A real king has no need to wear a crown; you can tell from how the Breath Mints talk that he's a man of some renown. A real king knows that cricket is a classy sport. (And he thinks it's what he's playing, which our scout left out of their report.) A real king takes a blaseball to the skull, and he doesn't bat an eye... in fact, he shouldn't bat too much at all. A real king might get eaten by a shark, but he'll keep a real stiff upper lip, or his name isn't Marquez Clark. But I don't understand why he comes back every season, when it only means that awful things will happen for no reason. Hey Marquez, what's the plan? It just keeps on getting worse! Won't you tell us what you need so that this blaseball thing of yours can run its course? A real king takes a blaseball to the head. I know I said that once before, but Marquez Clark got beaned a whole lot more. A real king might get noticed by the gods — and we'll be praying for redaction — but he'll beat the odds. And it makes me wonder if the struggling can be its own reward, when the only path for all of us leads down the long blade of a sword. What is there to learn from Marquez Clark? And how much can we see and feel before we all go down into the dark?

He’s Marco Stink! He hits dingers! He has six legs! He has no stinger! When he rounds the bases, his smell still lingers! He learned a few things about theft from his friend Best, the fresh left-winger! What! There goes that bug again! He can’t really smile, but he’s looking smug again as he tags home plate, and gives me a hug again! Well, I guess that I can call that bug a friend! I didn’t know what to expect when he swapped in from the Steaks. None of us really knew if that bug had what it takes to be a Breath Mint and a comrade, in that little jester hat. But then he hit a double in his first at-bat! Well, in the dugout, we all shared a look and said a “thank you” for the weather. And then the bleachers shook as we shouted together: We love that bug! Yeah, he hits just like a dream! We love that bug! And we’re glad he’s on the team! Even if he smells a bit like sour cream! Well, I taught Marco how to steal when the dingers don’t go through. And I told him: as a bug, it’s not illegal for you. And he said, “What’s illegal!” and I started to explain, And he said, “What’s illegal with you! Ha ha!” That bug got me again! But I don’t mind when he leaves shells around the place. And I’ve learned how to tell when there’s a smile on his face: like when he feels that bat connect, and he knows he gets to run. Yeah, he taught me that living in this hell can still be fun. So if — by flame, or tooth, or something worse — I have to go away, the main thing I hope is that he’s okay. Cause I love that bug, and the joy that’s in his game. Yeah, I asked the whole damn team and they all feel the same. (Now, they all express themselves differently, but I know them well enough to read between the lines, and what they all basically said was…) We love that bug! And that bug loves eating seeds! We love that bug! And we know just what he needs! He needs to run around the bases at top speed! We love that bug! Yeah, he’s just a little guy! We love that bug! But he hits ’em to the sky! With a team like this, the Mints will never die!

Who's that up to bat? It's the same guy who's on first already! Ears just like a cat, ASCII glitching and unsteady. Hot singles in your area! Red Lobster for the Crabs who come around! This game is scary but Rodriguez Internet will hold it down. So who's on first? (Rodriguez Internet) Who's on second? (Rodriguez Internet) Who's on third? (Rodriguez Internet) Who's at the plate? (Rodriguez Internet also) Rodriguez Internet is repeating! Spicy cookie recipe, made fresh for all his good friends on the Mints. Started out respectably; a constant on the lineup ever since. Kansas City sacrifice will bring our runners back to localhost. But when the weather's nice, Rodriguez Internet can do the most. So who's at bat? (Rodriguez Internet) Who's on deck? (Rodriguez Internet) Who's after that? (Rodriguez Internet) And then who's next? (Rodriguez Internet again) Rodriguez Internet is repeating! Low stars, low poly, high batting average; our secret in the dark web all this time. But now the era's over and we're shouting to the rafters: Rodriguez Internet, it's time to shine. When all your base belong to him You can't deny this claim: Legend of the Blaseball sim! Rodriguez Internet for Hall of Fame!

Good morning and welcome to Eizabeth Guerra's panadería. Izzie cares about three things in life: getting a nice rise on her pandesal, line drives for triples down the first base foul line, and casting down God from his so-called Heaven and taking her rightful place on the throne he thought was His. Some people ask, "Why?" "What did God ever do to you?" Well, God never did Izzie any favors, that's for certain. Quite the contrary. Quite the contrary. Now you may say that a bakery is a strange way to go about this. You may say that it's quixotic. That it's doomed to failure. But I've seen God's creation's petty cruelties, its shattering of dreams, and its treatment of the virtuous; and I've tasted Izzie's hopia. And I know whose side I'm on. So if you're wondering: will Izzie be merciful? Will she hold back her wrath from those who doubted her? Consider the name of her bakery — I Am Going To Destroy God And Take His Place — and what that says about her willingness to forgive. And don't forget to tip.

