Tim

The ball was high and inside and Tim, with an exasperated look, stepped out of the batter’s box and glared at the pitcher. “Quit throwing that crap,” he demanded. The pitcher meekly nodded and when Tim stepped back into the box, he took a mighty swing at the next pitch, obediently placed exactly where he wanted it, and sent the plastic, wiffled orb almost two miles, where, still on the rise, it punched through the glass window on the 40^th floor of the Mercantile Bank and Trust, spreading shards of glass with explosive force, and causing the office occupants to instinctively duck for cover. Tim had once again single-handedly scored every run for his team and extended his win streak to a perfect one hundred gazillion billion to zero. “Oh Tim,” sighed the cheerleader who fell in his arms in a faint. He carried her to his convertible that he built for himself out of molten metal and drove off to the ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the supercharged engine he designed while a freshman in high school.

Anyhow, that’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.