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Post by hdawg on Jan 18, 2016 18:29:07 GMT
Chapter 1: Deadman's Draw
The clattering of cleats on stadium pavement inside the locker rooms echoed back up the exit ramp. The laughter of the Strikers flooded down through the opening and closing door, only somewhat drowned out by the downpour outside and the blaring of trumpets which could still be heard from the stands. A fight must have broken out between some ogres and the vampires counts who’d come to spectate the game as there was a cacophany of shrieks and smashes coming from above. But the atmosphere down below with the players was downright giddy. An odd mood considering the game’s final result.
The shadowy dark elves of House Zauvirr were no doubt less pleased by the result. By all accounts the word defeat should have been flashing on the Thunder Dome’s scoreboard instead of the word draw. The Strikers weren’t feeling picky, they would gladly settle for a final 2-2 score tying them up at the top of the leader boards for the time being.
“Hey Manny! You see that hit Mr Backup threw at that dark elf lineman right after you got your ass handed to you? PHEW, he nearly took his head clean off,” Juggernutter said. “Lucky their apoth was so Johnny-on-the-spot about getting him off the field.”
“Yis I did, und it vas vunderbar! But you are mistaken. I vas just pretending to have meine ass hammered. Zis is vat we must be teaching all ze lineman. Vait and vhen zey think you are at your veakest, you strike!”
Terry guffawed and slapped Manfred on the shoulder. “Ass ‘handed to you’, not hammered. That means something else entirely. We gotta get you up to speed on phrasing, buddy.”
Manfred shrugged as though he wasn’t overly concerned, but after a moment he nodded and peeled his helmet off his head. He began running his fingers through his wet mustache as Master Chef pushed his way through the change room doors and made his way over to the empty benches on the far side of the change room.
“Thanks guys, but I’m not much for hitting,” Danny said with a wry grin.
Ever since he’d joined up for his first team and league of Blood Bowl his team mates had taken to calling him Mr. Backup. He was after all purchased a few games into the cup to be an extra in the event of injuries. In the end, he’d been the replacement for the deceased player Meathead, one of their linemen from their former team the Hell Hounds. He knew they were still sensitive over ther lost team mate, so he’d let the nickname ride through Tin Cup. But now that he was in Silver with them, the name was starting to get old fast.
“I dunno, you seem pretty aggressive for a kicker. Haven’t seen you at blocking practice much it’s true, but you’re a mean one misssster Backup.”
He rolled his eyes. “Look, my name’s Danny. Or can you just call me Dan? That’d work too. You think you guys would drop the whole ‘backup’ thing now that I’m first string. If anything Master Chef is the backup guy.”
“Yeah, but you can’t cook. He can,” Terry argued. “So 'Backup' you remain.”
“I think the BACKUP is just salty that he got his ass knocked out!” Junior shouted, as he pushed his way through the change room doors, dumping his wet shoulder pads at his feet as he began undressing.
“For Nuffle’s sake, is everyone going to chime in on this?" Mr Backup groaned. “Can we please talk about something else?”
“Hey who got MVP for us?” Juggernutter asked, obliging his beleaguered team mate.
“Not sure,” Terry replied. “Didn’t check in after the final whistle. Came right down here to see Junior’s scrawny ass.”
The blizter coiled up a towel in preparation to whip at Junior’s exposed flesh, but the thrower wisely took several steps back. Eying the twirling towel carefully.
“Think it was Oldman Open,” Master Chef chimed in from the far side of the changing benches. “I saw his name flash across the score board there at the end.”
“Did he even do anything this game?” Backup asked.
“You mean OTHER then get his ass knocked out by that witch?” Junior said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll tell you who shoulda won MVP this match. If the judges didn’t had any sense they'd have-”
“They’d have given it to Sir Baller,” his father interrupted, stepping through the doors next, followed by the hulking frame of Tiny Tim and Capt Rammer. “Shame about Oldman Open, but the apoth’s have told me he’s fine. He’ll be fit to play next game.”
Manfred and Terry both nodded respectfully at their team captain and made room for him on the bench. “Hey, he had it coming," Terry said. “I saw him eying that witch’s fishnets all game instead of the ball.”
Junior clearly didn’t like getting cut off mid train of thought, least of all by his father. He glared at Tiny Tim who stood blocking the doorway, struggling to undo his chin strap.
“Well we easily coulda won this game if we’d had an 11th team mate. We were carrying this sack of lard around all game. As usual. Idiot can’t even get his shit off once the game’s done.”
“Hey you leave Tiny Tim alone." Terry said, flicking the towel in Juniour’s direction. “He didn’t go bonehead once all game. He played his part even if he didn’t injure anybody.”
“Tim playing parts!” the ogre giggled as he tugged on his helmet, snapping the chin strap clean off and tossing the battered ball of metal aside.
The entire change room shook as he plopped down onto his butt and stuck his oversized thumb into his mouth, sucking on it as he watched his team mates undressing. Getting Tiny Tim into his kit was a job for all their extra staff so no one was too phased by him just sitting in the middle of the room. It was easily a half an hour affair since he often fell asleep post game.
“All I’m saying is other teams can count on their ogres knocking a few teeth outa the oppositions’ skulls,” Junior carried on. “We’ve got ourselves a dud.”
“I don’t know,” Capt Rammer said. “You watch the Seahawks vs Fish Knights game last week? That Mebane got tossed around like a sack of potatoes by Nathan Bass and his boys. I think all the ogres in this league are pretty big pansies.”
“Yeah?” Master Chef said, “Dare you to say that to his face when you’re squaring off against him on the line of scrimmage.”
“Maybe I will,” the white-bearded blitzer said, stroking at his mustache. “Never killed me an ogre before.”
“You ever killed ANYONE?” Junior said derisively, stripping out of his pants and moving into the showers.
“You mean today?” Capt Rammer asked, shooting him a glare back. “Or in general?”
“Who hasn’t killed ze peoples?” Manfred said with a shrug. “Zis is just vat ve Blood Bowlers do, ja?”
“Well maybe blood bowlers do, but normal folks don’t go running around just mudering folks...” Master Chef said, kicking wet mud off his cleats.
“Zen zey do not know vat zey are missing!” Manfred insisted.
“It’s part of the game,” Terry said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t expect a chef to understand.”
That brought cat calls from most of the locker room. It took Lobbings and Juggernutter's combined efforts to calm down the enraged lineman and hold him back from attacking Terry. It’s a good thing they did too, or there would have been one fresh corpse the team had to pay for.
As the laughter died down from the fresh round of insults, Capt Rammer cleared his throat. “Who has got a kill though. Honestly? Last season.”
Silence settled upon the locker room.
Sir lobbings took his helmet off and ran his hand over his bald skull. “Come on, speak up. I know from our books we’ve got five on record. Speak your piece if you're a killer.”
“I have,” Juggernutter said, raising a hand. “I know Sparkly Steve killed someone back in Tin.”
“Same,” Capt Rammer lifted his hand.
“I ah...” Danny glanced around. “I mighta had one of those kills.”
“You?” Junior said, sticking his head back out from the showers. “You killed a man?”
“Well...I dunno. Maybe a man or an elf, or a goat or something. I don’t recall who I killed. That game was a blurr.”
“Who’s the 5th?” Master Chef asked. “Lobbings said we had five kills to the team’s name.”
“The 5th is Oldman Open,” Sir Baller said, stepping past Tiny Tim as the change room door swung shut for the last time. All of the strikers were now present. “So never let me catch you saying he doesn’t do anything, Junior.”
“I said he didn’t do anything this game...” he mumbled, returning to washing up.
Lobbings stood and held out his hand clasping Sir Baller’s forearm. “That was one hell of a play there, friend. I was just saying you deserved MVP for it.”
Sir Baller grinned and shook his head. “That wasn’t just me. Terry and Manfred made the blocks I needed, and don’t think I didn’t see you getting in there too. You like to pretend you’re never involved, but I saw you lending that assist to Manny.”
“Well, all the same. You saved the game.”
Several murmurs of assent followed from the rest of the players as one by one they moved over and clapped him on the shoulder or ruffled his hair. Sir Baller laughed and played down his part in it all, insisting that Oldman Open only had a few good years of Blood Bowl left in him. He was happy to share the accolades around. He then went on to say that it’d been Nuffle who helped him past those House Zauvirr players and into the end zone. That brought more laughter from the team as the discussion shifted to Nuffle and what blessings he must have bestowed upon Sir Baller to get him into the end zone in one piece.
Everyone else was absorbed in the discussion, but that last comment sat in Lobbings' stomach. It churned like a fetid rat gnawing at his core. And then he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, so he turned. Sure enough, a presence sat within the gloom of the back corner of the change room. One that none of the other players seemed aware of, but one that Lobbings felt all too keenly.
In the shadow-draped alcove he could just make out the sharp yellowed teeth under the dark brim of the figure’s hat. Illuminated by the red glowing embers of the cigar that he clenched between his dark lips.
Lobbings glanced at the team behind him. They were all still focused on Sir Baller.
He made his way over, and under his breath muttered. “I told you once, stay away from my team mates. Whatever deal you offered Sir Baller, I want you to undo it.”
A low chuckle grated out from the figure’s throat. Cold and icy. Deep and powerful. The cigar’s end flared briefly as smoke began to curl out from around those dagger-like teeth.
“The mighty Sir Lobbings....wanting something, from me? I thought I’d never see the day. Wasn’t too long ago you refused to even acknowledge me.”
“Leave him alone,” Lobbings hissed. “I won’t warn you again.”
“Warn?” The surprise in the figure’s voice was genuine. “You. Warn me? Now that's the best joke I’ve heard in a long while.”
“If we tied this game because you’re in his head, how long before his luck runs out? Your boons always come at a cost. I should know.”
“Mmmmmh. I suppose you do. But why should I leave your little friend be? The pact’s already been made. And he was oh so eager for even more of the limelight, despite his humble act he’s putting on. Look how he has them all curled around his finger. How long do you reckon before you’re replaced as team captain? The end of the season? Certainly by the time Gold Cup rolls around they’ll be considering it. Or is that...Of course, why else would you want his deal reneged?”
