But you never think it’s you. They won’t give you those memories, the ones where you die. Then there’s the worst part: learning that my wife’s keeping a secret from me, and as soon as they catch me, I’ll forget all over again.

I’ve been working in this city for 24 damn years, clawing my way on up. I’ve served on every shit-can board. Assessors. Conservation Commission. This little twerp? He’s shooting for mayor to boost his inevitable Senate run.

So when she screamed, “The baby is yours, Mike,” I couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. That blonde with the legs just walked out of the VFW along with his political career.

But now, on the front lawn, the master’s little boy approaches. Any way it goes down, it’s going to end poorly. Master’s fault for not cutting the grass.

“This is for Shovel,” thought Rake.

But, at least he got to travel. His wife hated flying, so they never went anywhere. Even one night in an exotic locale was better than the cube farm, too. The hours were better, anyway.

“Boarding complete. Cabin secure. Prepare for take-off.” Elliot grasped the intercom so hard it nearly shattered.

The message was a simple, “Happy Birthday.” The check in the amount of ten dollars was in surprisingly good shape. Reggie ripped up the check and tossed the card back into the box.

The elevator was crowded, but nothing in Fenway park is big. Besides the elevator operator, there were five people squished together: me, my mother, my father, a random old lady and a middle aged man wearing a baseball cap. He was shorter than me, and I remember looking down at him. He appeared twitchy and nervous. I seem to have that effect on people in elevators in baseball games. I once tried shaking Heidi Watney’s hand in Tampa and she was clearly ready to pepper spray me.

But I only noticed two things about him. First was the aforementioned and obvious twitch factor. I was worried he was going to shank me and run as soon as the doors opened. The second was that he was reading a Dean Koontz novel.

When, we got off the elevator, my dad was shaking his head. “Can you believe it?”

“What?” I asked. “That old douche that didn’t move when the old lady tried to get off the elevator? What do you expect, he was reading Dean Koontz.”

“What? No! Do you know who that was?”

“No. Should I?”

“That was Tom Werner!”

“Shit. Did I just call Tom Werner a douche?”

I did, of course, call Tom Werner a douche. The man that produced The Cosby Show. But it was deserved! And not to his face! First, in his absolute skittishness, he totally didn’t move when that old lady tried to get of the elevator. Dick move, Tom. But secondly, he was reading a Dean Koontz novel. DEAN KOONTZ!

Most Sox fans know that another famous horror writer, Stephen King, is a well-respected supporter of the team. The man went as far as to write a book about being a die hard fan of a losing team. Of course, he ended up writing that book the first year the Red Sox had won the World Series since 1918. It’s almost like he knew, right? That’s because he did. With magic. Probably evil magic. Like the kind that brings cars to life and makes them murder people. The same type of murdering cars that sabotage baseball teams when their owners are reading novels by their lesser-respected peers.

Now, I’m not saying Stephen King is directly responsible for the curses that befell is beloved Red Sox, but his being surrounded by seriously dark stuff surely didn’t help. My theory is that this dark power realized Tom Werner’s folly and attacked the Sox directly. Just not in the form of a car. Though how awesome would that have been?

But what are these curses? If you think the September letdown was curse enough, you’ll be horrified to see the other curses I’ve uncovered.

One of the biggest “scandals” coming out this year involved starting pitchers drinking beer and eating Popeye’s Chicken in the clubhouse during games. It wasn’t during games they were pitching, but during off days. I’m not exactly sure why this would affect the team, but I’ve heard suggestions ranging from “it makes the pitchers fat” to “they’re not supporting the team.” I guess. I think the main problem was that lack of good pitching that last month (or in John Lackey’s case, the entire season).

But the pitchers were clearly the players most aware of the curse, because they were the most clearly affected. Pitching was, from the start of the season, a little rough. Pitchers got injured. They gave up too many runs. They couldn’t find the strike zone. It was a nightmare. Something had to be done.

Josh Beckett: Curse Reverser?

Those nights of chicken weren’t enjoyable. Oh no, they were trying to stave off the curse by making sacrifices to the delicious fried chicken gods and performing charms using discarded bones. If anything, Josh Beckett, Jon Lester and John Lackey should be held up as heroes, not villains, even if their selflessness didn’t help the team in the end. The beer, I can’t really explain. They were probably just thirsty and sick of Gatorade.

Dan Shaughnessy is one of the best-known New England sports writers, having written a column for the Boston Globe for what seems like forever. He’s been under fire several times in the past for supposedly being the mouthpiece of the Red Sox front office (the Globe’s parent company, New York Times Co., has deep ties with the Fenway Sports Group). But the curse hit Mr. Shaughnessy particularly hard. Dan can never again become a real boy.

"Did You Hear the One About Theo Epstein?"

From now on, Dan Shaughnessy will suffer a Pinocchio-like fate, as a wooden puppet for the rest of his life. Until the curse is broken, he’ll be forced to write for the Boston Globe and be a piece of driftwood unable to feel blood flowing through his veins for the remainder of his life. The good news for Shaughnessy? It pays well!

Kevin Youkilis seems to have been taking the brunt of criticism regarding the negativity in the clubhouse. Most of this seems to stem from comments he made last year about Jacoby Ellsbury not traveling with the team while injured. But by most other accounts, Youk was the definition of a team player. In a radio interview days after the season ended, he even suggested that everyone, including the front office, was to blame for that miserable month, because they win as a team and lose as a team. Did I also mention he was plagued by injuries all season that severely limited his playing time? Clearly, this isn’t a coincidence. That’s because somebody in that front office has a Kevin Youkilis voodoo doll.

How Many Pins Does It Take to Put Down Youk?

Knee problems. Back problems. A sports hernia. Youk had a rough year. He clearly pissed somebody off. But you can’t just send some heavies in and rough up an employee with a multi-million dollar salary. A voodoo doll would be perfect. You’re making him look bad, and taking him out with simple pin pricks! It’s so easy, John Henry could do it while falling off his yacht! Of course, when said player still opens his mouth, there’s always libel through the newspaper you partially own.

One of the few players on the team to not falter in September was Dustin Pedroia, making it seem like he clearly escaped this string of awful curses. But no, Pedroia was facing a terrible curse of his own, directly affecting him and making his life more difficult than anyone could possibly imagine. Dustin Pedroia is a Teen Wolf. That’s right, like the immortal classic 1985 Michael J. Fox comedy. You know, the bad-ass, van-surfing, wolfing-out original, not that super lame boxing Jason Bateman from Teen Wolf Too or the whiny kid from the MTV series.

But, just like the film, Pedroia used the curse to his benefit. He had a great year and a stellar September. Of course, he didn’t end up leading his team to a last minute victory, but that can be completely excused by the fact that he is a werewolf and I don’t want him to tear out my intestines. Don’t believe me? Look at this picture.

Dustin Pedroia, Bathing in the Light of a Full Moon

See? Pretty scary stuff. So many curses, so little time. But at least now, as fans, we no longer have to point fingers and make excuses why the Red Sox failed to make the playoffs. We now know that frightening truths behind their failure.

But as a wasted generation, we weren’t allowed to travel. We were stuck on Earth. Anyone born post boom couldn’t apply for a passport or visa to visit any of the colonies. Not even on Luna. We were a grounded generation, left to die on a burned up rock.

Across from Edith was a large monitor. It was blank when she walked in, but after she seated herself, it began displaying questions. She saw neither a human operator nor a microphone.

“Why do you want to work for American Stitcher Dot Com?”

“What is your greatest strength/weakness.”

“ERROR_90675617-UNABLE TO LOCATE EMPLOYMENT.”

Edith left the room and wondered if all management software was this rude.