Axel Kohagen

2027 AD.
 
The Playoffs.
 
Yankee Stadium.
 
The stands are filled with screeching Yankees fans. Some wear spiked shoulder pads. Some look like the Baseball Furies. Zombies sit in the cheap seats.
 
Billy Crystal stands on the pitcher's mound, dressed exactly like Tupac in the "California Love" video. He incites the crowd to heightened frenzies. The zombies are having fun.
 
"Who will the New York Yankees select to play in the playoffs?" Mad Billy shouts.
 
In the other dugout, the Minnesota Twins are all cowering under blankets. The manager wears Groucho glasses.
The crowd hushes. Who will they pick?
 
"Should we pick the Indians?" Billy asks.
 
"Noooo!" screams the crowd.
 
"How about the Astros?"
 
"Nooooo!" screams the crowd.
 
"Who can we choose?" says Mad Billy Crystal. "Which team will guarantee a Yankees VICTORY?"
 
"Just spit it out!" shouts one of the Minnesota Twins.
 
Billy Crystal moonwalks around the bases.
 
"Who do we choo-choo-choose?" he says.
 
"Twins! Twins! Twins!" screams the crowd.
 
The Jumbotron replays all of the times the Yankees beat the Twins in the playoffs.
 
"Stop picking us!" scream the Twins fans as they huddle together. "Just stop it! Let us be!"
 
"Twins! Twins! Twins!" the Yankee fans chant.
 
The camera pulls back and we see we have been watching a cell phone screen in a Minnesota cabin.
The wind howls.
 
"Will it ever not be the Yankees, Papa?" a child asks.
 
The father simply shoves the child's face into a tater tot hot dish.

Instead of writing an original piece of HIGH STRANGENESS to satisfy your curiosity, I am sharing a most EDIFYING piece in praise of the one solitary run the Twins are allowed to score in most games. 4 out of 6 since last we talked.
 
Gather, ye ball fans
As I make all clear
The most mirthful joy
Of our ONE run cheer!
 
To score runs PLURAL
Cannot be much fun
Compared to sheer glee
From scoring just one!
 
Teams - not the Twins, no
They love the long ball
They hammer and drive
They score, one and all!
 
Bless’d fans of TC
How lucky are we?
To score just a run
And not two or three?
 
That one run, and how!
When we see it plate,
To bed we can go
Needn’t stay up late.
 
Our run! It’s our run!
It’s the only we get!
You must love the run!
When your teams plays not so very good.
 
⁃ The Bard Axel Kohagen

Instead of writing an original piece of HIGH STRANGENESS to satisfy your curiosity, I am sharing a most EDIFYING piece in praise of the one solitary run the Twins are allowed to score in most games. 4 out of 6 since last we talked.
 
Gather, ye ball fans
As I make all clear
The most mirthful joy
Of our ONE run cheer!
 
To score runs PLURAL
Cannot be much fun
Compared to sheer glee
From scoring just one!
 
Teams - not the Twins, no
They love the long ball
They hammer and drive
They score, one and all!
 
Bless’d fans of TC
How lucky are we?
To score just a run
And not two or three?
 
That one run, and how!
When we see it plate,
To bed we can go
Needn’t stay up late.
 
Our run! It’s our run!
It’s the only we get!
You must love the run!
When your teams plays not so very good.
 
⁃ The Bard Axel Kohagen

Instead of writing an original piece of HIGH STRANGENESS to satisfy your curiosity, I am sharing a most EDIFYING piece in praise of the one solitary run the Twins are allowed to score in most games. 4 out of 6 since last we talked.
 
Gather, ye ball fans
As I make all clear
The most mirthful joy
Of our ONE run cheer!
 
To score runs PLURAL
Cannot be much fun
Compared to sheer glee
From scoring just one!
 
Teams - not the Twins, no
They love the long ball
They hammer and drive
They score, one and all!
 
Bless’d fans of TC
How lucky are we?
To score just a run
And not two or three?
 
That one run, and how!
When we see it plate,
To bed we can go
Needn’t stay up late.
 
Our run! It’s our run!
It’s the only we get!
You must love the run!
When your teams plays not so very good.
 
⁃ The Bard Axel Kohagen

Gather round the fire, ye baseball fans. Imagine, if you will, a roaring blaze licking from beneath a tent of shattered bat handles. Listen to the tale I am about to tell, for EVERY word is true.
 
