What's Become of Derian Mutzki

by J. Leland Kupferberg

In the history of hockey, there's never been a guy like Derian Mutzki. As the Global Hockey League's leading scorer for nine consecutive seasons, he had every reason to be one cocky son of a bitch. But never Mutzki - at heart, he was just a smalltown kid done good. Yes, he was married to a voluptuous blonde ex-model, but so were the rest of us - at least those of us who were tired of the weeknight flings at airport motels with the local pimple-faced groupie.

The point is, from the start, we knew Mutzki was cut from a different cloth. The precision, the finesse, the charisma - he had it all. As for me, I was one of your typical league grunts - the kind of shmo whose hockey card seemed to turn up in triplets in every pack you ever bought as a kid. "Sure, he isn't great with a puck," they said when they brought me up as a tenth round draft pick with the Pittsburgh Polars, "but shit, he's big." And that was my ticket - bigness. Anyone tried to take out Mutzki with a cheap slash or a sock in the head, and they'd have to answer to me. All in all, a great job, if you don't mind the false dentures.

Late November. My season total to date: 2 assists.

I'm sitting in my usual booth at Burger Haven with two of my teammates, Claude Flambeau and Falomir Sudaplov. Flambeau never had great enthusiasm for the game. Growing up in some piss-ass town in Northern Saskatchewan, there was never a hell of a lot for Flambeau to do, except skate around on the local ice pond. He kind of came to hockey through osmosis. Sudaplov is another story. "The Pinsk Powerhouse," they used to call him. A sterling product of Soviet engineering. When Sudaplov took a shot, you ducked for cover. Then Sudaplov came stateside and discovered the American cheeseburger. Now, three years and 150 pounds later, he's widely known as the "Porker From Pinsk." He's roughly doubled my season total in scoring.

Sudaplov is chowing down on a greasy cheeseburger loaded up with the works. Flambeau samples a handful of Sudaplov's fries. Me, I'm nursing a bowl of green Jello. But my mind is really on Mutzki. What's happened to him? Almost a month now, I have yet to hear him utter an intelligible sentence. The playing skill's still there, but the personality - the warmth - is all gone. And then there's the matter of his looks: the once luxurious golden locks of hair now resembling a gray SOS pad, the lips blue and chapped, the complexion reminiscent of uncooked pizza dough. It was plain for all to see - Mutzki looked like shit.

Flambeau dunks a fry into Sudaplov's side of gravy, and looks me straight in the eye. "You know something," he says in his nasal-accented French Canadian twang, "Mutzki looks like shit."

With the back of his hand, Sudaplov wipes a stray nub of ketchup from his unevenly molded goatee, and nods in agreement. Flambeau leans forward, lowering his voice. "Something weird is going on with that guy. I think the management knows something we don't."

I push my Jello aside. "What do you mean?"

"It's just a feeling I get. The other day, before our game with Winnipeg, I came early, to bone up on my slap shot. And you know what I saw? Mutzki. Alone in the locker room with the new doctor."

"So?"

"So the doctor was babbling on in some crazy language, and dousing Mutzki with vinegar."

"What was Mutzki doing?"

"Just sitting there. Grunting. So later, I approach the GM and ask him, 'What's with the vinegar on Mutzki?'"

"So what'd he say?"

"'Mind your own fucking business.' Like it was some state secret."

I look over at Sudaplov. "What do you think?"

Sudaplov thoughtfully twirls his pinkie around in his cup of gravy as he glances over toward the girl flipping burgers on the grill. "I never really noticed before," Sudaplov muses, "but The Burger Girl is actually quite beautiful. In a natural sense."

I'm about to wave Sudaplov off as the simpleton idiot he usually is, but then she catches my eye. For almost a year now, she's been known to us as "The Burger Girl," mainly because nobody ever bothered to ask her name. Night after night, we'd place our orders, and she'd flip the burgers. And that was basically it. Whatever passed for conversation usually revolved around burger-related matters: Well-done, please. Mustard on both sides. How about that new barbecue sauce, eh?

But now that Sudaplov brought it to my attention, for the first time, I take a really good look at her. Her long, black hair is matted and straggly, her teeth screaming for dental attention, her cheeks smeared with grill grease. And her figure...well, who can tell what form lies beneath the loose-fitting, ever-present Burger Haven smock? She's of indeterminate ethnicity. Maybe Indian, possibly Arabian, or Greek. But look closely at the bone structure, clean her up a bit, and - holy shit- she's gorgeous.

