Kiefer! Fraud and charlatan!
Fear not Grosjeanites, for though it seemed that I bowed out to dis boring German at
ze last grand slam; thingz are not what they seem...
There I waz, sharing a hot tub with Dementieva and Myskina, sipping from
my glass of chardonnay, when I decided to take a little stroll around ze groundz.
“Hurry back Sebastien!” ze girlz pleaded, and I assured them zat my absence would be
“Fear not, my naughty nymphetz. I am only going to breathe ze Australian air.”
I wrapped a towel around my waist and left them there; and proceeded to make my
Suddenly, I was grabbed from behind by two masked men, ushered into a dark
warehouse and tied to a chair.
“What iz ze meaning of dis!?” I exclaimed, flustered.
They removed their balaclavaz and sneered.
“Ah! Tommy Haas and Nicholas Kiefer! I should have known.”
“Kin mech ich fins heck cuin minein fach shinack.”
“Kin shak fin mich kin lekinena Grosjean ze Great.”
They laughed and lighted cigarettez.
“We're kidnapping you Grosjean. Nicholas here realizes he can't beat you. He may
be dull, but he's not stupid.”
“Yes, Grosjean. I can't compete with you. So that’s why I've hatched a little ploy,
to make sure I won't be playing you tomorrow.”
“No, Grosjean. Not a walkover. We've got someone here you might want to meet...”
From ze dark shadowz emerged a mirror image of ze Grosjean. Height, gait, lookz,
hair, smile; everything waz in similitude with ze Great one.
“Ah! You wretched German! You have overlooked one thing! You can never recreate
ze Grosjeanz tenniz strokez!”
“Yes we can. This is a robot Grosjean. We've had the greatest minds in the world
working on this project for years. To recreate the Great one. The ultimate task. So
far, although not quite up to your extraordinary abilities, this is the best model produced.
This should convince the watching audience that it's you. If a you, a little below par.”
“No! No!! You'll never get away with diz !!! They did ze same thing on zat movie Naked Gun
and Frank Drebin came to ze rescue!!!”
“Ah, that’s why we've also kidnapped Frank Drebin, Grosjean.”
Kiefer pointz to another captive nearby.
Ze Grosjean strainz hiz head and spiez Leslie Nielsen in chainz.
“And you may also be interested to note a few other hostages, Grosjean.” sayz Kiefer,
pointing to ze dark corner, where, soaked in their own urine and drenched in their own
fecal matter, starving and gaunt faced, languish Srichaphan, Pashanski, Ferrero and Chela.
“Ah! So zat iz how you got to ze quarter finalz!”
“Indeed Grosjean. Now if you don't mind, I might pop by that hot tub to see how Elena
and Anastacia are coping without you.”
“Can I come Nic?” askz Haas.
“No Tommy, I've told you before; your place is here, keeping an eye on the hostages.”
“Now now, Tommy. I've told you before; be a good boy. Cutchee cutchee coo!”
Kiefer startz tickling Tommy.
Tommy startz to laugh.
“There’s a good boy. Now, I'm off.”
Kiefer throwz hiz cigarette on to ze floor and stampz on it. Then he stalkz off.
Ze Grosjean hangz hiz head in hopelezznezz.
“Oh, can thingz get any worse?”
Tommy pullz up a chair.
“Hey Grosjean, how about that Federer guy huh? He thinks he's sooooooo great.
Well let me tell you something...”