Crime and Punishment: Part II


Due to consuming an entire bottle of wine, Raskolnikov’s loose fingers “accidentally” sent an email to Deadspin czar Will Leitch, informing the great leader of Melt Your Face-Off’s existence. However, this action was done without the knowledge or approval of any of the other writers. We were unprepared for the resulting traffic and were caught with our pants down.

The cause of this embarrassing situation, Raskolnikov, is a crazy rogue who must be taught a lesson. Therefore, we have sent him on a series of hockey “vacations” that will teach him to respect the authority of the one in charge. These trips, while not Siberia, will test his physical and mental resilience. Will he make it through his spiritual journey to rehabilitation?

Second trip: a day as a Chicago Blackhawks Customer Service Representative.


Poor man. Imagine Jacques Lemaire coaching in a league that forbids the neutral zone trap. Such is the fate that has befallen our anti-hero. The wingtips cramped his feet. His pressed slacks smothered his freedom like a Dirk Graham offense. And the combination of a Ralph Lauren collared shirt and black tie choked the life out of him. To top it all off, a golf ball embedded in the left side of his mandible and a spewing of vitriol in his right ear. In theory, they should have canceled each other out, leaving his head pain-free; in reality, they contributed to the total body ache of Raskolnikov.

“Why the fuck don’t you show home games?”

“Sir, we show 5 home games a year.”

“Why not all 41?”

“We feel that home attendance will decrease if all of the games are shown.” Raskolnikov couldn’t believe the bullshit he was spewing. “If you would like to experience great hockey … ”

“Yeah, I can, you fucking asshole. It’s called the Wolves. Fuck you buddy. Fuck you.” Click. Another satisfied customer. Before Raskolnikov had time to get a sip of water, another happy Chicagoan called.

“Hello, Chicago Blackhawks Ticket Office, this is Raskolnikov. How may I help you?”

“Raskolnikov? Weren’t you an overrated hack pinko that the Hawks drafted?”

“No, that was Sergei Krivokrasov. May I help you?”

“Yeah, how much are the cheapest seats this year?”

“Well, they’re $10 with advanced purchase…”

“How much on the day of the game?”

“$15, $8 if you’re a college student.”

“Pssh, that’s garbage.”

“Sir, we dropped ticket prices this year.”

“I wouldn’t pay a nickel to watch your garbage team. If I wanted to be depressed, I’d just down a bottle of Xanax. Maybe if you had Xanax day at the Chicago Stadium…”

“Sir, Chicago Stadium was destroyed in 1995. The Blackhawks play at the United Center.”

Click. Another happy customer. Raskolnikov removed his headset and looked at the clock. Three hours until a catered lunch of boiled hot dogs.

His eyes, Norris-division colors, looked up at the poster above his call station. Hull, Mikita, Hay, and the Stanley Cup on Michigan Ave. Why did this picture have to hang here? Every time he attempted to touch the poster, it moved further away from him. It was a paradise that he had never known, one that would not be reached in the near future, and one that thousands of irate hockey fans would remind him would not occur in the near future. A Tantalusian existence …

Another phone call.

“When the hell are you going to show home games?”


Two more tasks…

(Helper to for Will Glasauer’s drawing)



  1. It’s almost to the point now for Blackhawks fans to hope that Mark Cuban takes an interest in hockey an attempts to buy them. If only for the sake of saving the souls of the fans that have to see utter failure each and every year.

  2. didnt chicago have like a streak of almost thirty years of playoff appearances until the mid nineties? personally i dont think its a coincidence that theyve only made the playoffs three times since sudden death came out

  3. Needs more calculus. But I do appreciate the Tantalus reference.

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