The wall opened without sound. Floating from the heavens, the angel eclipsed the light of the moon, casting a heavy shadow on my face as she descended. Her wing gently grazed my cheek as she perched herself on the side of my bed. With celadon eyes, she gazed tenderly at me as her form settled into a state of serenity. The angel opened her mouth; she sang...
"When The Almighty created earth, he dug the seas and stacked the mountains not to provide sweeping vistas for desktop backgrounds on work computers, but to offer a platform upon which you, The God, would come to dominate fantasy football leagues by decimating all inferiority who would attempt to disguise themselves as paltry adversaries. The Almighty thought it amusing to use his infinite power and eternal wisdom to impart such a ruse that other mere mortal fantasy managers might think it possible to attain a fraction of the victory and glory held by The God."
The angel laughed, an obvious hoax to infer a pleasant end to the fable. In an ethereal soprano...
"For a time, the fantasy world was at peace. The God allowed others to hope...to dream...to say 'next year...next year I will compete with The God.'"
Then the angel's mood abruptly turned. Quelled and morose, she offered...
"But soon The God's vision grew too prodigious to be bound by Everest and the Pacific. The God's free-agent dexterity and weekly line-up adeptness proved too hale, and in the end, The God's stalwart ability prevailed over all who challenged him. And when The God's unyielding weekly match-up strategy and bye-week plug-in prowess could grow no more indomitable, The God claimed the 2009 championship, and with it the hopes and dreams of fantasy managers everywhere."
Her head dropped slightly, a tragic realization now presenting itself in an unabashed carnival of trauma and terror. With her last breath...
"Even The Almighty, who had hopes of one day challenging the very fantasy god he had created, was void of reverie and optimism. Competition ceased to exist. In his reigning supremacy, The God would go on to pillage the inner most fantasy hopes and aspirations of his competition. And in his wake, The God left only broken dreams and talentless waiver wires."
A tear now ran down the angel's ivory cheek. Slowly, she rose. I watched the angel return to the sky, the now emancipated moonlight warming my face and beckoning my attention. The moonlight held visions. I saw a woman whose chest supported a '2007 Springfieldffb' sweater and whose ass wore a crimson ring-adorned hand print. I saw ghosts of fantasy past...McGuire's 5-9 bust squad, Westy's once top-seeded choke specialists, and JR's Lions...whose collective heart will soon be severed by the hand of The God's disciples.
And in that moonlight I saw something else. Something familiar, yet new. As I squinted, the outline of a 2009 championship ring sharpened to a gleaming mass of victorious achievement, shining like gold rims on Pathfinders. The power of the ring's beauty melted the walls, the roof, the stars. A feather from the angel's wing spiraled slowly to the ground. All that remained was a mirror. It's frame charred; it's glass riddled with fissures. I turned to it...my eyes were open.
With loving arms and merciless line-ups,
The God
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