Crime and Punishment: Part III

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?

Third trip: Spy at NHL Headquarters to find the writer of this comment and this one.

The MYFO helicopter dropped me off on the roof of 1251 Avenue of the Americas at 9:00 AM.

“You’ll have to gather all of your gear on site,” Kid Canada hollered.

“Why?” I ask.

“Our budget is -$7.40. I bought a dozen Krispy Kremes yesterday. Mmmm … anyway, we’ll disavow all knowledge of you if you get caught.” And with that, RDfaRP used his donut-powered legs to pedal the chopper away from the Exxon building into the Manhattan morning.

What did this ragtag crew leave me? A marker. “In case Derek Boogaard’s there,” Weed said. “Make him sign your chest.” What was my outfit? A pair of AE jeans, a red Blackhawks sweater, and Doc Martens, the perfect equipment for sneaking into a Pearl Jam concert in 1993. I ran towards the only door I could find on the roof and descended the stairwell to the 47th floor.

MYFO chose today’s date to infiltrate the building because the front office completed their annual Theo Fleury Weekday Bender the previous night. I peeked through the window in the stairwell door. Never have I seen so many people in ties and coats hold ice packs to their heads, down Advil like Pez, and reek of cheap strippers. Under these conditions, I would easily sneak around the floor and find the proper IP address. Still, I needed a better disguise.

I opened the janitor’s closet to search for something, anything that would make me stick out less. The only contents were a mop, bucket, cleaning supplies, Alexei Yashin’s will, and a cardboard box. Pulling out my marker, I made a simple but effective disguise.

imovebetterthancullimore.jpg

 

“Uh, excuse me,” Colin Campbell asked me as I walked past. “Who are you?”

“Sean Avery,” I drowsily replied. “I really hit the Molson too hard yesterday. You don’t want to see my face, Mr. Campbell. It makes Mike Ricci cry.” Campbell shuddered and ran towards the bathroom. No one wanted to see what would make Ricci howl.

After identifying the computers of the lower-level front office, I realized that the commenter must have been someone higher up. On a whim, I decided to check Bettman’s office. What harm could it do?

As I approached the door, I could hear wheezing from inside. And something slapping against wood. I shifted the cardboard box to get a better view. Bettman sat facing away from the door, left arm flailing. He was leaning back as far as he possibly could in his leather chair.

“Oh, Mrs. Bettman,” he groaned. “Do it some more! That asshole Lenoceur doesn’t know anything! You suck as well as I do at being commissioner!”

I felt a Jeff Beukeboom fist clench my stomach. Bettman read our blog? Why would he write such poor English? Was he playing dumb by acting like an internet noob? And how could his wife do this shit in an office building? My racing thoughts stopped as I realized that Bettman had left his chair and was meandering toward the door. I hustled 10 feet over and crouched still. Bettman opened the door, looked around to make sure no one was looking, and then ran towards the bathroom.

Mrs. Bettman was still inside, but I was incredulous. I didn’t care if I was apprehended at that point. I waddled over to the thick wooden door and entered slowly. The office was empty. How did Mrs. Bettman escape?

The IP Address matched; Bettman found MYFO and defended his seemingly ephemeral wife. Still, where was she? I looked under the desk and unexpectedly found her.

mrsbettmanyouhaveneverlookedbetter.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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4 Comments

  1. Well, this effectively puts the kibosh on my plan to see if our mystery commenter had enough stroke to swing an interview with someone at HQ.

  2. Funny, I would have expected Bettman’s wife to be a banana…

  3. Lenoceur- usually mysterious commentators on the web are often 12 year old boys with a major chick from Battlestar Galactica fetish so, in other words, not so much up to the task.

  4. Rask: Good thing Psycho Mantis doesn’t work for the NHL.

    Vulcanized: My life-size cardboard cutout of Grace Park is crying, thanks to you.


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