“That isn’t it!” Lobbings said louder than he intended, looking over his shoulder at his still occupied team before glancing back. “To hell with you, Nuffle! If you won’t listen to me, I’ll find some other way to get Sir Baller free.”
Lobbing turned to leave when he heard another low chuckle come from behind him.
“Now, now. Don’t be so hasty.” Nuffle bared his pointed yellow fangs and exhaled a long puff of smoke. “I never said I wasn’t willing to make a deal....”
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Lobbings Jr. watched from the shower. He wasn’t sure what to make of it at first. While all of the team jostled around Sir Baller, giving that good for nothing showboat all sorts of compliments, his father withdrew to the far corner of the change room. He couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he kept furtively glancing over his shoulder and seemed to be muttering under his breath. He’d have just chalked it up to his father losing it, what with being over the hill. Probably some old concussion from his earlier years as a blood bowler or something weird. But it wasn’t like he was talking to himself or rambling madly. He was carrying on. Full sentences. Speaking as though there was someone else there. Odd. Very very odd.
He’d have some of his contacts tail his father. See what other unusual habits his old pops had developed over the years. There was more than one way to become team captain after all. If his opponents couldn’t do him the favor of eliminating him outright, perhaps he could get him ejected due to madness.
Nuffle knows, stranger things had happened.
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Post by hdawg on Jan 27, 2016 5:21:05 GMT
Chapter 2: A Bargain Made In EarnestHave you ever sprinted until you’re unsure if your legs are still attached? Ran until the only thing that reminds you they’re both still working is the blood pounding in your veins? Each pulse becomes the singular reason that keeps you putting one foot in front of the other. Proving to yourself over and over that you’re still alive. Because as you run, it begins to feel like you can’t breathe. As though your heart is loose and rattling around somewhere inside your ribcage, smashing against your lungs which are heaving for air. It slams away like the head of a sledge hammer on masonry. That’s how hard it beats. Until it starts to feel like the second you stop running your heart will burst and you'll drop dead and die. That’s exactly what Sir Lobbings felt right in those final moments of the game. Running wildly for the end zone as the clock ticked closer to zero. Only in his case, if he stopped running, he most certainly WOULD die. Bearing down on him, and closing in with every passing second, were the yellow and white jerseys of the Supersonic Ducks. Time seemed to slow. Crawling by as his thighs pumped like pistons. Gods, he’d been faster back in his prime, he was sure of it. Sir Lobbings’ helmet shook with every step, rattling against his skull as his brow dripped with perspiration. The salty tears from his forehead running down into his eyes as though conspiring with the enemy to blind him. The old man wasn’t entirely sure how it had come to this, but somehow it had become a game of inches and seconds; a game measured in heart beats. Surely it was all a bad dream. Some nightmare cooked up the night before, brought on by a bad meal. Yet, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t will himself to wake from it. The crowds were cheering, Bloodweiser ale spewing from the edges of cups as patrons from both sides screamed and gesticulated in slow motion. As much as he wished it wasn’t real, this was actually happening. This had potentially become his last Tuesday afternoon. An odd end to the day, considering how it started... ~~~~ “What do you mean I’m not playing?” Sir Lobbings stammered, his Head Coach intercepting him with one hand outstretched. The greasy man shoved the Team Captain back towards the Strikers’ dugout on the side of the pitch. “Your heard me, Lobbings. I said, you’re benched. Now get your ass back down.” Several other Strikers noticed the altercation and quickly jogged back over to the sideline. “What’s going on?” Terry asked. “That’s exactly what I’d like to know!” Sir Lobbings exclaimed. Manfred was quick on the scene next, followed by Sir Baller and Old Man Open. The large northman jabbed a closed fist forwards, giving the Head Coach a none-too-gentle punch to the gut. “You be putting any more hands on ze Captain, and Manfred vill be making you regret it.” The Head Coach bristled, but quickly blanched under the tall blitzer’s withering glare. “Y-you oaf. You can’t threaten me. I c-could fire you!” “And how do you plan on firing anyone when you’re dead?” Oldman Open pointed out. “Answer the question, why isn’t Lobbings on the field?” “He’s sitting this one out...” the coach said with all the courage he could muster as Terry and Manfred flanked him on opposite sides and started jostling him. “W-we decided that it’d be best to save him for other matches to come...so he doesn’t get hurt.” “Bullshit!” Lobbings shouted. “You made me play against the Dominant Dragons, against the Chaos, Orcs, everyone! I always start. Who’s this we?” “T-the investors, alright! The club. The guys who pay for the team! Stop that! Stop pushing me! L-look it’s either Lobbings doesn’t start or none of you get paid.” “You cannot do zat!” Manfred said, his eyebrows raising in concern. “Can he?” “I sure as hell hope not...” Oldman Open said looking unsure. “What about the match?” “It’ll c-count as a forfeit...” The Head Coach managed to push himself free from the two blitzers and dusted off his tunic. “So that’s final. Now get out on the field if you know what's good for you.” “Is this your doing?” Lobbings said, looking at Sir Baller. The catcher had been quiet all through the arguing, but he looked genuinely surprised now as Lobbings turned on him. “ Me? What makes you think I had anything to do with this?” Terry clenched his fist and moved over beside Lobbings. “If the Captain doesn’t play, then I don’t either.” Manfred nodded. “Zis is going same for me. I vil not play vithout him on ze pitch.” Lobbings noticed his son over amongst the rest of the team. Most of the other players looked bewildered and confused at the scene unfolding on the sidelines, but Sir Lobbings Jr. stood amongst them with a smug grin on his face. He certainly didn’t look surprised in the least. “No, guys. We’re not about to concede the game just on my account. We’ll have to give Jr. a crack at this.” Lobbings gave Terry and Manfred both a shove. “That’s an order you two. Keep my son safe.” Terry kicked at the turf in frustration and grabbed his friend by the shoulderpads. “You heard him. We’ve got a game to win, Manfred.” They took off back towards the huddle, Oldman Open in hot pursuit, but Sir Baller reached out and grabbed Lobbings by the shoulder. He spun him about to face him. “What was that just now? Why wouldn’t I want you playing? Talk to me, Lobbings.” “It’s...Look, it’s nothing. Forget it. I’m just upset that I’m not going to be out there with you all.” Lobbings sighed heavily. “Maybe this really was Jr.’s doing. He’s been gunning for leader ever since he joined the team.” “He isn’t ready...” Sir Baller said. Lobbings nodding and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “That’s why he has you. And the rest of the boys. Keep him safe and win this.” Sir Baller flashed Lobbings his best devil-may-care grin and pulled his helmet on. “I'll do my best. No promises though.” The whistle blew, and there Lobbings stood. Alone in the dug out. This must have been what it felt like for Mr Backup when Meathead was still around, and what it was like for Master Chef when Lobbings was on the field. He had a new found respect for them. It was surreal watching his team out there and not being on the field with them. It felt just like a dream. The hairs on the back of Lobbings’ neck began to prickle with that telltale feeling. He was no longer alone. The Head Coach had wandered off, so it wasn't him, but Lobbings could just sense it. That shiver that runs up the length of your spine. “Where are you, you bastard...” Lobbings muttered. He turned and scanned the crowd. They were getting worked up into a frenzy as the announcers started calling out the Strikers’ positions and names. “Looking for me?” The voice, along with the laugh that followed, was as icey as frostbite. More terrifying than being stranded in the dead of winter on a moonless night. That same damnable cackle, always accompanied by those yellow angular teeth and glowing eyes. “Nuffle...” Lobbings growled, turning to watch as the shadowy figure emerged from behind the water cooler in the dugout. “I should have known this was your doing.” “Me? I’m hurt, Lobbings. Do you think me so petty? To accuse me of stooping, to this? No. This isn’t how I’d choose to humiliate you; though it’s not half bad for a scheme born from your own flesh and blood.” So it was Jr. after all. Lobbings chewed on his lower lip and looked out at the pitch to where his son was busy waving to the crowd, pumping a fist enthusiastically into the air as they announced his name and position as starting thrower for the Strikers. Lobbings wasn’t sure how, but somehow Jr. had made some powerful friends. “I’d say, ‘like father like son’, but I’m not sure that’d go over too well,” Nuffle crowed as he took a heavy drag from a freshly lit cigar clenched between his teeth. “That’s the thing about children...Lobbings. It’s like looking into a mirror. Only sometimes, we don’t like what we see in the reflection.” “He’s foolhardy and hungry for fame, like all young Blood Bowlers. I know I was the same,” Lobbings said dismissively as he watched his son parading around. “The team knows what to do and so does Jr. He can handle this.” “Ohhh? Interesting. Not the reaction I expected. And what of Sir Baller?” Lobbings looked back towards Nuffle, worry creeping into his heart. There was too much mirth in that dark voice. “What about Sir Baller?” “We had an arrangement, Lobbings,” Nuffle said, with a coy smile. "Or have you already forgotten?" “Well...yes. I mean, no. But how do you expect me to do anything if I’m stuck here on the sideline? I had no idea when I made that agreement that I’d be benched. How am I-” “Ahh ahh! You’re coming dangerously close to making excuses to the god of whismy, luck, and fate. They call me capricious and fickle, but if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain I can hardly be blamed if something happens to your little friend.” “Whatever you’re playing at, Nuffle. Leave him be. If I get on the pitch, I promise you I’ll hold up my end.” “Well, let’s just say that you’d better or else Sir Baller might have quite the nasty spill. After all, I know something you don’t.” Nuffle extended a finger towards the far side of the pitch. The announcers were done calling the names of the Strikers and Lobbing’s eyes widdened when he watched the Supersonic Ducks take to the field. They had a player amongst them he hadn’t accounted for. Someone he’d hoped to never cross again. “-and, at number nine, starting at center guard. The one, the only, star playyyyyyyer, the Mightyyyyyyyy Zuuuuuug!” Lobbings spun back to Nuffle, ready to beg the god to intervene on his behalf, but the words died on his lips. The smokey figure was already vanishing. “You best hurry, Lobbings. Your friends are running out of time...” ~~~~
Watching from the sidelines was far more agonizing than being out there Lobbings soon discovered. Sparkly Steve was crushed to a pulp by, Duckogre Jr within the opening seconds of the game. Master Chef was face down on the pitch and not moving after being fouled by no less than five players. Luckily the ref was honest and the instigating lineman had been sent off, but Terry and Juggernutter were getting tossed around like punching bags. The Strikers had to get something going.
