Another slash for you all to enjoy. It's done from Ron MacLean's persepctive. I'm going to give it a rating of pg-13 on account of lots of violence and blood. I'm also giving a glove tap to JaredofLondon for helping me out with the ending.
Another Saturday, another late night. I wondered If I was getting a bit too old for Hockey Night in Canada. I thought that maybe it was time I hung up the mike and relaxed a bit. Then I stopped myself. Sure, some time off might be nice, but what would I do with my time--knit? Twitter? No, I figured, at least for now, Hockey Night In Canada was the perfect fit for me. It was something I loved doing,something I was good at, and I worked with people I really liked.
Except for Don Cherry. I had tolerated his presence for so long, it nearly drove me mad. I'm pretty sure I'm now deaf in one ear on account of his rambling and ranting. And while the viewers at home could grab a snack, change the channel, or hit the mute button, I had no such luxury. I couldn't even roll my eyes. I had to look interested and smile and nod the whole time.
One night, I knew that I just couldn't stomach another night. I had thought about standing up and saying "Don, you're a jackass!", slapping his ugly bulldog face, and storming out of the studio. Don went on another of his tirades about the conditions of the league, telling kids "Now, watch--watch this! We got it? Yeah, DO. NOT. DO.THIS" He found yet another suit that nearly blinded me--who told him that lime green and navy check with a Snoopy tie was a good look? I tried to be a voice of reason. I said, "Now Don, that's not the only thing that matters--" but he cut me off. "WHAT ELSE MATTERS? Back when I was coaching the Bruins..."
That son of a bitch cut me off for the last time. I felt my hand curl around my pen. After that, I felt as if my mind had left my body and my hand and mouth were operating under someone else's control. I picked up my pen and plugned it into Don's neck. I yelled "Will! you let! Me finish! A goddam! Sentence! Once in a while! JORDAN STAAL WEARS A VISOR WHEN YOU AREN'T WATCHING!" as I accentuated every few words with another stab. I looked at Don's mutilated neck and face and plunged my pen into his eye socket.
It was a dream that I had had dozens of times before. Usually, I woke up shaking and in a cold sweat, so agitated that I could only go back to sleep after a slice of white bread and a glass of warm milk. But as I felt Don's hot, sticky blood drip off my hands and suit, it hit me. "Ron, this isn't a dream. You actually just stabbed Don Cherry to death on TV in front of millions of people." I looked into the camera, my bloody hands shaking so badly I dropped the pen.
Somehow, I knew the show had to go on, even if I didn't know if they were still broadcasting. I cleared my throat and tried to continue: "So, the, uh Buffalo Sabres are up 2-1 against the Ottawa Senators after a late first period goal by...". Somewhere, I heard P.J. Stock yell "Victory is mine!"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something I never expected to see. I saw Don's hand, wrapped in a sequined glove, punch towards the sky. I heard a faint rendition of "Thriller" in the background. Don retook his seat, cleared his throat, and said, "Ronnie, that was a good ol' Canadian stabbing! The sorta thing Bobby Orr woulda loved! Support the troops!"
I was shocked, stunned and amazed. Don continued, "Yanno, Ronnie, that's why my suits have these crazy high collars. You never know when you might be on the wrong end of a good ol' fashioned shivving."
"Oh." I said. All I could say was "Oh."