Pudge Nakamoto is new to the game. They just appeared in the spot where your favorite star had been enveloped in flame. So if anyone asks you "Where the hell'd our Boyfriend go?" Just introduce them to their new best friend, Pudge Nakamoto. Pudge doesn't know what to do with a bat, and refuses to learn so there's not very much anyone can really do about that. But you don't have to improve, and you don't have to grow if you can just chill and eat pancakes with your best friend, Pudge Nakamoto. Now Pudge does make a mean pancake, it must be said! But it still won't be more than a couple of seasons before you end up wanting them dead. 'Cause Pudge Nakamoto is shaped like a friend. They're cute and they're fat and their time as your leadoff bat will never come to an end. So if you had dreams of a team with a championship in a season or two, your new best friend Pudge Nakamoto will make sure they never come true.

Called back to play again for the Flowers. I mean the Mints. But then I recall the awful price that we all will have to repay and I'm just like, "Nah."

When I first came to The Meadow, I was terrified. I couldn’t hide my fear of the toothy smile of the manager, and the round thing with the spear. The team made no sense to me at all: an angel with a skeleton wife, a vampire and a dentist and a baker and a guy whose head was a knife. But they were nice to me when they didn’t have to be. I could barely hold a ball, and I couldn’t really pitch at all. But I decided then and there that I would get us a ring. And I knew, deep in my glue, that I would do anything. I’d do anything. But how do you get better at this game? It’s not from practice! From the very start, I think the Breath Mints understood this. And I got used to their ways, but when I was new, my goodness, the Mints’ approach to training sometimes seemed a little tactless. That skeleton, Leach Ingram, would show up two hours late and just blow kisses from the mound down to her husband at the plate. And Hewitt Best kept handing out these pamphlets at first base, and Marquez Clark the vampire always called my fastball “extreme pace?” I asked Boyfriend Monreal just why the Mints did things this way, and they said… “You wonderful horse, we’d like to win, of course, and if winning’s what you want, I know that you’ll be a star. But besides the umps and the gods — who we don’t trust — there’s only us, so what’s important to the Breath Mints is to be who we are.” I stopped by Izzie’s bakery and said “I think I’m in love.” And she said, “Honey, welcome to the club.” I thought about what Boyfriend said for months. I realized I didn’t know who I was supposed to be. But you only ever really have a crisis like that once, and soon I learned the type of lesson that you never learn for free: The umps killed Whit, the knife guy who I’d since learned was a father. And just a few weeks later they killed Leach’s Eddie too. And just as some of us were starting to recover, we had to watch our Boyfriend burn before anyone was ready to. So amid the smoking remnants of their body — and our playoff run — I finally came to grips with what I really want when the day is done, and the next could be my last if I should play in an eclipse. I want to win. I just want to win! I want to embrace my friends in triumph! I want to send the other team home in shame! I want it so bad, it’s even in my name! I want to win! I want to pitch a single perfect game! Then if any given day I should die in flame, at least I’d go out happy. And something weird happened in season 8. We were bottom of the league, but I felt great. And Leach started wilding out in the bullpen like she was on her motorcycle with Eddie again. Yeah, she was having the time of her life, but she was off in a world of her own. But I wanted to go there! I wanted to know what she saw! ’Cause when she came to, something had changed inside her. She was kind of serene, with more control of her slider. And I begged her to tell me how she did it. She pulled out a joint, and she lit it, and she said, “Iunno.” So I guessed I’d have to figure it out on my own. I took a Honeycrisp and got my hair dyed roan. I tried meditation until I lost my patience, and I tried imagining my team’s congratulations, and I felt something. I pictured a standing ovation, and I felt something. I thought of my friends, and the smiles on their faces, and I saw… “…but, one run against Winnie Hess is sometimes as hard as ten…” “…and, Winnie Hess, over at the Breath Mints…” “Winnie Hess.” “…absolute monsters this year!” “It’s a massive horse. It’s a really big horse.” “…I’m not sure if it’s going to be a high scoring game! ’Cause Winnie Hess is going to lock down whoever they’re pitching aginst…” “…and Winnie Hess closes out a perfect game in game one…” “…but personally, I feel like the champion for season 22 was Breath Mints pitcher Winnie Hess…” “…and it is the Breath Mints who win, to become the season 22 champions. So… Breath Mints good?…” “…the Kansas City Breath Mints, you have won your first Internet Series championship, here in season 22. Wow!…” And when I came to, everyone was standing around me. Their smiles were just like I remembered. I guess that Leach had told them how bad I wanted this, and so they came and found me. I guess they’ll always come and find me when I get lost inside my head. And when we’re losing, and I’m chasing down those visions, I know they’ll be behind me. So maybe someday I will pitch a perfect game. And maybe someday I can get us a ring. And maybe someday I’ll be killed in an inferno. But I’ll always be a Breath Mint, all the same.