“Come on! Support, guys support! Left sideline, left sideline!” Lobbings called out, pacing up and down. “You guys have to get to them before they-”
Several Supersonic Ducks rushed to the ball carrier, creating a buffer on all sides.
“Ugh...before they cage.”
At least Jr. was safe and throwing hits. Capt Rammer seemed to be taking charge now, blitzing down one of the Ducks and injuring him as Sir Baller and Manfred came in to surround the ball carrier. Mr. Backup distracted the Mighty Zug, leaping atop his back and covering his eyes. Even Tiny Tim got the idea that something important was happening and decked the Duck’s ogre. The ball carrier tried dodging out, but Tim accidentaly tripped him. Fumble! The ball was loose.
“Grab it, Jr! Throw to Baller! Throw to Oldman Open!” Lobbings screamed.
The young player was all tangled up with a Supersonic Ducks player duking it out to no avail. Instead it was the two veteran catchers that took the initiative. Oldman scooped it and Sir Baller Ran interference. Juggernutter was down, knocked out cold, and the ball was knocked loose. The Supersonic Ducks quarterback scrambled for it, dodging in and out of traffic, scooping up the ball. If only Lobbings was out there...that was exactly the kind of play he’d be making.
“Someone get him!” Lobbings shouted. The ducks were sending blitzers deep for a pass. “Get him before he can throw! They'll score!"
Manfred Von Mangles to the rescue. A resounding hit, the quarterback’s eyes rolling to the back of his head. Out cold. And who of all people picked it up? Master Chef.
“Oh gods...” Lobbings groaned. “Of all the people to scoop it up. Run you idiot! Not THAT way, to their endzone!"
Annnnnd Chef was down. Big surprise. The ball loose and flying through the air from a lineman’s pass. How had it wound up in his mits? The Blizter was wide open, no one would be able to reach him if it went the distance. It bobbled from the player’s hands and hit the turf. Lobbings breathed a sigh of relief as Terry came over and secured the ball as the whistle finally blew.
Half-time. No two words had ever sounded sweeter to his ears.
Lobbings grabbed his helmet, fastening his chinstrap and hurried out onto the field. The Head Coach watched on, glaring angrily. But rules were rules. If they were short players they had to fill them from the bench. At last he was on the field.
“Hell of a game boys!” Lobbings said as he reached the huddle.
“Yeah, thanks for deciding to get off your ass and grace us with your presence,” Capt Rammer said, giving Sir Lobbings a big grin. "Just kidding, Cap. Good to have you back."
Master Chef made room for Juggernutter as he came staggering up to the huddle. “You feeling okay buddy?”
“Huh?” the half concussed blitzer said. “Yea, but i can’t hear you. Think my ears all messed up, but I'm gonna play anyway.”
“It iz Sir Lobbings!” Manfred said, wrapping him in a bearhug. “It does miene heart ze good to see you on ze field miene friend. But how did you convince ze fat bearded man to let you play?”
“Well, when Sparkly Steve bought the farm, we became short a man. Not much he can do if there aren’t enough players on the field,” Lobbings said, shooting a look at Jr.
His son was remaining quiet. His lip badly bloodied from his scrap earlier with the Duck's lineman and his was avoiding eye contact with Lobbings. Maybe the young buck had taken more than he could handle for one game. Lobbings would be able to take the reins back without opposition. Still, it was best for the take over to be a smooth one.
“You did well Jr.” Lobbings said, offering his son a quick smile and a reassuring pat on the shoudler. “Damn tough bunch, these guys.” A chorus of agreement came from his gathered players. “Ducks,” he chuckled. “You’d think they’d be easier with a mascot like that?”
“I’ve seen some nasty ducks in the kitchen,” Master Chef said. “They put up a good fight when you’re trying to off them.”
That brought more chuckles from the huddle.
“Zen we must pluck zem first!” Manfred said. “Terry, are you ready to give zat fathead Zug another go?”
“Another go?” Terry asked, “I haven’t tangled with him all game. It’s been these two bozos playing ring around the rosey with him all game.”
“Hey...” Mr Backup said, sounding hurt. “I kept him busy. Master Chef hardly did anything to help. What else was I supposed to do?"
“Well I’m going to do one better,” Terry said with a knowing grin shared between he and Manfred. “Who wants to see 260k worth of cash knocked on his oversized ass?”
The whistle blew and the Strikers took their positions. The kick was short and Jr. moved to cover it as Lobbings scooped it up. True to his word, Terry had The Mighty Zug on his ass shortly after the ball hit the turf. Supersonic Ducks' blitzers barrelled down on them instantly.
“Dad! They’re coming. What do we do?”
“Stay calm, Jr!”
One of the blitzers slipped momentarily and Terry was on the other, shoving him off Lobbings.
“Follow me, Jr. We’ve got to move the ball up to the rest of the team.”
“With you, pops!”
They hustled over to where Manfred was duking it out with the enemy ogre. Mr Backup was shouting to Juggernutter, who'd somehow had managed to get himself turned around and isolated. He was still clearly reeling from his previous concussion. With a resounding crack he was decked and hauled off on a stretcher.
“Vat is ze plan, Lobbings?” Manfred huffed. “Vere should ve make you ze hole?”
But another lineman was all over Lobbings before he could shout a reply or formulate a plan. It took everything he had just to stay standing after the force of the hit.
“I’ll get open!” Sir Baller shouted. “Wheel, left side! Run it out there, and pray to Nuffle I catch it”
“Wait!” Lobbings shouted, but it was too late. The catcher was off like a hare, bouncing and weaving through the press of orange and red jerseys.
This was exactly what Nuffle was waiting for.
“You heard him, dad,” Jr. said. “We gotta move. Wheel left?”
“Fuck,” Lobbings cursed, pushing out and away from the scrum. "Ya! Go go, wheel after him!"
The enemy ogre surged forwards, slamming up against Manfred who dug his heels into the ground in an attempt to slow its advance. It wasn't going to work. He simply couldn't hold alone. Jr took one last look at his dad and then peeled off from his father.
“Go, dad! I’ll help Manfred hold off that ogre!”
“What? No!” but Lobbings was out of breath. He simply didn't have the time or energy to argue.
There were bodies smashing into bodies behind him. His legs felt like absolute jelly, but somehow he managed to wheel out to the sidelines just in time to hear Jr. squeal of agony echo out behind him as the Ogre’s fist came crashing down onto his head. He filtered out the sound, he couldn't worry about that now, not in the heat of the moment. He scanned desperately for Sir Baller. There he was, doubling back.
Breathe deep. Fill the lungs. Aim the throw...and loose.
He let fly, throwing on the run. The ball hung in midair for what felt like an eternity, before it settled into the waiting hands of Sir Baller. The catcher turned to run downfield for the score, unaware of the impending danger. Lobbings tried to call out, tried to warn him, but with a sickening crunch, a Supersonic Duck blitzer rammed right into the back of Sir Baller. He went down hard, but managed to hurl himself back towards the rest of his team mates as blood began soaking his jersey. The ball was bouncing, rolling to a halt right in front of Lobbings.
From where he stood, Lobbings could just make out Nuffle. He stood grinning like a bobcat, leaning against the posts in the end zone. This was his doing. He’d taken Sir Baller, he’d taken his son and none of it would end unless he fulfilled his stupid bargain. Everything he loved, everyone he ever cared about was at risk. This was on him. Lobbings felt his blood boil and before he knew it he was scooping up the ball and running again. Away from his team mates, away from the cage. His feet skirted the sidelines as Master Chef took out a Duck directly in front of him. Yet still more came on behind him. And suddenly he was running for his life, and running against the clock.
Everything had come full circle. He was back in the moment he'd started at. Wondering if his legs were still attached. His blood pumped inside his legs as he sprinted for the end zone.
A Supersonic Duck came hurtling at him, a second one prepared to blitz him into the waiting side lines. He saw Nuffle raise a hand from where he stood watching against the end zone post. Chef managed a perfect trip on the would be blitzer and he went down. The all too perfect trip coinciding perfectly with Mr Backups arrival as he appeared as if by magic to deal with the other. Lobbings ran on, dancing along the white chalk outline of the end zone as he held the ball out with one hand, holding it aloft in a final act of showboating. That was the agreement he’d made with Nuffle. He’d score, but he’d do it when the clock hit 1 second remaining. Or his deal to protect Sir Baller was off.
He watched the clock ticking down. Mighty Zug was all over Tiny Tim. The big lug kept soldiering on, standing over and over to receive blow after devastating blow from the star. Just a few seconds more...
As the clock hit one, Lobbings dove in to score the touch down and promptly spiked the ball. Despite himself, the sensation was exhilarating. To feel all that adrenaline surging through him. He let out a roar of triumph and pumped his fist at the screaming crowd. His teammates surged downfield towards him to celebrate. There simply wasn’t enough time left for the Ducks to mount a comeback and score. They’d won.
Lobbings noticed the sounds of the crowd, the screams of the players, it was all being drowned out. Time had slowed to a crawl once more. Silence reigned over the pitch, save for the slow steady sound of a set of hands clapping. Lobbings looked over to where Nuffle stood. He and the dark god seemed to be the only ones capable of moving.
“Well done, Lobbings,” Nuffle said, “well done indeed.”
“I told you...” Lobbings panted, “I’d keep my end of the bargain.”
