'Diamond Despot' by Scott MacLeod

You did not get to where Jimmy was by saying yes. Rules was rules.

Jimmy ran a tight ship at the stadium. He was a wiry 75, tanned to the color of a leather handbag by the Florida sun. He was patrolling the quarter-full park moving patrons who sat in seats not assigned to them.

A light rain had settled over the baseball field. As the downpour increased, one fan opened a discreet travel umbrella in Section 5.

“We got a Code U,” Jimmy shouted into the walkie-talkie to his beleaguered #2, Marge. She sheepishly upbraided the offender who pointed out fruitlessly he was in the last row and blocking no one.

Before Jimmy could relax, he noticed from the corner of his eye, a regular patron reaching into her fanny pack to withdraw a small ziploc bag. Outside food? From home? What was it, Cheezits? Flo knew better than that, thought Jimmy, pouncing into action.

“We got a snacker,” he roared at Marge through the handheld. She huffed her way down to Flo and with an apology requested she cease and desist her crunching.

Jimmy continued barking into the walkie as the weather worsened.

“Who is he talking to now?” Flo asked Marge.

“He’s on with God,” quipped a wag from across the aisle. “He’s complaining that the weather is against regulations.”

As if on cue a blinding flash married a deafening boom and Jimmy was gone.

All that was left was a worn pair of white leather Reeboks. On top of them was perched a singed silver toupee smoking slightly.

“Did you ever see anything like it?” asked Flo, shell shocked.

Marge had been trained well by the master. Before answering, she thumbed through her Game Day rule book. “I don’t see anything that prohibits it.”