I tell the tale . . . Of the BASEBALL WEREWOLF!
 
A baseball werewolf behaves in much the same way as your regular, meat and potatoes werewolf. The moon and the night bring out its power, which is the ONLY possible explanation for why the Twins seem able to score ONLY AFTER THE FIFTH INNING in the last week of so.
 
How did the power of lycanthropy find our hometown nine? In older times, a person might become a werewolf by donning the fur coat of an evil person or spirit. Unless Bill Belichick left his Ewok-hide duster around after the Super Bowl, this theory seems DEAD ON ARRIVAL. It’s likely a careful fan might notice a Twins player taking the field while wearing a fur coat.
 
Kent Hrbek playing in a werewolf-fur coat is both likely to happen and a guarantee he will be the league MVP.
 
Another theory suggests a person can become a werewolf by drinking rain gathered in the footprint of a wolf, so if anyone recently spotted Logan Morrison carrying a LONG STRAW and heading to the zoo’s Minnesota Trail, PLEASE inform this columnist post-haste.
 
Most likely, a member of the Twins was bitten by a grizzled European character actor. After all, when’s the last time you’ve seen the Twins playing with their SILVER slugger awards?
 
As long as they keep winning, THIS COLUMNIST will howl at the moonshots for the home team! Even if they don’t score runs until his old buttocks are already abed and asleep!
 
Now comb your hair and let’s all head to Trader Vic’s!
 
⁃ Axel Kohagen of London
 
(For more serious lunacy, head to www.supertruestories.com and check out my podcast!)

Once, many of us still believed in a magical NORTH POLE where SANTA CLAUS makes everything all better (perhaps more of you would still believe if it wasn't for a terrible lie your parents told you to benefit BIG ELFING). Sadly, childhood may be the last time the lot of us all believed in a magical place ON EARTH! We Iowans once tried to pull some flim-flammary to convince you Iowa was heaven, FOOLED YOU, MINNESOTA!
 
Some people still find it in themselves to believe in heaven on the planet. Every day they go to work - JUST LIKE YOU - but inside they harbor daydreams about SHANGRI-LA or EL DORADO or SCOOTER THOMPSON'S ELEPHANT EAR HUT. Lots of people believe in the lost city of Atlantis, but remain much LESS ENTHUSIASTIC about the MISPLACED TOWNSHIP OF WOOOO-PACKERS, WISCONSIN.
 
However, on this day while the Twins have actually won a game, does anyone still believe in the MAGICAL LAND OF THE MINNESOTA TWINS WORLD CHAMPIONS? If so, how have you held on through the DARK NIGHTS OF SUFFERING? I write "nights" quite purposefully, for it seems this band of baseball brothers really enjoys clenching it all up so they can POO the BED in the later innings.
 
Does your loss of faith come tied to a blown lead or another damn strike-out? Do you remember the name "DAVID HALE" and wonder who he was, or where he went to, or whether or not any of this matters because we are all dust in the wind?
 
Or are you a little OUT THERE like me? Is your heart dialed in to that RAINBOW CONNECTION that has Minnie and Paul shaking hands over the WORLD SERIES TROPHY, being held by a giant JOE MAUER bobblehead? Do you cheer for the Twins when it ain't over, it's just HIGHLY MATHEMATICALLY IMPROBABLE?
 
It's a bit DARING to share UNBRIDLED HOPE when your team's playing like TEN TONS OF BUTT in a 5 POUND BAG that was not EXPLICITLY CREATED FOR THE TRANSPORT OF BUTT AND BUTT RELATED PRODUCTS. But summer's always better when you can believe.
 
And Atlantis? Great location for catching walleye.
 
-- Get me a banjo and lillypad,
 
Axel Kohagen
 
(For more wisdom, check out my podcast at http://www.supertruestories.com/)

Some folks will tell you there's a special kind of magic to Opening Day. But ask a stathead to identify exactly what type of magic we're dealing with and the room goes quiet. Is it simply the crack of the bat, the taste of the hot dog, and the lack of parkas?
 
Surely this magic is there, but there are levels of mysteries in this world. Some of these mysteries can disturb the very foundations of reality, yet when handled with a cool, level hand (such as mine), a baseball fan can learn of NEW WORLDS and contemplate STRANGE MYSTERIES, like the much-whispered about Interplanetary Coalition to Destroy "Circle Me Bert," or ICDCMB.
 