“And you never disappoint, do you? Mmmmmh. I’ve missed this. Our little chats, seeing one of my playthings triumph against the odds. It’s just like old times.”
“And Sir Baller? You’ll leave him be?”
“Yes, yes. No need to fret yourself, mortal. I can come for him whenever it pleases me. You’ve spared him my wrath, for now...” The shadowy figure turned and began to bleed away into nothingness. “Besides, I’m going to be far too busy with you to worry about the likes of him. Welcome home, Sir Lobbings, welcome home.”
The flow of time resumed as a press of bodies came crashing in all around Lobbings. People were chanting his name, lifting him up onto their shoulders. So caught up in the moment, so absorbed with being back in Nuffles graces he failed to notice that he’d forgotten all about Sir Baller and Jr. He didn’t care that they could be dead or dying. Once again, like when he’d been young and sold his soul to Nuffle, he cared about one thing and one thing alone.
Winning. No matter the cost.
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Post by Squiggy on Jan 27, 2016 7:34:49 GMT
You're wasted writing this stuff. Don't get me wrong, I am loving reading this and long may it continue...but you've got a real gift.
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Post by hdawg on Feb 21, 2016 18:41:42 GMT
Chapter 3: Confrontation
Lobbings flung his helmet at the Striker’s change room wall and it bounced off with an echoing crack. His hands were balled up, his face red as he paced back and forth between the lockers.
His voice grew louder with each fresh batch of insults he hurled at his team mates. “They mopped the floor with you smucks! GODS!! Was anyone awake out there? They made us look like amateurs!”
To say that the Strikers’ captain was not taking their loss to the Banana Warriors well, would be an understatement.
Master Chef risked a halfhearted smile and shrugged while holding an icepack to his swollen face. “I thought we were amateurs?”
“Maybe you are! But the rest of us aren’t!! Most of us are actual fucking blood bowlers instead of useless sacks of ogre shit that get their asses knocked out in the opening seconds of a match!” Lobbings screamed, brandishing a fist under the lineman’s nose. “We didn’t join the Strikers to have our shit kicked in like that, alright? Me, Manfred, Terry, Oldman, and Sir Baller; none of us did. So every one of you 'rookies’ listen up. If you’re going to be on this team then you need to stop acting like baggage and start making plays. Pull your heads out of your asses and start pulling your weight! Or you'll be finding yourself off the team.”
Sir Baller leaned aganst the far set of lockers, chewing his lower lip. Watching the spectacle unfold. The 'rookies', as Lobbings called them, had been receiving a post-game beratement for almost twenty minutes now. It was getting repetitive and tiring at this point, but Lobbings showed no signs of stopping. None of the other veterans were saying much, most seemed too shocked by the sudden tirade.
“And that brings me to you, Tim!” Lobbings said, jabbing a finger at the tubby ogre’s gut.
His eyes wide with worry the ogre mimicked the jab, pointing to his own belly. “Me Tim?”
“Yes, you’re Tim. You fucking moron! And for the love of Nuffle PLEASE hurt something. Anything! You’re literally eating up team resources faster than you can shit them out. You’re hemmoraging gold and you aren’t doing the team any good.”
“Tim sorry...” the large ogre said, sniffing.
“Thank you,” Jr. said with a grin, “I’ve been saying he’s a sack of lard for weeks and all of you have been ignoring me or just shouting me down.”
“Shut up, Jr!” Lobbings yelled. “You’re worse than all of these jokers put together! What makes you think you can say shit about their game play after a performance like the one you just gave?”
“What? I- What did i do wrong?” Jr. Stammered. “What the fuck didn’t you do wrong?! You hid behind your team all during the first half of the match, and-”
“What about you?” Sir Baller asked. His voie cutting through Lobbings’ rant.
A quiet gasp from the gathered players issued forth and then silence settled on the room.
Sir Lobbings turned slowly until he faced Baller and gave him a withering glare. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, what about you? You’ve been going on and on, shouting at them like this is all their fault. You flubbed a throw at the end of the 2nd half. I was wide open. No one woulda caught me. You cost us a touchdown to tie it up, but no one is shouting at you, are they?”
“That was a hail mary," Lobbings countered. "If I'd made that it would have been an end to end throw! You know how many throwers in the league can even attempt a throw like that?”
“But zere was also vhen you fell down...” Manfred said, chiming in. “Vhen you picked up ze ball during ze second half and you slipped on ze grass. You were doing ze running and then you ver knocking yourself out.”
“What? I didn't knock myself out! That skink musta clipped me with its tail as I picked up the ball! I was dodging out, i never fell,” Lobbings insisted.
“The point is, this wasn’t all on them,” Oldman Open said. “The loss is on all of us.”
“Well it sure as hell is on you,” Jr snarled. “Couldn’t make one simple dodge out to score, huh? My dad mighta thrown like shit that game, but we woulda had that extra score to tie it up if it wasn’t for you, gramps.”
Their newest recruit, 'Punching-Bag' Peters started laughing and Lobbings stepped forwards to deck him, but Manfred stepped between them. The northman was a good foot and a half taller than Lobbings and his glare was enough to let the older thrower know he'd crossed a line.
"You are ze leader because you act like one. But ve vill not stand here and listen to you cry like big baby who is hungry for milk!" Terry nodded and joined him. "He's right. His metaphors are weird...but he's right. This is over. Clear your head Lobbings. We lost. Get over it. All teams lose, even the pros." Terry turned and waved a hand at the rest of the team. "Well? Go on! Get out of here."
One by one the disgruntled team mates of the Strikers followed Terry and Manfred's command and left the change room. Eventually the two blizters turned and left as well, until only Lobbings and Baller remained. The tall catcher pushed off from the lockers, but kept his arms crossed as he observed his friend's downcast gaze and tight knit brow. Lobbings had been on edge ever since Baller had voiced his opinion and swung the tide of the argument against Lobbings.
“You going to keep shutting me out?” Sir Baller asked. “Or do you want to talk about this?”
“You've said more than enough,” Lobbings growled back. "You're meant to have my back when shit like this goes down."
Lobbings stood and pulled a clean tunic over his head.
Baller chewed on his lower lip and exhaled deeply. “Not when you're wrong. I've never seen you like this. Come on, we've known each other for what? Ten years now. What's going on in that big bald head of yours? Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“I dunno. Whatever it is that's eating you up. You're not the same, Lobbings. Ever since the match against the Sonic Ducks you've been distracted, moody, and distant. Now your taking it out on the team by chewing out the rookies?”
“They aren't rookies anymore, ” Lobbings shouted, slamming his fist against the bench. “Alright? Maybe I keep calling them that, but they aren't. They've played through an entire cup. How much more hand holding are we expected to do? Either they have the chops for this or they don't. I'm not going to coddle them just because you don't want their feelings hurt.”
Baller shrugged and gave Lobbings a defeated smile. “Whatever, you're the team captain. If you want to shout them down after each game, that's your call. All I'm saying is that you should try and make it constructive. Yeah, we lost. But it isn't fair lumping all the blame squarely on them. We win or lose as a team, just like Old Man said.”
Lobbings' eyes glinted dangerously. “I'm not sure where you're going with this, Baller, but I'm sure as hell not about to sit here and listen to a lecture from the likes of you.”
Baller's corner of his mouth twitched and his fists tightened. “Oh, 'The likes of me', huh? So that's the way it is now.”
A heavy silence stretched out between them. Unbroken as Lobbings laced up his boots, offering Baller his backside.
“Guess it is...” Lobbings mumbled in reply.
Moisture, hot and angry, shone in Sir Baller's eyes as he let out a broken sounding laugh. “You know what? Forget it. Forget i fucking said anything at all. I'm so done with helping your sorry ass. Lobbings, 'The Great!', STAR player for the Saints, hero of the NAF league, a Legendary thrower for the Marauders. And how much of that was me busting my balls to make you look good? Where's my recognition? I never should have agreed to come with you for another 3 years. I had my choice of any team in IP and I chose to stay with your bitter greedy ass and waste my career. Well, from now on, win your own damn games. I'm through carrying you on my back.”
Baller stormed out, the echo of the change room door slamming shut reverberating in Lobbing's ear drums. Another silence followed, but shorter lived than the last. A clucking sound coming from his right.
“Tsk tsk tsk. He wasn't very happy about that, was he?”
Lobbings lifted a hand and rubbed his temple, slowly turning to face the changing room's newest arrival. “I'm not in the mood, Nuffle.”
The god of fate's lips curled back, exposing his bloodied and cracked gums along with rows of sharp teeth, stained yellow from tobacco. “But I am, Lobbings. I'm always in the mood to watch you of all people suffer. At least now you know where your 'friend' stands. He'll do anything to steal your lime light.”
“You have no idea what you're talking about,” Lobbings said, letting out a defeated sigh. “He's just angry, and rightly so. I shouldn't have snapped at him like that. He didn't deserve that.”
“I do relish the strife you mortals create for yourselves. An intoxicating cocktail of jealousy and hate, mmmmh, it does wonders for my pancreas,” Nuffle said with a chuckle.
Lobbings watched as the god pulled out a fresh cigar from inside his robes. His sharp and blackened nails rolling the thick stick of tobacco back and forth before applying pressure to the tip and slicing it clean off. With a snap from his other hand, flames sprung to life and he inhaled sharply. Glowing red embers flared along the tip of the cigar as Nuffle let out a long exhale. “You really must try one of these before you die, Lobbings. The sensation as it hits the back of your throat when you inhale, ahhhh, simply divine. Say what you will about the sins and ineptness of the human race, but your kind know how to make a damn fine cigar.”
“I don't want this to be an issue again...” Lobbings said.
“An issue? My dear, friend. I think smoke inhalation is the least of your concerns.”
“Not that!” Lobbings snarled. “I mean I want us to improve as a team. No more arguments and fracturing. What's the point of winning one game, if we just tear each other apart the next?”
More chuckles from the god. “I know what you meant. I'm just pulling your leg. But the answer is so painfully simple, Lobbings. If you wanted to win, you needed only to ask.”
