Inserting Delmon Young’s Name Into Works of “Literature”

Belovéd,

Would that I had been able to address you sooner, but the Day of Labor proved too laborious, and yesterday was Tuesday, and Cistulli says I’m not allowed to address you on Tuesday.  Someday, that tyrant will get his.

So after three days, you are undoubtedly aware that Delmon Young has triumphantly returned to the Major Leagues, re-surfacing in Tampa to play for the Rays franchise which bore him and unleashed him upon the unsuspecting league. Since his debut on Sunday, he has collected three singles in eight plate appearances.

In celebration of his accomplishments, the royal We insert Delmon Young’s name into a shitty representation of the Western Canon, thus diminishing those works even further into the flammable morass of Lake Erie that is reality-TV-based popular culture.

Today, Delmon Young is a deeply troubled albino monk assassin in The DaVinci Code, Dan Brown’s abomination of a best seller.  We find him in Paris, France, basking in the afterglow of murder and fighting back his throbbing masthead:

The plaza before the great church was deserted at this hour, the only visible souls on the far side of Place Saint-Sulpice a couple of teenage hookers showing their wares to the late night tourist traffic. Their nubile bodies sent a familiar longing to Delmon Young’s loins. His thigh flexed instinctively, causing the barbed cilice belt to cut painfully into his flesh.

The lust evaporated instantly. For ten years now, Delmon Young had faithfully denied himself all sexual indulgence, even self-administered. It was The Way. He knew he had sacrificed much to follow Opus Dei, but he had received much more in return. A vow of celibacy and the relinquishment of all personal assets hardly seemed a sacrifice. Considering the poverty from which he had come and the sexual horrors he had endured in prison, celibacy was a welcome change.

Now, having returned to France for the first time since being arrested and shipped to prison in Andorra, Delmon Young could feel his homeland testing him, dragging violent memories from his redeemed soul. You have been reborn, he reminded himself. His service to God today had required the sin of murder, and it was a sacrifice Delmon Young knew he would have to hold silently in his heart for all eternity.

The measure of your faith is the measure of the pain you can endure, the Teacher had told him. Delmon Young was no stranger to pain and felt eager to prove himself to the Teacher, the one who had assured him his actions were ordained by a higher power.

“Hago la obra de Dios [I do the work of God],” Delmon Young whispered, moving now toward the church entrance.

Who is this mysterious teacher? What does he have to do with Opus Dei? Why does Delmon Young suspect this is all a Zionist conspiracy? Tell us more about these sexual horrors! Perhaps we’ll find out next time in Delmon Young’s romp through the filthy bowels Western Literature.