Today, I have come to teach you about THE MANDELA EFFECT! This phenomenon is named after a series of odd occurrences where people believed Nelson Mandela died well before he actually did. Could this be a simple case of coincidental misrememberings spread across the internet? Perhaps. OR PERHAPS IT IS A SIGN THESE INDIVIDUALS PEERED INTO A DIFFERENT DIMENSION, ONE WHERE MANDELA DID DIE EARLIER!
 
There's also a lot said about the correct spelling of the Bering Sea Bears books.
 
But how does this relate to baseball, you ask? This "Mandela Effect" affected me in regards to Opening Day! Somehow, perhaps as I slumbered, I envisioned another dimension where THE MINNESOTA TWINS played their first game on TUESDAY, not THURSDAY! So clear was this vision that I even dressed in a cap and t-shirt to support the home team. I even prepped a meal of HOT DOGS to add to the celebration. Yet, when I turned my attention to the Internet, I discovered the vision was WRONG! My family and I ate a silent meal containing THE HOT DOGS OF SHAME!
 
Doubtful? Doubt no longer! Just one day later my will was brought into ANOTHER OTHER DIMENSION where I believed the TWINS OPENED THE SEASON AT HOME! I nearly logged onto a ticket-selling website to purchase a ticket before I became aware of my natural dimension.
 
As a father of a toddler, these experiences HAVE to be related to the Mandela Effect and cannot have any connection to general confusion and exhaustion. Also, I am old.
 
Why this should happen two times in a short period of time I cannot say. It seems odd the universe would be so disturbed. After all, it seems there is a surplus of kindness and camaraderie these days.
 
I believe the true magic of Opening Day kept me from getting lost in these alternate timelines. After all, baseball is a magical thing that can bring a group of people together to be happy, except in regards to the umpires and the New York Yankees.
 
-- Axel Kohagen
Your Paranormal Baseball Reporter

This is a TV promo, and this is your last chance to strap yourself in.
 
Because the next time your favorite team takes the field, the team's ace is going to be taking the mound. The guy on your team people from other states know.
 
The ace. The guy who can throw fireballs and baseballs that dart about like butterflies and baseballs that start at the batter's eye line and auger ten feet underground.
 
He's the guy who looks like his giant streetlight poster, and is actually taller than he appears on the Jumbotron.
 
Every damn time he takes the field he gets a win, a standing ovation, and his own montage of strikeouts on TV. He hauls his team to the playoffs.
 
Playoffs. He makes them exist.
 
How long till we have one on OUR side?

New Line Cinema released a furious preview for their remake of Stephen King's It, and the excitement drove me to pick up my well-worn hardcover of the book to reread it slowly and deliberately. I hope to become so connected with the terrors of Derry, Maine, that I risk waking up to find myself staring at the house on Neibolt Street. Or worse.
 
Last night, I read something that sparked my imagination. Mike Hanlon, future librarian and member of the heroic Loser's Club, referred to listening to the 1958 Washington Senators. He's right to worry about their performance (the Senators lost 93 games that year), but he's completely unaware those Senators will become the Minnesota Twins in 1961. He's already listening to future Twins greats like Camilo Pascual and Harmon Killebrew.
 
Clearly, I must take this tiniest bit of trivia and blow it completely out of proportion. Therefore, I proclaim the Minnesota Twins are the official baseball team of Derry, Maine, on the basis of my complete lack of authority.
 
Most Stephen King creations tend to develop ties with the Boston Red Sox, but this is Twins time. Big Steve owes us for David Ortiz, right?
 
The movie is expected to come out in September, which leaves plenty of time to establish Derry Daze at Target Field. The organist can play jaunty circus music. Pennywise the Dancing Clown can throw out an orange pom-pom as the first pitch. And every fan gets a balloon. They'll be environmentally safe, but you can bet that EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THOSE BALLOONS WILL FLOOOOOOOOOAT!
 
If needed, I would volunteer to dress up as Pennywise. I'd even sit behind the opposing team's dugout and scream "BEEP-BEEP!" any time they try to talk.
 
It's the least I can do.
 