My momentary trance is broken by the sharpness of Flambeau's nasal twang. "Sudaplov, you idiot. We were talking about Mutzki."

Sudaplov lets loose with an ear shattering belch. "Personally," Sudaplov offers, "I think Mutzki is going through one of those life cycle changes. Nothing more and nothing less."

Flambeau and I give it some serious thought. Maybe there's no real cause for concern over Mutzki. Maybe he's just going through one of those natural changes that happen in life.

Early January. My season total to date: 2 assists, 1 goal.

My mind's not on the game tonight. My eyes remain fixed on Mutzki as I skate alongside him. A thick, pungent odour permeates the rink, and it isn't just coming from Mutzki. Several of the other guys - on our team and the opposing one, too - are also giving off some pretty offensive fumes.

I barely notice the booing as the puck slides past my stick. I watch as the team doctor sprays a couple of my teammates with vinegar as they sit quietly on the players' bench, as rigid as plywood. But it's not just our doctor. On the other side, the team doctor is busy spritzing vinegar on his own guys. Flambeau is starting to get freaked out about all this, and so am I. But I don't want to start up with the management, so I keep my mouth shut.

Buck Mackelchuk, a Chicago Tomahawk winger, body checks me into the boards, which strikes me as odd, considering I'm nowhere near the puck. Almost by instinct, I drop my gloves to the ice, and proceed to pummel the hell out of him. But my heart's not in it. I'm thinking about Mutzki. About the doctor. About the vinegar. I'm just going through the motions now - tearing off Mackelchuk's jersey, screaming obscenities at the ref, acting like I really give a shit. The crowd seems to love it, basking in the light of my raging passion. I'm a pro at this sort of thing. They can't see I'm otherwise preoccupied.

Where's the whistle, I'm thinking. Don't I have a penalty coming? Nothing. The crowd roars its approval as I continue - growing ever more exhausted - pummeling Mackelchuk in the face. I look over at Flambeau at the other end of the ice, nodding his head in frustration. I can tell - he, too, is wondering why nobody's calling a penalty.

I'm becoming genuinely concerned for Mackelchuk's well-being as I feel his cheekbones start to give way under the force of my fists, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he looks on, expressionless, as if he were otherwise preoccupied, as well. "Are you okay, Mackelchuk?" I ask.

"Eerrrgh," he replies in a flat, monotonous tone. Fuck it. My hands are starting to swell up. I pick up my gloves, and resume play. So does Mackelchuk, which strikes me as odd.

Flambeau skates past me and throws me a look that says, "What the hell's going on here?"

Late January. My season total to date: 2 assists, 1 goal.

I'm standing at the order counter at Burger Haven with Flambeau at my side. Sudaplov remains seated in our usual booth. Flambeau sullenly looks on as The Burger Girl flips our patties on the grill. He turns to me, and says, "Did you hear about Mutzki's wife?"

"No. What?"

"She left him the other day."

"You're kidding."

"No, really. It had something to do with alienation of affection."

"What about the kids?"

"From what I hear, Mutzki isn't even contesting custody. It's like he couldn't care less."

I take in a deep gulp of air, as I struggle to suppress the lump in my throat. "What's become of Derian Mutzki?"

The Burger Girl places our cooked patties before the array of garnishes on the counter. She looks at me and smiles. "Mustard," she proclaims with a tone born of familiarity. "Both sides."

I silently nod in agreement as she proceeds to slather away with the mustard. I feel I should say something more to her - to break the ice once and for all.

"How about some relish on that, eh?" She arches an eyebrow. I can tell I threw her a curve. She dutifully slathers on some relish, and looks inquisitively over toward Flambeau, no longer secure in a routine so recently shattered.

"The usual," Flambeau blandly asserts.

We ferry our garnished burgers over to our booth, and take our places beside Sudaplov. Flambeau lifts his burger to his mouth, and states, simultaneously as he bites, "It's not just Mutzki, you know."

"What are you talking about?" I inquire.