“You never give anything freely.”
“True. A cost must always exist. No exchange can take place without two things of equal value, if you believe in the laws of equivalency of course.”
“Spit it out...You know what I want. What will it cost me? We're playing The Kaiser's Seahawks in two days time and we're not ready. What will it take to ensure us a win?”
“A life,” Nuffle was quick to respond. “One. A single life for a win.”
“Whose life?”
“Ahhh, now that part remains a secret. But I ensure you it won't be your own life, if that's enough to assuage you of any doubt? That's a fair exchange, I think. A life for a win.”
Lobbings swallowed hard and then finally nodded. “Fine. You have yourself a deal...”
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Post by hdawg on Mar 1, 2016 21:19:40 GMT
Chapter 4 Regrets
The pitch shook from the mounting shouts of the crowd, rising to its peak as The Kaiser's Seahawks ran up and kicked off deep into the Striker's half. The sun glared down on Lobbings, perfect blood bowl weather, as he struggled to maintain control of the ball. Up ahead he could see his linemen and blitzers forming up. Trusty Manfred Von Mangles and Terry the Trampler shoring up a wall at the center. Capt. Rammer and Juggernutter leading a strong push up the left side of the field. Junior appeared beside his father, mud and blood spattered, running as fast as he could
"What's the plan, pops?" he panted.
"Right up the sideline, son. We take it all the way in and we score, just you and me. Just be prepared to block for me if need be."
"You got it," Junior said, but even as the words left his mouth a sea of orange and white jerseys rounded the corner of their offensive line. "Ahhh, dad? That sideline is looking mighty crowded.
"Change of plans! Cut through the gut, stick close to Tim. He'll clear us a hole, I'll follow behind you."
"The Ogre? He's just as likely to end up clobbering us as the other team!"
"Shut up and go."
"That hole he's gotta clear, dad, it's gotta be straight through Brandon Mebane! Tim hasn't got a hope in hell against a real ogre."
"He's not alone..." Lobbings said, shouting to Tim. "Do it, big guy! Make the block!"
Lobbings offered a quick mental prayer to Nuffle and watched as Tiny Tim let loose a wild haymaker, his meaty fist connecting with the enemy ogre's jaw, putting him to the deck. Junior surged through the gap Tim created and helped on a block for the next Seahawks player, but Oldman Open was nearby, shaking his head. The pitch was still too cluttered with enemy players. Lobbings would be far too exposed. Even with Nuffle's blessing he had to play this right or they'd lose possession. Lobbings about turned and ran back down the pitch into their own half. The turf was slick and threatened to make him slip up, but his footing was sure. He might have been two decades older than his son and most of the team, yet his breathing was steady, as though he was out for a weekend stroll. Another testament to being in the dark god's favor again at last.
He bided his time, watching Terry the Trampler and Manfred Von Mangles take down Seahawk Star, Lynch. The Apoths rushed the injured player off the field as play continued. More blocks followed and at last the pitch looked right. It was time.
Summoning up his courage Lobbings ran back to center field, threw with all his might, and watched the ball soar into Oldman Open's waiting grasp. Oldman took it down the far sideline, dancing along the white chalk line. It was all up to him and the rest of the team now. He was within 10 yards of the end zone as Seahawk players wheeled and surged towards him. Terry was down, also treated by the apoths, and others Seahawks began to slip through the cracks in the Strikers' defense. Oldman was already marked by a catcher, and within seconds a thrower came to join him. But just as Oldman was about to be pinned on the sideline, something extraordinary happened.
The Thrower died.
Lobbings had no explanation for it, no rational way to make sense of what his eyes witnessed. Sure, some players slipped on the pitch from time to time and snapped their neck or ran into a spiked cleat, resulting in death. But one minute Russel Wilson, star player of the Seahawks was running towards Oldman, and the next he was dead. The Seahawks didn't even seem to notice as Oldman dodged out and ran the ball in to score, instead they crowded around their fallen leader, tears in their eyes as Richard Sherman cradled his limp head. Tarvaris Jackson took his pulse and quickly shook his head in dismay. Their team Captain was gone. All that remained was a lifeless husk.
The ref blew the whistle, ushering the players towards kick off positions.
Sir Baller ran up to Lobbings, clapping him on the shoulder. "Hell of a play there, bud! Not the hardest throw you've ever made in your career, but we'll take an early score wont we? Also looks like most of their players are still knocked out. Should be an easy second score before half time."
Lobbings stood there, his eyes drifting up from Russel's dead body to the crowd. There was the cowled silhouette of Nuffle sitting on the sideline, clapping away. Even from this distance he could see the gleam in those glowing red eyes, the light from them illuminating his fang-like grin as he applauded the score. Something blue and translucent coiled around the god's forearm.
"Not like this..." Lobbings muttered under his breath.
"What? Did you say something?" Baller asked, "You okay man? Come on we've got to get back to our end, we gotta kick off."
Lobbings nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Nuffle had done it. There was no other explanation. The Strikers would get their win, and he would claim a soul, but at what cost? That was the bargain he'd made in earnest. One man for a win.
How easily Lobbings had made that deal, but the closer he'd gotten to today, to game day, the more he began to doubt in the wisdom of making the deal to sacrifice a player to the altar of victory. Who would it be? Knowing Nuffle's twisted sense of humor it could be someone he knew and loved. What if he'd jumped through hoops to save Sir Baller, only to have his life taken now due to this deal? Or Jr. He'd long pondered if he was truly prepared to part with any of his players? And now that he knew who Nuffle had claimed, instead of relief he felt a lump in his gut. It felt like a fist, grabbing his innards and twisting. This was how those who prayed to Nuffle won. Not through skill or effort or honorable means. They won from players 'slipping' and falling dead. They won through impossible throws and catches. He started recalling all of his throws from his past. The ones that made the highlight reels. Some had no right to ever get thrown or caught, and yet he'd they'd made them all. Now he knew why.
Not because he was a good thrower, but because fate had orchestrated it that way.
"Not like this...." Lobbings muttered again as his team lined up to kick.
Some of the Seahawks were still busy carting Russel Wilson away, not yet ready to start the game back up, and suddenly they were kicking. There'd been no whistle or fair chance for the Seahawks to get ready. The ball was barely free from Oldman Open's kick when Manfred shouted for the entire team to blitz. The Strikers surged forwards, blasting a hole through the unsuspecting offense, and the Seahawk players were forced to drop Russel's dead body and run after the play. The little goblin referee seemed absorbed with watching a pair of cheerleaders strutting their stuff and shaking their pom poms. Was it simply coincidence that his team was offside and the ref failed to notice? Lobbings had been playing the sport long enough to no longer believe in coincidence.
Nuffle intended to make this a landslide victory. To make fools of the Seahawks.
His gaze still hovered on the throwers' dead body, the image of the blue light coiled around Nuffle's arm ingrained in his mind. He had no doubt that the light was Russel's soul, trapped forever within Nuffle's cluches. How many games had Russel Wilson played to become so well known? So well loved by his team and fans... How many championships had he been to and won? He and Lobbings weren't so different in many ways, yet he'd win, and Russel would end his illustrious career through a death to grass? It wasn't right. It didn't even come close to right.
The Strikers were busy covering the ball as Tarvaris Jackson dodged in and scooped up the ball from them. He was running downfield and Lobbings suddenly knew what he had to do. Deals with Nuffle were binding, permanent, sure. But only while still on the pitch. If the game ended now. If it ended short. The deal would be off. As Tarvaris ran to throw the ball forwards, Lobbings moved up and grabbed him, throwing him forcefully to the ground and tripping him in the process. Lobbings grabbed the ball, but instead of throwing it to one of his catchers for another score he held it out to Tarvaris.
"Do you want to save him?" Lobbings asked.
Nuffle had stood, a black swirl of energy crackling angrily around him. Red lighting coursed through the rumbling storm and some of the other spectators were looking around confused. They were unable to see Nuffle, but their drinks and hats were being tossed around by the strong energy buffeting them. The blue soul was no longer visible or coiled around his forearm, it floated back into the body of Russel.
The thrower blinked, confused by the strange question mid-game, eying his own catchers who still waited downfield. If Tarvaris could get the ball and throw no one would catch them. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He growled. He stood and prepared to blitz Lobbings off his feet.
Before he could do so, Lobbings tossed the ball back to him. "Your thrower, Russel Wilson laying over there on the pitch. Do you want to save him or not? By all means, we can carry on if you want, but he'll die."
Sir baller and Terry ran up, Lynch from the Seahawks right on their heels.
"What's going on?" Sir Baller said, Terry guarding the pair as best he could from Lynch who looked ready for a fight. "Why'd you give them back the ball?"
"He's dead..." Tarvaris said, "and even if he wasn't our apoths used all their medical supplies patching up Lynch."
"I know they did, but he's not dead," Sir Lobbings insisted. "If you forfeit the game and rush him to the nearest hospital, you might have a chance to save him."
Lynch grabbed Lobbings by the front of his shoulderpads and hoisted him up. "Fucking Liar! Forfeit!? You think we're that dumb?"
Terry was quick to grapple Lynch, forcing Lobbings out of his hands with help from Sir Baller.
Lobbings shook his head, "Check him if you don't believe me."
Taravaris Jackson called over to the nearest Seahawk to go check Russel's body, and after several tense seconds, his face light up. "It's faint....but I think he's got a pulse. Y-yea, Russel's still alive! He's not dead yet!"
"Your call," Lobbings said. "What's more important to you, the win or your team captain?"
Tarvaris smirked and tossed Lobbings back the ball. "That's an easy one. You can have the game. I have no idea how you knew-"
"It was a fucking trick, that's how!" Lynch shouted. "They did something to Russel!"
Tarvaris shrugged and continued on. "Even so, thank you. You don't know what him living means to the team. To all of us."
It was Lobbings' turn to smile as he patted his fellow thrower on the shoulder. "Trust me. I know all too well. Now hurry...get him some help."