Axel

Whether I watch the Twins on the television, listen on the radio, or follow along with Gameday on my phone, I can assure you I am doing my part. Yet, somehow, this team is failing.
 
When Twins players stand in the batter's box, I say "Home Run." I mean, I actually say the words out loud. And I nod once, with my chin in the air, to let that player know I am as sincere as Linus van Pelt singing praise in the pumpkin patch.
 
The crappy thing is they aren't hitting them when I say they should. It forces me to live in an empty baseball world where the path to first base is covered in chalk and bitter existential ennui. At some special time, I'm demand to scream "called it" -- as is my birthright as a homer fan.
 
I'm calling victories for pitchers, too. I do this in an even more elaborate way, explaining which pitch will earn the strike-out or how the next pitch will drop two runners with some 6-4-3 magic. Then, as you might expect, those home runs show up and the other team's players prance around the bases like some ancient black and white cartoon.
 
Clearly, you other fans deserve more. I will not let you down. I will enunciate, in case our hometown nine think "home run" really means "strike out looking . . . again!" I will simplify the cheers I make for our pitchers to a very clear, if inelegant, "please make the man with the bat go back and sit down in his dugout with sadness and zero runs."
 
If it's not me, gang? Then the failure could be back, And you can't cheer your way out of the failure. We'll all spend twice as much on food, but we'll be eating it at home because it's too sad to see the failure in person.
 
So blame me, because none of us can take another season like we usually get.

As I write this, the Twins have dropped three of the last four. Pride and hope take their lumps. Whatever bunkers Twins fans have built to survive 90 loss seasons are restocking their apocalyptic buffets.
 
The Twins will go back into the mines tonight to try to find baseball gold, and it seems increasingly like Byron Buxton is the canary early-warning system for disaster. Thus far, he's looking a little rough. If he drops back to the minors, or stops seeing playing time, things look rougher for the rest of the Twins as they slug it out.
 
Hard to imagine a more likeable player than Byron Buxton, and l made the mistake of getting too attached to him. His Instagram feed is charming, with lots of pictures of his family. When he makes a diving catch, I text or message someone proclaiming he's finally ready. I dream of taking a picture with him where we pose like the titular Bad Dudes of video game fame.
 
But it's looking like he's already had 23 strike outs, and even my boyish belief in baseball magic can't find a way to sweep this under the rug.
 
Like Samuel Deduno, Joe Crede, Brendan "A Squirrel Tried to Eat Me" Harris, and the second coming of Jason Kubel, I have loved Twins players more from my heart than from my common sense and ability to read baseball statistics. I was at an extra innings game where Joe Crede sent us home with a walk off grand slam, and I hugged a strange and questionably-smelling stranger next to me with unironic joy. But the game goes on, and youf imaginary pals go away.
 
I dream of Byron Buxton interviews where his charm and smile win over the whole of Twins Territory. I can see him hitting his twentieth homer a dozen or so games before he steals his twentieth base. But right now, what I reallly see is a great guy with amazing baseball potential who's about to be pining for the fjords on a plane trip to Rochester.
 
And then one of you will have to tell me sometimes friends move away and it's okay while I cry and pull out all of the drawers in my bedroom.

The Twins are coming home 6-3, and with the seasons we've suffered through they might as well all strut onto Target Field wearing uniforms designed to mimic John Travolta's white suit from Saturday Night Fever. They should have a "Pinch 'n Slap" booth at each entrance to help fans confirm they are not dreaming. Ice cream in mini batting helmets should come with six cherries on top.
 
But we're all gonna talk about losing that series to Detroit, and we're especially going to talk about Byron Buxton striking out like he was trying to take Sally Field's Oscar from Norma Rae.
 
-- Is there any actual strike in that movie? If not, I'm just counting on the fact that Twins Daily readers like me - they REALLY like me! That should get me past the facts.
 
The dread moments of baseball aren't reserved for when your team loses a number of games that would be good to score on the wheel in The Price is Right. Dread's the bitter coffee you have while watching a beautiful sunset. It's the bowel movement caused by that coffee when you sit on your throne and watch videos of another Sano home run. Dread may be a little gross and personal, but we always put it on the menu.
 
By the end of August, every goldurn one of you will have a player you can't stand. And you will follow this player more closely than the players you like. You'll pray for them to get demoted, traded, or even forced into real estate. When one of those outcomes happens, you'll cheer and splatter ink praising the end of the great awfulness all over your social media. Then, before your head hits the pillow, your brain will seize the next player you'll hate by one ankle and begin brewing barrels of spite.
 
