I love Mike Napoli.

I celebrate Mike Napoli from now through the end of time.

He's nobody's wingman any more -- he's the bloody-beaked griffin of baseball destiny, gobbling up Reagins' gut tripe like cheap menudo on Alvarado St. 

What an incredible friggin' comeuppance!

What epic Scandinavian black metal revenge!

What a triumphant Wagnerian fist pump of Schopenhauerian world-will!

What a deadly angel of history swiping his bloody sweat-stained wing against the complacent clucking mugs of bureaucratic capons!

Napoli is Al Fucking Swearingen, pissing out the dull lump of Angel hubris from his penile shaft like a pus-slathered kidney stone.

And yes – what a Nietzschean fever dream, proving that we at Halos Heaven – quote after quote, tortured rhetorical salvo after tortured rhetorical salvo – are the Cocteau's mirror of the Angel universe, and the svelte hand of death reaches through our mercurial surface to throttle crappy middle manager mediocrities and toady beat writers like so much factory farm poultry.

Our heros are their tormenters.

Our gods are their undoing.

Meanwhile, Napoli is that other Babe magnet, drawing misery unto its essence – and when I say "Babe" I mean the ruth of tears.

Scioscia slugged Napoli to the curb, just some "spent used jet trash" in a Tom Waits ramble-ballad, and Arte financed his "No, No, Nanette" with the proceeds - an utter flop of a spectacle that may pay us cursedly backward for years to come.

No, No, Napoli!

No, Scioscia couldn't handle one more Italian MIke with big lumber putting the lie to his self-constructed cosmology of the "catcher's game", so he re-priced you as gutter slough.

Scorned, you ran away from home, but you came back like Nicholson after a twitchy Duvall, bearing an axe. And you chopped that door down with a wolf whistler, brother. And you cut off the last whittled bit of front office manhood that remained.

Napoli, the awesome cockswain, shoved his oar up the hubristic netherholes of our managerial catamites, and made them eat their own muddly filth.

It was a scene that would make a German porn fetischist avert his eyes, and make any Samuel L Jackson character blush.

Not for children, certainly, unless it was for us children of the damned, who - like hollow-eyed extras in a Bonnie Tyler video - recognized a kindred catastrophe in his brobdingnagian black sun of vengeance.

Mike Napoli is the final, fatal hand of justice, and he will not be denied.