"Take a look at some of the other guys - like Belikhov, Saminov, Ferrachuk, and Bolachuk. Now, these were some of the rowdiest guys around. I mean, between Saminov and Bolachuk alone, we're talking eight counts of vehicular manslaughter. And now? They've lost all their vigour. They're deadly dull boring. Just like Mutzki's become."

Flambeau was on to something. In the past month or so, those guys hadn't said a single word to the rest of us - just the odd groan or grunt. And what's more, they were beginning to look and smell like shit - just like Mutzki. I turn to Sudaplov. "What do you think, Sudaplov?"

"Eerrrgh," he groans in reply.

Flambeau and I look on, dumbfounded, as Sudaplov picks up the vinegar shaker, and proceeds to drench his hands with it. Sudaplov has been acting rather strange the past few days, and now that I think of it, he hasn't said anything at all intelligible for as many days, either.

I lean over, concerned, and place a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright, Sudaplov? Is there something you'd like to talk over?"

"Eerrrgh," he replies.

I shake my head, puzzled, and just a little bit irritated. If Sudaplov wants to act like an asshole, then fine - let him be.

Mid-February. My season total to date: 2 assists, 1 goal.

I'm getting scared. The game seems to be changing more as each day goes by. For quite a while now, it appears that Mutzki has had absolutely no use for my protective services. They repeatedly slash him, and he just keeps on going, with nary a wince.

Where are all the referees, I wonder. They merely stand by, looking on, expressionless, as an increasing number of players wield their hockey sticks like pruning forks. Flambeau has been getting anxiety attacks of late, on account of the accelerated level of violence.

I study my colleagues as I cautiously navigate around the ice. These aren't the sportsmen I once knew. They're bloodthirsty slashers with hockey sticks. And the public loves it.

Maybe I'm getting too old, falling behind the times. I no longer seem to possess the one essential quality that justifies my presence here - toughness. At least I haven't yet gone the way of Flambeau. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot him cowering in a far corner of the rink, a safe distance from all the action.

I snap to attention when it dawns on me that the puck has been delivered unto my stick, and - oh, fuck! - Mackelchuk is charging at me with his pruning fork raised high overhead. Self-preservation propels a rapid pass over to Sudaplov. Mackelchuk comes up and - swish! - takes a clean slash at Sudaplov's throat.

I look on, horrified. In the distance, I can hear Flambeau screaming in terror. But Sudaplov skates on, like nothing happened. The puck safely out of our zone, I skate up alongside Sudaplov. "Sudaplov, are you okay?"

"Eerrrgh," Sudaplov replies.

I look him over. No sign of blood. And yet, there is a large gray scar running across the length of Sudaplov's throat - exactly in the place where Mackelchuk just performed surgery.

Mutzki takes a shot from the point, and scores. The crowd erupts all at once. My head is pounding, caught in the piercing vise of a cheering crowd and a screaming Flambeau. I swear, the pressure's just too much.

Early March. My season total to date: 15 assists, 1 goal.

My prudent efforts at avoiding the puck have translated into better playmaking stats. I'm on Valium now, to calm my jittery nerves, to help me adjust to the new professional milieu.

I'm sitting in the usual booth at Burger Haven with Flambeau and Sudaplov. My social life these days isn't much. Conversation is even less.

"Tell me, Sudaplov," I ask, "Would you care for a fry?"

"Eerrrrrrgggh."

"And you, Flambeau?"

"Eerrrrrrgggh."

I sit quietly, munching hopelessly on a soggy fry, as I take full measure of the miserable sight of my two best friends: SOS pad hair, blue lips, pizza dough skin. And they smell like shit, to boot. Yes, there they sit like two morons, taking turns with the vinegar shaker.

I get up from the booth, and head over to the order counter. Burger Girl flashes me her knowing smile. "Another burger?"

"No," I groan.

"A Pepsi, then."

"No."

"Jello?"

"Uh-uh."

Her eyebrow arches way up. I can tell - her routine's really been busted this time. “What, then?”

"Death," I answer. "I want to die."

She looks at me with a blank stare. I want to communicate -I need to communicate - but I'm just not getting through to her. I lean forward and look her earnestly in the eye.

"Alright," I tell her, "I'll have a Pepsi."

Mid-March. My season total to date: 32 assists, 1 goal.