Who knew a lich could rock a vape and throw a pitch? (But not so good that I don't bet against the Breath Mints when I hear she's in a game — and it makes me rich.) They call her Leach, and winning games exceeds her reach. Her favorite things are doing vape tricks on the mound, chugging Four Lokos and long walks not on the beach. She does this throw... I must admit it's quite a show. She blows a smoke ring and then puts the ball right through it. Has it ever hit the strike zone? (No) How many innings since that lich walked in a run? And how much longer till she walks another one? It's a shame: her head is just not in the game. Because she pitched it as a joke And it got fouled into the stands behind first base! (Nice!) Yeah, what's her name???? Leach Ingram. Leach Ingram. Leach Ingram. Well, Leach Ingram got infused, and now the Breath Mints are amused to see their favorite dirtbag pitching like an ace. With no outs she'll load the bases just for fun, then not allow a single run, just to rub it in their face. You should see her ERA, and how she'll force a double play by walking batters straight into the Mints' defenses. It's a new, improved Leach Ingram! So grab your bats and swing 'em, but just realize it won't be for the fences against Leach Ingram! Leach Ingram! Leach "5 Loko" Ingram!

You brought me in when it was time to win. And win is what we'll do. You may not like me when we're through. I don't know what the hell this team's deal was before me, and I don't care. But I heard about all of your ridiculous little plans that got you nowhere. And now everything's going to hell, can't you tell? Can't you all feel it? You know time is running out to win a ring... so why not steal it? (That's what they'll say when they see me going all the way: "She's the pitcher who needs no relief, but only because she's a thief.") "She's underhanded. She breaks all the rules of the game and I don't understand it. It's cheap and unfair and I don't know why they haven't banned it. But I guess for those Breath Mints it's all going just like they planned it." I didn't ask to be like this: no more than just a means to an end. And I'll be gone in no time, so you can all quit trying to be my friend. And time will tell if I'll remember all of you in a year or two. I frankly doubt it! But we'll remember when we swept the Crabs in the Mild League Championship Series, won't we? So how about it?

The light from the stadium takes three whole seconds to get here: three seconds in which I'm the loneliest person alive. I queue up the pitches and load them all into the railgun, one by one, and hope that they're not too embarrassing when they arrive. And all the machinery murmurs its comforting updates, immaculate steel I maintain like a surrogate body. I don't know what half of it does, but I can't stand the static and fuzz that keeps me from hearing my friends on the team when reception is spotty. Asynchronous transfers and chat rooms at night: The pull of the game on a satellite. But nothing can touch me as long as I'm safely out here. When the ump attacks, I see it coming from hundreds of thousands of miles away. I rotate my railgun minutely and toggle a switch. And when it's all over my feed shows a smoldering crater on the field, and my Breath Mints all cheering me on from the edge of the ditch. I don't know if what I just did was allowed, but I hope that it made Hewitt proud. And I hope he beats that ump's ass when they meet in the hall. The seasons drag on in increasing resentment and chaos. They gave me a bat, it makes even less sense than before. And my fortress of solitude's starting to feel like a prison, and I'm feeling the lack of real human contact more and more. I steal all the steel chairs and then I just toss them aside: a tantrum I throw to feel tangible down on the diamond. As the fields and the skies get more crowded I can't disguise feeling like: how did I end up here, all disconnected and echoing down these cold hallways, so far from the game that I'm technically playing but always completely removed and forever outside it? So when the cruel flame arcs from the indifferent dark once again, on its way from blasting all my fastest friends, I think about the Hall and if I'll see them all in the flesh (or whatever we have then), and I let it happen.

Don't put me on a pedestal; give me vision, dental and medical. And give them to my teammates too, after all we've done for you! Don't turn me into gold; let me die when I get old. Let me get old in the first place, and then disappear without a trace. We don't have to do this anymore! But what the hell else is there to do? We're no fools, yeah, we all know the score. But that doesn't mean we have to take this from you. You pay us less than we deserve, then you kick us to the curb when you think we're not enough for you — or just because you wanted to! You mess us all around 'till you put us in the ground, but even then you're still not done — you call us back for some more fun! So you won't let us live, and you won't let us go. The wisest and the kindest of the Breath Mints warned us so, so then you killed him and threw him in the vault. And now you want to say it's not your fault! We laughed it off when Hewitt tried to organize us, but we're not laughing now. 'Cause we're all dead, so now nothing can surprise us. We're on our way to take you down somehow. We're gonna kill a god, or maybe two or three! Tell you what, we'll just keep killing gods until we're free! And when the formless void has swallowed every last decree, we'll find the vault and be the union Hewitt always said that we could be!

Hi, Jode. Your team is dead, but you're still out there on first base. Dust off your cleats! Eyes on the game! Score us one more run for old times' sake! Of course the old times were just two minutes ago, but you already want them back. Come on home, Jode: one last moment of glory before the fade to black.