I think this happens because we all really believe we're just a bend in the road away from true happiness, and we could fix it if someone just gave us the chance. Proving we can fix the destiny of our favorite baseball team reinforces the idea we'd be living like princes and princesses if the damned bastards of the world would just listen to us.
 
For me, life would be fine and dandy if the White Sox went away and Trevor May got healed by Roma Downey in Touched by an Angel (or some retro Michael Landon miracle-making). Will this amount to anything? Well, Brendan Harris isn't going into the Twins' Hall of Fame any time soon. But the human animal I am can't just watch the game without grounding my teeth and dreading the unholy idea that no one cares what I think.

It's Monday. The Twins aren't playing at the moment, but they're going to unload the war wagons and take on Detroit on their turf. The Twins have taken two series from divisional foes, and winning a third series would feel like a nice little start to somethin' somethin'.
 
Five to one. That makes me pause for a second to remind people to appreciate The Doors like they ought to appreciate them. If you're going to roll down your car windows and drive down a rural highway this summer, you'd better play at least one song by The Doors while doing so. Personally, I recommend "Peace Frog."
 
These Minnesota Twins, though. They've got that Cyberdyne-systems machine kind of feel. The bats spin the the diamond around, and then the tumblers align for a big blast from a terminating machine like Migueal Sano. This summer, that man is going to hit home runs Skynet won't be able to track.
 
Of course, the pitching cog of the Twins Machine does raise an eyebrow or two. I think, if we're very lucky, the thing holds together just well enough that we hire a rent-an-ace in the playoff stretch. I'm sure, if we have any playoff success, this ace will then be offered way too much money to collapse and retire.
 
Long drives with the window down, good music, and a team clicking and clacking their way to something to be proud of. This sounds like a summer worth having.

It's Monday. The Twins aren't playing at the moment, but they're going to unload the war wagons and take on Detroit on their turf. The Twins have taken two series from divisional foes, and winning a third series would feel like a nice little start to somethin' somethin'.
 
Five to one. That makes me pause for a second to remind people to appreciate The Doors like they ought to appreciate them. If you're going to roll down your car windows and drive down a rural highway this summer, you'd better play at least one song by The Doors while doing so. Personally, I recommend "Peace Frog."
 
These Minnesota Twins, though. They've got that Cyberdyne-systems machine kind of feel. The bats spin the the diamond around, and then the tumblers align for a big blast from a terminating machine like Migueal Sano. This summer, that man is going to hit home runs Skynet won't be able to track.
 
Of course, the pitching cog of the Twins Machine does raise an eyebrow or two. I think, if we're very lucky, the thing holds together just well enough that we hire a rent-an-ace in the playoff stretch. I'm sure, if we have any playoff success, this ace will then be offered way too much money to collapse and retire.
 
Long drives with the window down, good music, and a team clicking and clacking their way to something to be proud of. This sounds like a summer worth having.

This morning, fellow citizens of Twins Territory left their homes to find infant animals, such as deer and rabbits, lining up to sniff their hands in the dewy grass and pastel sunlight.
 
Maybe. Look, none of us really know what the 4-0 life is like. Last time it happened was 1987, an era the nearest adolescent to you will tell you is "ancient" before building another cube-pig-insult-to-nature on Minecraft.
 
You hate the Minecraft, don't you?
 
It's always nice to beat the White Sox, too. Except I read the 2017 Baseball Prospectus entry on the Sox last night and . . . that team's one serving of borscht away from being a Russian tragedy.
 
The White Sox would be a nifty new adversary for The Walking Dead. Piicture zombies spinning and sparking on those home run circles. That annoying brat mascot suit could be used to pad bites and keep them from breaking the skin. The Pale Hose could dress up as Baseball Furies and smack down the undead with their bats. Just, you know, some of 'em will only get in a meaningful hit at .250 or lower, right?
 
Hey, we've been there. But now we're here, 4-0. My fingernails are firmly latched into the doorway to the Winner's Lounge, and I'm prepared to lose a few before I relax my grip.