I'm a mess. An absolute, nerve-wracked mess. I scored four assists tonight and survived with minimal bruising. I don't know how much longer I can keep it up. I'm the only remaining player in the whole damn league without SOS pad hair, and I'm starting to wonder. The other day, I asked the team doctor about my sore wrist. He answered in gibberish and spritzed me with vinegar.

It's past midnight. I'm sitting on the bleachers, in a deserted arena, contemplating my future in hockey. The GM, a portly, balding fellow of good cheer, approaches. "Still here, eh?" he asks.

I ignore him. He groans loudly as he parks his corpulent mass beside me. "You know," he begins, "this grand game of hockey has changed so much since you and I were kids." My attention remains fixed on the rafters overhead. Perhaps I'll hang myself from one of them. The GM continues: "Players were heroes, then. They gave the public what it wanted, and expected nothing in return. But then came the big bucks and the sex. That's what's killing professional sport these days - money and sex. Sadly, it's corrupted the professional athlete beyond redemption."

I briefly consider wrist slashing as a possible option. The GM continues: "So what is management to do when it is no longer able to offer the public what it so fervently desires? We must take matters into our own hands and resurrect our heroes anew."

I'm almost at the breaking point. I grab him by his oversized lapels. "Just answer me this, you bloated bastard," I rudely inquire. "What's become of Derian Mutzki and all the others?"

He calmly removes my hands from his suit, and looks me straight in the eye. "Do you know what a zombie is?" he asks.

I'm speechless. I'm not quite sure where he's going with this line of questioning. "A zombie," he continues, "is a fully obedient, capable individual unburdened by any extraneous human needs, be they sexual, culinary, or financial."

Yes. It's all coming together. The horrible smells, the terribly dull personalities - it all makes sense now. "What a dick!" I exclaim. "You've turned them all into zombies!"

"Exactly."

"But why?"

"Well, as I said, the public needs heroes, and so on, and so forth, but what the heck - it just makes good business sense."

"But they're all dead. You killed them."

"No, no, no, you’re missing the essential point here, the point being that now you can’t kill them - because they’re undead."

"There’s gotta be some kind of law against that.”

"Uhhhh…no. We checked with our lawyers."

"Why? What did you hope to gain from all this?"

The GM places a beefy arm around my shoulder, sympathetic to my need for enlightenment. "Flesh and blood players are so damn costly,” he explained. “They collectively bargain every last dime out of you, and then injure so damn easily. That's fine in any other sport, but violence is the crux of any good hockey game. We found a cost-effective way to finally do away with the penalty system, to let the public truly bask in the joys of hockey violence - let the bones chip where they may!"

I must admit, I'm starting to get caught up in his boyish enthusiasm. From a management point of view, I guess, it all makes perfect sense: a league of undead hockey players. "But tell me one thing," I inquire. "How did you make them zombies?"

"Tofu extract. Any further than that, I can't get into. We took out a patent."

My mind is swirling with a thousand questions. "I bet you would like to know," he volunteers, "why I'm telling you all this." Actually, it was the one question I hadn't considered.

He divulges the answer: "You are, quite possibly, one of the worst professional players ever to grace an ice rink. That being said, your utter devotion to the game, regardless of any financial considerations, has been duly noted by management. Thus, we offer you this privileged choice: you may retire, effective immediately, or you may choose to play on in perpetuity as a zombified player in good standing."

I sit, for what seems like an eternity, and ponder my options. "How long is the offer good for?"

"'Til April 9th."

April 8th. My season total to date: 50 assists, 1 goal.

I approach the order counter at Burger Haven. Burger Girl is clearly nervous. She truly doesn't know what to expect, not after my last egregious digression from the standard routine. There is something different about her this day, but I can't quite place my finger on it.

We stare into each other's eyes for what seems like hours before I place my order: "Burger, please."

The balance of routine thereby restored, she flashes me a wide grin, and then I notice it - Burger Girl has braces. Perhaps in two years, certainly three, Burger Girl will sport a spanking new set of straightened molars, bringing her that much closer to the natural beauty that has always been hers in potentiality.

She doesn't immediately head for the grill. Instead, she looks straight into my eyes, struggling to say what's truly on her mind, maybe even in her heart. "Anything else?" she asks.

There's a quality about her, I surmise, that could possibly make a man happy - as if to breach that shield about her, one would find a future of perpetual romantic bliss.

"Fries and Pepsi," I reply.

Fuck it. I'm playing hockey.