Finally, the sloppily written preposterous conclusion. Big thanks to Jamie for all the great photographs. Visit her: Jamas.Org.

"Him! It's him doing this. Stop him!"

The policeman couldn't hear me. I was hopping up and down, agitated, like a chimp with irritable bowel syndrome. I realized nobody could, or would, help me stop the adorable fan favorite from unleashing further havoc upon the south side faithful.

Southpaw's blank perpetually cheerful furry visage was a blank slate. I wondered who was underneath that costume. Was he the guilty party, or merely an unknowing accomplice of the candy contaminators?

The police were abandoning their posts, scattering like beetles under a flashlight. They ran for the flash fights erupting back down the parade route. The first assault I had witnessed had dispersed, leaving one bleeding cop in the middle of LaSalle Street. The old lady was still there, swearing like a sailor, slapping the crazed little girl across the face repeatedly as the girl kept lunging with her teeth. The teenage boys had moved on. I'd seen them leap into the crowd, tackle random people, and try to skullfuck them.

There were now no cops before me. I had my opening and I took it. I dashed to the last bus and leapt, defying gravity. I grabbed hold and scaled the rest of the way up like a monkey up a tree. There he was, still throwing lollipops, hailing deathcandy into the willing mouths of jubilant revelers.

"You! Drop the candy! Or else!"

Southpaw whipped around and faced me. He spoke: "Judgement is nigh, selfish hedonist, and I am the hammer!" He flicked me off. I was appalled. I'd just been flicked off by a tall green furry thing. This, of course, infuriated me far more than the senseless poisoning of my beloved Chicago brethren. So I tackled the fucker right off the top of the doubledecker bus.

We landed on the tickertape littered street. The lollipops spilled from the pillowcase, bouncing and rolling all over. I tried to disentangle myself so I could continue my assault on Southpaw, but my illness racked me. I was seized by a coughing fit so strong my nose began to bleed. The mean mascot regained his wind and balance. He jumped me.

I took a fuzzy yarnfist in the jaw. It tickled more than it hurt. By now I had regained control of my unhealthy self and I retaliated with righteous fury. First order of business: stripping Southpaw of his protective gear. I kneed him in the stomach. As he keeled forward, I grabbed his headpiece and yanked it off. I recognized the man inside the costume immediately. It was Alan Keyes, Republican candidate for U.S Senate for Illinois. He'd lost to Barack Obama in a landslide defeat last November.

"Alan? Alan Keyes?"

"God will not suffer your unchristian proclivities, young criminal. You have signed your death warrant." He turned to the crowd. "HELP! Somebody, anybody! This vicious young degenerate is trying to kill the White Sox! GET HIM!"

Tadahito Iguchi, the imported Japanese second basemen, was looking on from the bus as it rolled slowly away from my rumble scene. I noticed he was wearing yakuza sunglasses. He mumbled something to A.J. Pierzynski as he shook the catcher's shoulder. A.J. turned around, and when he saw me squaring off against the de-costumed Keyes, his jaw dropped.

"A.J! Dr. Chaos! Yes, you! Help!" He couldn't hear me. I ran closer. Southpaw followed. "A.J, the candy is poisoned! It's making people crazy! Look down there! Tell people NOT to eat the candy!"

Pierzynski raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Then, to my surprise, he shrugged off his skepticism. He raised his bullhorn to his mouth and pressed the button. He spoke.

"Citizens of Chicago! Faithful White Sox fans! Your attention please! Do not eat the candy in the street. Do not eat the candy given out today! I repeat, the candy is not safe!"

That's when Alan tackled me from behind. I went down with a thud. My face bounced off the street. Fortunately, the thick wads of ticker paper padded me a little bit. Still, the impact hurt, and my nose broke. My bleeding increased. I was a facial fountain.

Whenever Chicago is in trouble and needs help, A.J Pierzynski is there to bail us out. I was one such Chicagoan in dire need, and once again, A.J. was clutch. "Jermaine, let's help this guy!"

The catcher and the right fielder leapt from the bus and ran to save me from Alan Keyes, who was still clad in green yarn from the neck down. As he stomped on the back of my head with his furry dinosaur feet, the two baseball players clotheslined him, sprawling him out on the pavement. Keyes howled. "This den of iniquity shall perish in blood and fire! I will not be constrained by your chains, you vile sinful overpaid professional athletes! You all sing the siren song of Satan! I will not be swayed!"

He ran away. A.J. hollered up to Bobby Jenks, he of the 100 mph cannon arm. With obscure finger snapping and chest pats, he signaled to Bobby for a beanball high and inside. Bobby nodded. He scooped up one of the souvenier giveaway balls they'd been lobbing from the bus. He stood up in his windup motion, ready to let one fly. He blazed a fastball at Keyes and nailed him in the back of the head, right at the base of the skull.

"Steee-rike!" Bobby pumped his fist in triumph.

Alan went down, out cold. I hope the crowd ate him alive.

Jermaine helped me back up.

"Thanks, guys. I dunno who Alan is working for, if anybody, but that candy is no good. See all those riots back there?" I pointed. "People are losing their minds, attacking each other. Just totally nuts. I noticed each one of the mad feral types was blowing a sucker. The candy was makin 'em crazy. When I saw Southpaw tossing them into crowd, I figured he was the culprit. Guess I was right. And Alan fucking Keyes, of all people, inside that suit? I can barely believe it."

Jermaine replied. "You know that dude?"

"Not personally. He ran for Senate last year. The Republicans imported him from Maryland when their candidate, Jack Ryan, withdrew from the race after a sex club scandal. He never stood a chance of beating Barack Obama. We worship Obama around here. I still have his sticker on my bumper to this day. Anyway, Keyes is basically a nutjob. When I went to an Obama rally on election eve, Keyes was outside. He had a van driving around downtown with giant pictures of aborted fetuses all over it. And loudspeakers mounted to the top playing a looped message. Something like 'Alan Keyes for US Senate! A vote for Keyes is a vote for the children! Stop the murder now! Keyes is the moral choice! Homosexuality is a crime against god! Stop the sinning!' Stuff like that."

"Weird."

"Yeah. Very weird. Anyways, thanks, guys. You saved my ass there, and you saved a whole lot of other folks, too. I'm grateful."

"My pleasure!" said A.J. "Mine too!" said Jermaine. I saluted. They went back to the safety of the bus. People cheered. At this point they weren't sure what exactly had occurred, or what they were cheering about, but it didn't matter, because they knew one important thing: good guys wear black.

5:02 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm