You locate the final medallion of the Alamarth Realm. The Gates of Melthor part and Hort the Elder emerges, granting you the Cloak of Workor and with it the accompanying Magick of the Dark Priestess Etrokol. When the shadow of the Tower of Dornagon reaches the Ruins of Vok, you select Mike Trout with the first pick in the draft.
You ride a donut inner tube down a river of Hollandaise. You bank on Pork Fat Island and find yourself face-to-face with a chocolate ham cake the size of a garbage truck. You hear a rumbling. It’s the Marshmallow-Gravy Geyser. With the second pick in the draft you select Prince Fielder.
You crack open a Bud Light and instantly your shabby, laundry-strewn apartment becomes a sunny Los Angeles poolside. A be-spandexed David Lee Roth swings by on a trapeze. Spuds MacKenzie gives you a high five. The Swedish Bikini Team rises out of the pool. With the third pick in the draft you select George Brett.
You perfect cold fusion, which, incidentally, is also the cure for cancer. You are hailed as a hero. Monuments are built in your honor. You grow three inches taller overnight. You get a better-than-average haircut. With the fourth pick in the draft Robinson Canó selects you.
You wake up in your Manhattan penthouse next to an unidentified supermodel. Her hair smells of lilac and gold bullion. Your back aches. Your legs creak. Your alarm clock blares. You desperately reach for it, but it is out of your range. With the fifth pick in the draft you select Derek Jeter.
You arrive on a tropical island by aircraft. Warm ocean air caresses your face. As you deplane, a mysterious man in a white suit welcomes you with a champagne toast. Mr. Roarke promises to fulfill your fantasy, although his eyes express foreboding. You have mistakenly entered a Fantasy Fantasy Island draft. You select Hervé Villechaize.
You are deciding between Carlos Gonzalez and Jacoby Ellsbury when you are informed that the Baseball Writers’ Association of America has granted you a lifetime ballot for the Hall of Fame. You are elated. With the seventh pick in the draft you select unbridled sanctimony.
You pick up your slacks from the tailor’s, and boom: extra pleats. You drive your H2 down a road paved with terrific money clips to Champps for half-price whiskey sours. Daughtry comes on the Sirius. You stop off for a quick nine holes and then have terrific sex with a David Brooks column. Life is terrific. With the eighth pick in the draft you select Joe Buck.
You heroically rescue Michelle Obama from a burning building. As a token of gratitude, the president names you ambassador to Monaco. Your official pet-sidekick and lieutenant ambassador is a dolphin named Squeaky, and when you wink at him he winks back. “It’s all just so fascinating,” says your fiancée Kate Upton/Doris Kearns Goodwin hybrid-bot. “Tell me again about rotisserie versus head-to-head?” With the ninth pick in the draft you throw your laptop into the Mediterranean just for the splash.
You achieve total enlightenment. All of nature’s secrets reveal themselves to you in startling clarity. Mysteries of science, philosophy, and religion converge into one great truth. You share your discoveries with the world. You are a paragon of morality, seer of all that is right and true. With the tenth pick in the draft you select Ryan Braun.
A time-traveler informs you that the Cubs will win the World Series in your lifetime. With the eleventh pick in the draft you select Sidd Finch.
Just as you are prepared to make your selection, all the wars of the world cease. The hungry are nourished, and the sick are healed. Every citizen of the human race joins hands and sings out with one beautiful voice a song that very explicitly instructs you to draft Clayton Kershaw, but you are reluctant to take a pitcher so early in the draft. So you go Goldschmidt.