the injury and late for his next appointment. He waits for hours. He is a loyal and devoted plumber. The man at the plumber’s next appointment grows more and more annoyed. He decides to fix his own garbage disposal. He is a microbiologist, and he is unqualified for this job. The garbage disposal whirs to life as he inserts his hand. He bleeds to death, alone, on the kitchen floor.
The dream shifts. Sirens go off at a laboratory. There is a breach. The lab technicians search for the expert in charge of XT-581. They call his phone. The phone rings in the home of the microbiologist, no one is able to answer. Brandon feels the fear in the lab as the lab techs panic. No one else is qualified to deal with an outbreak of XT-581. It spreads.
The dream shifts. Food riots start in the supermarkets and end near the dumpsters. Bodies pile in the streets and stadiums. Nuclear missiles fly in response to presumed biological warfare. The earth is scorched into oblivion. An overturned calendar reads 21 December, 2012.
Safeco Field’s innovative new pink-striped turf proved itself adequate for stacking corpses
McCarthy jerked into the real world. It was morning. Game day. He was drenched in the stench of french perfume. His wife had overdone it again the previous night, her sweatsuit soaked in high-performance parfum. He had been inhaling the fumes coming off her body the whole night. The light bulb flashed in his brain, the dream, could it be?
In his secret, shadow life, Brandon held a triple PhD in chemistry, psychiatry, and astrology/divination. In a recent study he had conducted, he determined that long exposure to strong perfumes could induce visions, particularly when the subject was sleeping. The neural inhibitors that prevent farseeing are themselves inhibited by the chemical odorants of some strong perfumes. A future of possible events opens before the subject. He had put the research aside temporarily because there was a series of important intra-divisional games coming up. But the implications of the research pushed to the forefront of his brain.
Was it a simple nightmare, or a horrific vision of the future? The dream could be real.
The dream faded soon after waking, as they do, but he would be prepared for any signs today. He also needed to prepare for the game against the loathed Angels. He developed some pitch sequencing algorithms for the hated Angels and stretched before heading to the stadium.
The game appeared no different than any other game, except for the presence of the despicable Angels. In the third inning, the repugnant Angels took the lead. In the fourth, the second Angel to come to the plate launched a missile ball back up the middle. Clarity struck McCarthy, the dream played out in his head. This moment in time was the convergence point, all past roads to the apocalypse lead here. This was the single point of failure in the plan of destruction. Of course it would be the Angels playing the adversary’s cat’s-paw.
Brandon was running out of time, the screaming ball was quickly approaching. There was no alternative. He could not allow the destruction of civilization. He must protect Pennington, who must meet his plumber, who must make his next appointment with the microbiologist, who must stop the outbreak of XT-581. Brandon had only one course of action. He threw his head in front of the ball.
Brandon laid on the mound and for the split-second before his memory of the event disappeared forever, he knew he had successfully prevented the destruction of life on earth.
The face of a relieved hero. Mission Accomplished.
McCarthy suffered severe brain damage and required extensive surgery to save his life. The doctors could not save his memory and he would never again be the same. He could not tell this story himself because he has forgotten it, but we Mariners fans appreciate his sacrifice. Well, everyone probably appreciates his sacrifice, except for the thwarted Angels bent on the destruction of all life, but the people of Seattle appreciate it the most.
And as they say, behind every great and heroic man there is a great and heroic woman. So we would be remiss not to mention the contributions of Brandon’s wife. If not for her need to smell like a French prostitute, Brandon may have never had the premonition that saved the world.
Thank you for your service to humanity, McCarthys.