The game was called right then and there, with outraged fans hurling drinks, food, and rocks onto the field. A pitch invasion followed shortly after, but Lobbings and the Strikers were already being escorted to their change rooms by security. Sir Baller was pressed in tightly against Lobbings as they were ushered along. His eyes said it all. Bewilderment, confusion, and even a hint of fear. Like Lobbings somehow wasn't human anymore. Maybe he wasn't human, could anything but a monster agree to a deal like the one he'd made. Still, he was happy he'd made the right choice, before the end.
As the players all began undressing talking about the match, Lobbings moved to his own locker, conscious of the looks his team mates shot at him, whispering amongst themselves. He tried to drown it all out, tried to just focus on undressing, but it was like all of their hushed voices were magnified into shouts. He needed to hit the showers and clear his head. He wrenched open the locker door to grab his towel and soap, but the sight that greeted him made him as still as stone. His blood ran cold in his veins and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
His mirror on the inside of the locker was covered in blood and it spelled out a grisly warning.
'You've stolen from me, Lobbings. A life for a win. That was the deal and I always get my way'
Lobbings' hands began to shake, as a cold sweat gripped him. He shut the door and locked it before anyone else could see the message. In the span of 24 hours he'd gone from champion of Nuffle to his most hated foe and betrayer. He had no doubt, the Strikers would soon pay in full. The god always got his pound of flesh.
~~~
Several days into Russel Wilson's stay at the hospital a knock came at his door.
“Come in!” he called.
The door opened and Lobbings stepped through.
Russel Wilson’s face immediatly lit up. “Hey, i recognize you! Yeah, you’re the Team Captain for the Strikers, right?”
Lobbings hovered in doorway awkwardly, his eyes darting about.
“Well come on in, I hear i owe you one.”
The visitor crossed the room and took a seat by his bedside. “Not sure that’s how I’d see it if the tables were turned, but call it whatever you like,” Lobbings said.
“Well, what would you call it then? Somehow you got the Seahawks to forfeit a game. Didn’t think I’d ever live to see the day that happened.”
Lobbings smiled, “Technically I don’t think you did.”
“Heh, touche! How did you manage it anyways? Hell of an idea to throw out there on the fly.”
“Maybe, but it was easy once I suggested it. Your team loves you. You shoulda seen the looks on Tarvaris and Sherman’s faces. They’d have forfeited a hundred games for a chance to get you back.”
Russel Wilson, swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded. Moisture glistening in his eyes. “Yeah...well, I hope you came for some reason other than to make me look all sappy and sentimental.”
“I came...” Lobbings said, hesitating for a moment as he collected his thoughts. “I came to talk. About our careers. You’ve been a thrower for a long time, almost as long as me, and you’ve had just as many great plays. Hellfires, probably more.”
He grinned and nodded, “Yeah the Kaiser back home likes keeping tabs on all the teams. What about it?”
“Well, have you ever...ever spoken to Nuffle?”
Russel sat up a bit more in his bed, “I think every blood bowler has spoken a prayer or cursed at Nuffle at some point in a game.”
“But i mean, like really spoken to him? Seen something, where no one else has?”
Lobbings hands were clutched tightly into balls, white from the pressure he was exerting on his knuckles.
Russel Wilson could only shrug and offer him a shrug. “Sorry, can’t say I ever have. Though he’s been kind to me throughout the years. Got some training from a high elf team once you know? Got me through plenty of games the tricks they taught me.”
“Well, if ever you do...” Lobbings said, "can you just remember what happened here today? What choices we made in the end. No hard feelings or anything?”
It was clear the other thrower didn’t have a clue what he was saying. For all intents and purposes maybe Lobbings was the one that should be in a hospital bed. Russel swung his feet over the side of the bed, stood and pulled the tubes from his arm.
“What are you doing?” Lobbings stammered.
“Ahhh, screw it. I’m done laying around. The doctors couldn’t explain it, said there was nothing wrong with my body physically, but wanted to keep me here for a few days to run some tests. Well to hells with that, I’m headed back to the Seahawk stadium to get some practice in with the boys. We’ve got a big match next week and we’re not going to win it with me here sitting on my butt. If you’ve got some beef with Nuffle, or something in your head that you did something wrong and you’re worried about our end, don’t be. I won’t forget what you did for me and my team. We owe ya.”
Lobbings nodded, but didn’t look too convinced.
“And you and the Strikers are welcome any time on our pitch. If we don’t see you in the finals, i know that the Kaiser would be happy to see you and your boys come back to the empire sometime for some scrimmage matches. Think about it, Lobbings, and good luck in the rest of your season.”
Lobbings watched as Russel padded out of the room, and listened to some nurse shouting that he shouldn’t be out of his bed, but he never came back to the room. Lobbings stood there for a long time looking at the monitor that had flat lined the second Russel pulled the tubes out. It was reading no pulse of course, since there was no heart beat to register any more, but the longer Lobbings stared at the line, and listened to that aweful wailing beeeeeeeeeep the more it sunk in.
Someone he knew and cared about was going to die as a direct result of the choices he’d made.
“What have I done...”
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Post by hdawg on Mar 2, 2016 0:18:13 GMT
Chapter 5: The Costs Of Belonging
Lobbings paced back and forth on the doorstep, shaking his arms like he was trying to keep warm. In all honestly he was simply trying to gather his thoughts. He’d never undertaken anything like this in his entire life, and he had no idea how he was meant to go about it. How does one even approach what he was about to do. No, what he HAD to do. He starred long and hard at the front door and the red and gold letters that read 403 Midlenburg Lane. Each time he reached for the knocker he lost his nerve and resumed his pacing. He’d never felt this kind of soul crushing weight on him. This amount of dread. Not when he’d made game winning throws, not even when he’d waited anxiously in the hospital to hear that Jr. had been born healthy. Nothing came even remotely close to this. At last he took a deep and steadying breath and closed his fingers around the cold metal door knocker. He rapped three times hard and slow against the wood, letting the sound echo out on the inside of the house.
Lobbings could hear footsteps approaching and the door opened. A woman held it open, only her face and one arm showing from around where she had it cracked open. The smile she wore quickly faded away, like someone expecting someone else when she saw Lobbings standing there with a boquet of black roses.
Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes and her lower lip began to tremble. “No, no, no it can’t- This can’t- It isn’t happening!”
Lobbings could feel his heart hammering as he held out the flowers, “Laura, listen to me.”
She swatted the flowers from his hand with a snarl of defiance. Denying what they symbolized. The bouquet scattered all over the front steps. Tears came tumbling rapidly down her cheeks, her sorrow all too clear, but an anger hot and burning glowed in her eyes as well.
“You bastard, Lobbings. This is your fault...this is all your fault...”
Lobbings couldn’t hold her gaze. He knew he never would, because she wasn’t wrong. This was indeed very much his fault.
~~~
“And so then, I bend her back over right? So she’s going down on the other girl, and guess what I say next?” Juggernutter said.
The Strikers all around him howled with laughter, shaking their heads.
“Go on!” Pat ‘the punchingbag’ Peters said, barely able to get the words out between giggles. “What did you say?”
“I grabbed hold of her nipples and said, ‘gods these are way harder than your sisters were last night!’ and she starts thrashing around trying to get out from underneath the other whore on top of her. Was the best lay of my life!”
Danny rolled his eyes. He sat nearby lacing up his cleats and trying to drown out the laughter from his team mates as it reached a crescendo. Soon the mirth died down enough for Master Chef to look over his way.
“Hey, what about you? Your turn to tell a story, BACKUP! You haven’t got in on the action yet!”
He sat up, fixed the group with a glare and said, “My name is Danny, and I don’t have a story for guys like you.”
“Hey, whoa whoa, guys like us?” Juggernutter said with a grin and a knowing wink to Capt Rammer, “We’re not the boy lovers like you and Sparkly Steve here.”
Steve struck a pose, which he must have thought looked indignant, but in actual fact made him look even more flamboyant. “Excuuuuuse me? Just because i happen to enjoy styling my mustachio and wonderfully long hairdo in a sparkly fashion doesn’t make me gay! I’m just waaaay more, like, in touch with my feminine side than any of you big boys.”
“Yeah yeah,” Terry said, mussing up Sparkly Steve’s hair as he tried to carefully put on his helmet. “As long as you don’t butt-bush us while we’re trying to take a shower.”
“But seriously,” Juggernutter continued, “what about you, Mr Backup? You telling me you’re straight, but you also don’t have any hot sex stories? You’know if you’re still a virgin, we can hook you up after the game. I’m not sure if one of those two whores is going to be down after what i did, but I'm sure the other will give even an ugly mug like you a go!”
Howls of laughter followed, even Tiny Tim chucklng a bit. Only partially understanding the riffing. “Hehe, he call Backup uggggly!”
Danny stood, clutching his helmet in one hand and balled up his other into a fist. “Hey, asswipe! I said, my name is Danny. D-A-N-N-Y, say it with me? Danny.”
“Think that ve are striking ze nerve,” Manfred said, arms crossed and chuckling away at the drama unfolding.
“No, a nerve is when pigs like Juggernutter start trash talking women. Calling them whores in a change room just to make themselves feel big. Well news flash for you, I’m married. And surprise surprise not only do i have a first name, but I have a second too. Her name is Mrs. Laura Fingleburth.”
“Fingerbirth?” Juggernutter laughed, “Ewww! I think you’re better off sticking with Mr Backup, buddy! And as for those sluts i fucked, they’re called whores for a reason. They take money for sex, there's only one name for it.”
In a flash Danny was in his face, his nose angled up to jutt out towards Juggernutter’s chin. Danny was a good 8 inches shorter than him and the blizter easily had 80lbs of muscle on the smaller lineman.
“Go ahead, say it again. Call them whores one more time and we’ll see just how big a man you really are...”
The changeroom door slammed open, Sir Baller and Sir Lobbings stepping in just in time to witness Juggernutter throw a punch at Danny, decking him to the changeroom floor. The larger man was ontop of him in short order in a full mount, raining down a second and third punch on his face before Manfred or Terry could react and pull him off.