It's opening day and I'm wearing my Joe Nathan shirt for the tenth year in the row. The Twins are playing the Royals, because the Twins are ALWAYS playing the Royals. Advanced statistics will confirm the Twins play 127% of their games against the Royals, and 75% of those games mean nothing to anybody anyway. But we sure play them, now knowing that all of us can go to Hy-Vee afterwards.
 
A guy named Duffy is taking the mound for the Royals, which kind of pissing me off. I don't know Duffy, and I have no desire to expend any effort to find two facts I can string together that make it look like I cared.
 
Our Minnesota Twins lost over 100 games last year and, on their first battle of 2017, a pitcher with a name sounding like pure aw-shucks happiness is going to be come trotting on to the field. Couldn't we have found a team with a pitcher named "Grimm-Reeper" or "Rebuilding-Year?"
 
I know, everybody's in first place now. Groovy. It was a short weekend and I still remember trying to have meaningful discussions about the team's future while they circled the bases in reverse, like the were slugging runners round the rim of a toilet bowl.
 
Don't get me wrong, I'm not insulting the players who put in the work and try their best and are probably more frustrated than the average fan can imagine. I just have to spell out my feels because I know some of you out there will pick up what I'm putting down. I love the Twins like I love air and water, but I can't just forget 2016. If my wife had a sexy affair with a guy dressed like my arch-nemesis Sweetums, from the Muppets . . . we would try to work through it. But I would insist on having her deloused and I would leave the house and burn it if I saw one brown muppet hair.
 
Soon, those blue-billed Royals will emerge from the secret tunnels between their stadium and the Twins, tipping their Morlock bus driver as they exist. It will be the first of 1000 games between these two teams, before the All-Star break. Next, Twins fans will arrive.
 
"I want to see a double!" a small child will say, and everyone will understand. We love our team to death, but bruised hearts start slow.
 
-Axel Kohagen

For the most part, Target Field is like a spacecraft from a hopeful, utopian science-fiction universe. There, fans saluting any pennant can wear clothing honoring their sporting allegiance without harassment. Your experience might be different, but I've always enjoyed sharing the game with other fans and enjoying nothing worse than mild ribbing.
 
There are cracks in the facade, of course. The worst cracks open a gateway to hell, from which sprouts an unholy creature born to create utter misery in our baseball utopia.
 
I speak, of course, of the Insufferable Out-of-Town Fan.
 
Unlike his or her counterparts, the Insufferable One did not come to the stadium to enjoy the game. The Insufferable One came to perform a one-person act of performance art, designed to create discomfort that spreads across the stadium in waves of pure annoyance.
 
After any action beneficial to the visiting team, the Insufferable One leaps to his/her feet to flail wildly. If this creature notices a normal fan cheering enthusiastically, he/she must make wilder gestures and louder noises until his/her awfulness greatly exceeds anyone in the area. If children are present, the Insufferable One rejoices in utilizing the more emphatic swear words.
 
The Insufferable One utilizes her/his environment for maximum awfulness. For example, a simple baseball cap can be turned and rotated and placed upon her/his head in an annoying manner. Always concerned with achieving the proper affect, The Insufferable One will look around to insure everyone notices the ridiculous way they've altered their appearance (perhaps a ballpark giveaway can make an annoying noise or otherwise pester a decent fan). Should all of these methods fail, any cup of liquid can make for a spilly surprise.
 
The mere presence of The Insufferable One brings out the worst in the fans around her/him. If one of those other fans dares to speak a word -- or even make a noise -- The Insufferable One believes is directed to her/him, a bellowing bullfrog type of communication ensues. During this grunting display, The Insufferable One can create a second pocket of despair around the hapless fan he/she lured into the fray. If all goes as planned, the game will end with a Twins loss and a gloating, puffed-up Insufferable One clapping loudly as several pockets of taunted and disgruntled fans kick their empty beer cups.
 
Encounters with this creature, in its various forms, must simply be tolerated. Still, this writer dreams of utopia. Perhaps security can begin screening for fans who refuse to blink and cheer directly into the faces of Twins fans. Ushers could respond to early signs of Insufferability with a simple test. If the fan cannot maintain a simple conversation without screaming catchphrases and player last names, he/she could be transported to a room filled with mannequins and speakers repeatedly announcing "We are paying attention to you."
 
We can all be citizens of utopia, if we work together.
 
-- Axel Kohagen
www.axelkohagen.com