“What the fuck is going on?” Lobbings shouted, as he and Sir Baller helped restrain the roided up Juggernutter.
“I’ma tear this little shit’s head off! He doesn’t know when to shut his fugly idiot-mouth! You hear me, bitchtits? I’m going to fingerbirth all over your fucking wife’s face you asstard!”
“ENOUGH!” Lobbings bellowed, “We’ve got a game in 5 minutes, now get your shit together Juggernutter or you’re benched.”
“But-”
“Can it!” Sir Baller said, “No one wants to hear another shitstained word come out of your mouth! Terry, Manfred, get him up onto the field.”
The two more senior Blitzers nodded and hauled him out the changeroom doors.
“The rest of you too!” Sir Baller added. “Clear out!”
Tiny Tim and the rest of the team headed up onto the pitch, Sir Baller giving one last look at Sir Lobbings who was helping Danny up.
“You got him?”
Lobbings nodded, “Yeah, thanks. You head up and get the rest all warmed up.”
With a nod from Baller, the door swung shut, leaving Lobbings alone with the dazed lineman. Danny spat blood and tried to focus his crossed eyes.
“Where- and I- he’s not so big-”
“Yeah, tell that to your face, Backup,” Lobbings said, getting a towel to mop up his split corner of his mouth.
“My name- not fffffffucking Backup- Kay? My name, Danny.”
“Yeah yeah, I hear you buddy, but it’s just how the totem pole thing works. Here we go, here’s some smelling salts.”
Lobbings pulled some of his own personal supply out from his pouch and crushed it under Danny’s nose. He quickly revived, color returning to his cheeks as he let out a loud sneeze.
“Whagggh! What is that stuff?” he gasped. “Smells like ogre balls and troll shit.”
“Yeah, you’re not far off, but trust me, you don’t want to know. Now, let’s get you standing. Upppppp we go! There you are. Right as rain, can you play?”
Danny nodded and moved to collect his helmet. “I think so, might need a minute, but I’ve had worse before.”
“Yeah, I don’t envy you on the front lines there against the big guys and those Black Orcs, Chaos Knights and Saurus. You’re the heart of the team you and your boys.”
“Well, I used to be,” Danny said, doing up his chin strap. “But you made me kicker for some reason. Spent a lot less time on the line after that.”
“Heh, you have your wife to thank for that. She seemed to think I had it in for you or something.”
Danny waved at Lobbings dismissively. “Nahhhh, don’t worry about her. Laura is a sweetheart, but she doesn’t understand the first thing about Blood Bowl. She hates the game. Never wanted me to play at all, but hey it’s plenty of coin for one season. Fifty thousand gold is nothing for a family to sneeze at.”
“Family?” Lobbings said, helping support him as they left the change room and started the long walk up the ramp towards the dugouts.
“Yeah, didn’t I tell you? Laura got some good news like 5 months ago, she’s pregnant. Sorry, must have kept that to myself huh? I dunno, maybe that’s why I got so pissed hearing those guys talking about women like that. On the defensive or something. Feels like my hormones are all outa whack cuz Laura’s are.”
“Well congratulations, but you know all that was just locker room bullshit, right? I mean, you’re happily married. A guy like Juggernutter has got to have it pretty bad if his entire life’s highlights boils down to banging two overpriced hookers at the same time.”
“Yeah, i know. He just gets under my skin faster than the others. I’m sick of how I’m getting treated. I mean, the new guy, what’s his name?”
Lobbings raised an eyebrow, “Who, Peters?”
“Exactly! Everyone already knows him by name and he’s been here what, a week? Yet I’m still Mr Backup.”
“They just like the name they gave you, is all. They’re fond of rilling you up over it too. Look, they might come around eventually Backu- I mean, Danny. Just give it some time.”
They’d reached the top of the ramp, the sun was shining down and the announcers were calling out the Carnivore Claws players from Head Coach Tector’s team. Lobbings took a deep breath as he watched the massive Krox and the squad of six saurus leading the charge onto the pitch.
“This is going to be one of those games,” Lobbings said.
“Don’t worry, boss. Nuffle’s got out backs. He always does with you at the helm.”
Lobbings winced and muttered, “maybe not. Not this time. We don’t have the best track record against Lizard teams.” He scanned the crowd, but Nuffle was no where to be seen. The lack of him present for the first game in forever should have unnerved Lobbings, but secretly he was grateful for his absence.
He looked over and met Danny’s gaze. “But listen, you don’t have to play if you’re not up to this. You just got back from the hospital, what with that armor of yours getting busted. I heard from the docs they had to pull a lot of metal outa that shoulder blade of yours, and after the hits Juggernutter gave you I wouldn’t be surprised if you needed to sit out at least the first half. I was going to sit in reserve since we got defense, but if you want I can swap with you?”
Danny shook his head. “If I’m ever going to be someone to these guys other than just the ‘backup’ then i can’t wuss out. What would they say if you got hurt covering for me? I can’t keep getting preferential treatment from you. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Lobbings. But it’s like you said in the change rooms a few weeks ago. Either we’ve got the chops for this or we don’t. I gotta earn my place, even if it means putting up with assclowns like Juggernutter. I can fight my own battles.”
Lobbings nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “Alright, you got it. I’ll steer clear from now on. Just know I’ve always got your back, ‘backup’.”
Danny gave him a big grin and rolled his eyes, the pun not lost on him. “You’re the one I want to impress the most. The day you start thinking of me as Danny and forget the whole Backup thing, that’s the day I’ll know I’ve made it. That I’ve finally earned my place on the team.”
“Enough of the yaking already! Now go give ‘em hell today, buddy. Get a turn over for Jr. and he’ll be sure to get the ball to Oldman Open. We’ll strike first!”
Lobbings held out a closed glove and Danny slammed his fist against his.
“You got it, boss. I’ll knock ‘em dead!”
Lobbings headed over to the sidelines, joining Sir Baller in the dugout.
“Everything alright with Backup?” Baller asked. “I managed to calm down Juggernutter enough to get his head in the game. Who knows, maybe he’ll vent some of that anger on the Lizards.”
“Yeah, here’s hoping, but it’s Danny.”
“Huh?” Baller said, confusion written on his face. “What’s Danny?”
“His name...it isn’t Mr Backup. It’s Danny.”
“Oh,” Sir Baller ran a hand sheepishly though his hair. “Yeah, sorry. I forget all the rookies names still. Hard to keep them all straight sometimes.”
“Not sure they’re going to be rookies much longer either. Once Silver is done, they’ve all earned their place. There won’t be any rookies come gold. We’ll have weeded out all the weaklings. Danny is out there right now looking to earn himself a starting spot on our roster.”
Baller thought about it and nodded. “Yeah, i mean he’s earned it I’d wager. That kid came to us a bumbling greenback and now look at him. You'd have to look pretty hard to find a better kicker in all of Iron Phoenix. He’s really found where he belongs.”
Lobbings didn’t reply, merely nodding as the first half started. It proved to be real throwdown knuckle-punching affair. It resembled in many ways a boxing match where neither foe wanted to let up swinging, even though they knew it was tiring them out. It was right before the end of the half when a skink finally managed to break loose with the ball. As it prepared to score a fan from the crowds wearing robes hurled a lightning bolt at the tiny lizard, but miraculously it seemed completely resistant to the spell. The Carnivore Claws ran it in and scored, making it 1-0 at the end of the half.
Lobbings and Sir Baller got their helmets on and trotted out onto the field, calling out, “Alright! Pat and Master Chef, you two are out. Take a breather, Sir Baller and I have got things from here.”
The Strikers huddled up on their team captain. Sir Lobbings could feel the anticipation growing. They needed a strong drive to start off the half and they would then need to find a way to crack the lizard’s defense after that to win. But as the kickoff started the Carnivore Claws shifted, creating the perfect defense. Spreading their Saurus out along their entire offensive line.
The Strikers rose to the occasion. Pairs of humans squared off against larger Saurus, making daring blocks and all but the immovable menace of the Krox were knocked to the turf. But skinks were slipping through the gaps in the line, a trio of them converging downfield to swarm Sir Lobbings. He backed up, dodging away from their grasping claws as he rolled out left. He began to shout out orders on the fly.
“Terry, Manfred, free up Oldman for the pass!”
Manfred blitzed aside a skink and joined Terry in taking down the Saurus that blocked the catcher's path. Sir Lobbings’ throw was right on the money, and Oldman open ran down the sideline with it deep.
“Quick, those other Saurus will be all over Oldman any second, Deal with that Krox!”
Both Capt Rammer and Tiny Tim threw blocks, but to no avail.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get over there and help!” Sir Baller shouted, leaping out of the way of the Krox’s swinging tail as it tried to halt his departure.
“They need more than just him. Juggernutter, get over there!” Lobbings shouted.
“What?! I can’t dodge like Baller, this Krox is breathing down my neck! It’ll tear me in half!” the blitzer called back, desperately trying to keep the monster at bay.
“Leave it to me,” Danny said.
“Wait, no! Danny stop, Juggernutter is the better choice.”
Danny turned his back on the Saurus he was blocking and tried to dodge out. “Don’t worry, I got thi-”
The lineman’s words were cut short. As he turned to leave, the Saurus’ claws flashed out, hooked onto Danny’s side, and tore his guts open. His bowels spilled out onto the ground and he crashed to the turf.
“NO!” Lobbings screamed, running towards him, but a skink was quick to intercept him. He couldn’t reach Danny’s body. “Call the Apoths! Get them out here!” he shouted, shoving the skink off of him.
The play continued downfield, a struggle for the ball errupting as skinks and human catchers squabbled over the loose ball again and again. Eventually Oldman managed to scoop it up and scored, but by the time Lobbings reached Danny, his body was cold. His eyes distant. The apoths were prepared to come out onto the field now if he called them in, but it was just too late. Lobbings waved them over and they carted the corpse off to the sidelines and covered him.
The game wore on, but in the end the skink, Izautah managed to run it in for the 2-1 win. There wasn’t much the Strikers could do, as it slipped through past multiple players. They’d played well, but none of that would do Danny any good. None of that would bring him back.
A pall hang over the changeroom as Juggernutter stood beside the cloth-covered corpse. His eyes damp as he sniffed.
“Fuck man, I never...didn’t even get to tell him he played good. I didn’t hate the lil guy this much. Never wanted this to happen to him.”
“Yeah?” Sir Baller said nearby, “coulda fooled us. The idiot gave his life trying to win us that game because you wouldn’t.”
“Hey, that Krox woulda torn me in half just like I said. This would have happened to me! I never told him to dodge out.”
“He was trying to earn his keep,” Lobbings said, his hand trembling. “He wanted to impress you guys, even you Nutters. Most of all you.”
Tiny Tim picked up the body like it was a small doll and tucked Danny into the corner of one arm.
“Him sleepy?” the big ogre asked, rocking him back and forth with a hopeful smile on his face.
None of the Strikers could meet Tim’s hurt looking eyes, save for Lobbings. He shook his head slowly and cleared his throat.
“Ahhh...wow. No, Tim. It's like Meathead, remember? We had the talk. About how sometimes people are gone...just gone.”
Tim, now looking worried. He nodded and simultaneously tried to shake his head. “Yea, but not Backup. Tim like when he kick ball, make it go fly fly!”
Sparkly Steve and Master Chef both started crying at the same time. Unable to handle Tim’s confused and wounded look as he pulled the cloth free and started shaking the lineman.
“You wake up now. You dah backup for Tim. We wrestle lots! Come on!”
Lobbings put a hand on Tim’s knee and patted it softly. “He’s gone Tim. I’m sorry.”
The ogre started blubbering, and quickly covered Danny back up with the cloth to cover his ashen face. He then sat down like a kid holding a dead puppy and began rocking back and forth. Tim looked about the change room, but none of the Strikers could offer him any solace.
Several men with a gerny stood about awkwardly at the changeroom entrance, unwilling to risk trying to pull the corpse from tim while he was so distraught.
“These men need to take him now, understand? We’ll make him a nice grave. I promise."
“Outide,” Tim asked. “Next to Meathead?”
Lobbings nodded, “Yeah big guy, right next to meathead. We can go visit him, just you and me, deal?”
Tim wordlessly let Danny slip from his lap and he began wiping his snotty nose and tear streaked cheeks.
As the apothecaries moved forwards to put the body on a stretcher Lobbings pulled the closest one over and said under his breath. “On the pitch, I was calling for you guys. Why didn’t you come before it was too late? You could have saved him.”
The medic shruged. “I’m sorry, captain. There was a man who called us off. Said that Backup wasn’t worth using all our supplies on.”
“What fucking man? The Coach?”
“Naw, not him, some other guy in a long black trenchcoat. Couldn’t see his face too well under the big hat he was wearing, but he had a cigar he was smoking. That’s all I know.”
Lobbings felt like he’d been slugged by a goatman.
His heart sank as the awful truth took hold. He nodded and muttered a final thank you to the apoths as they carted Danny off.
It had been Nuffle. He’d finally claimed his fee.
~~~
“You killed him,” Laura said, clutching her stomach which looked well over 6 months pregnant. “You and your team killed my Danny.”
“He- He was brave, and he died a hero...” Lobbings offered, but the words sounded hollow even to him.
“A hero? No. Danny was nothing like you. He was a kind, gentle and loving man. But he was never ‘brave’ like all of you Strikers. He’d talk to me about how scared he was every game. How he never knew how he managed to go out there each time. How he was afraid he'd never really be one of you.”
Lobbings swallowed hard. “That’s how every player feels, Danny was no different. You'd have to be crazy not to be afraid, but you're wrong. He was one of us, right until the end.”
“You’re not hearing me,” Laura hissed, taking a step towards Lobbings. “He never belonged out on a bloodbowl pitch. He shouldn't have been out there in the first place. He only signed up so we’d have a home. A roof over our heads and food to eat. I begged him not to play, but he loved you so much. Hell, half the time it felt like he was married to you instead of me!!”
Lobbings shifted his weight back and forth awkwardly, feeling more and more ill with every passing second as he listened to her choke back sobs as she struggled to get the words out.
“Can we meet for dinner tonight, Danny? ‘No, Lobbings has us booked for extra practice!’ When are we going to have some free time to talk about the baby’s room? ‘Maybe next week, dear. We’ve got a big game coming up.’ It was always the same! You did this to him! You did this to our family.”
Lobbings had no words. He knew in his heart that she was right, though not for any of the reasons she was talking about. Russel Wilson had died, and Nuffle was content. But that hadn’t been good enough. Lobbings had changed fate. He’d undone what had been done and for that he was being punished. No. Danny and his family were the ones being punished.
He’d never felt more helpless in all his life.
“If there’s anything the Strikers can do...if there’s....Laura, I’m so sorry.”
“Just go.”
Lobbings turned, thought to collect the flowers scattered on her doorstep, but instead looked back one last time. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“There’s nothing to say,” she said, “he’s dead now. That’s all that matters. Nothing you say, is going to help now. It doesn’t matter what hollow apology you offer. None of it will bring my Danny back.”
She slammed the door shut.
Lobbings made his way back to the carriage waiting at the end of the lane. He paid the driver for the long ride back to the Strikers’ stadium and sat in the darkened back seat.
Sobs wracked his body and he held his face in both hands. Lobbings bawled like he had never bawled before, like he'd been unable to in front of the rest of the Strikers. He’d let him down. He’d let the whole team down. They might not know, but how would he ever be able to forget? Danny had died becase of him. Because of his stupid idealistic sense of honor and fair play. Was a man, any man, worth that? His heavy heart alone knew the answer.
Danny’s smiling face on the first days of try outs haunted Lobbings’ thoughts. The way he’d gleefully pumped his fist in the air when it was announced he’d made the final cut. The grumpy frown he wore as they gave him his nickname. Even his last words as he shouted, ‘Leave it to me.' Up to his last breath, Backup had been a Striker. But they were just moments now. Gone; like the passage of dust.
~~~ One by one the Strikers left the grave outside the Striker’s Memorial. There, alongside Meathead’s tombstone, was a brand new slab of polised obsidian. It read: Here lies Danny E. Fingleburth, age 29. Survived by his loving wife, his baby girl Dora, and his team mates. You will forever and fondly be remembered as Mr Backup. Lobbings gritted his teeth and pulled out the patch from his fallen team mate’s Jersey. In proud black and red lettering it read ‘Mr Backup.’ He squeezed it tightly in his hand and laid it down on top of the grave. “If you’re out there somewhere, if you’re listening...I want you to know today’s the day. You’re Danny to me. You hear? You’ve earned your place.” There was no reply. Save for the gentle gusts of wind that plucked at the corners of the tattered patch, eventually lifting it up. Carrying it off on a strong northern breeze.
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Post by hdawg on Mar 17, 2016 7:58:56 GMT
Chapter 6: One Man's Quest
Juggernutter drank deep, letting the strong liquor scorch his tongue and the back of his throat. Phaw! Dwarven Fireale they called it. ‘Enough to burn your taste buds off!’ read the label. They certainly weren’t exaggerating. Still, bit of an acquired taste for non-dwarves.
He tipped the bottle upright, letting a shots-worth splash across the onyx gravestone beside him.
“Drink up, lil guy...” he slurred. His eyes struggling to focus on Mr. Backup’s actual name. “Danny Finglebugger, or whatever the fuck your stupid name was. I’m not about to let you sit around sobre in the afterlife.
Across the cemetery, on the other side of the footpath, Manfred and Terry stood waiting. Waiting and watching.
“How long is he going to keep this shit up?” Terry grumbled.
“Men each be grieving in ze different way, meine friend. Juggernutter is ze kind that does zis long time.”
“Yeah, well it’s getting balls cold waiting around out here. We’re going to be late. Go give him one of your northern proverbs.”
“Zey are not ze proverbs. Zey are simply lessons that Mammi Mangles passed along to us as ze children. How you say...life lessonings.”
Footsteps approached down the gravel path. It was still dark out, dawn was still an hour or more away so both of the strikers had to squint to make out the new arrival. Eventually the figure drew close enough for them to recognize Capt. Rammer.
“Morning you two,” the white mustachioed blitzer offered, crossing his arms. “Ready to go?”
Terry sighed. “Almost, Capt. Just got to wait on Juggernutter. He’s up there with the graves.”
“That’s the third time this week. We don’t have time for this shit. Lobbings is waiting for us.”
“Yea, no shit. But he’s not going to budge till he’s done that bottle.”
Capt Rammer wordlessly pushed past the pair and made for where Juggernutter knelt. He came around the grave and gave him a swift kick in the ribs.
“Up! Let’s go.”
Juggernutter winced, but made no move to stand. Instead he held the bottle up to Capt Rammer slowly. Capt Rammer glared at him and the offered drink for a long while before finally taking it. He drank a swig, but didn’t hand it back.
“I said, get up. Enough of this.”
Juggernutter made no move to stand up. Instead he held his hand back out for the bottle. “Fuck getting up...” he mumbled.
Capt Rammer stepped downwards and swung with his full weight, slugging Juggernutter in the jaw. Juggernutter's head whipped backwards and his skull slammed against the tombstone with a sharp retort. Terry gave an alarmed shout and started running over, Manfred close behind.
Juggernutter gave a half cough half laugh and placed a hand on his forehead which must have been ringing from the force of the impact with the onyx. But if he was conscious of the fact that Capt Rammer had just hit him or that Manfred and Terry had joined the pair of them at the grave, he didn’t show it. Instead he stared off at the edge of the dawn’s first light, unphased by the blow. The sun was just now cresting the horizon.
“You ever think about it? Dying...” he asked, a small drop of blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “I mean, we go out there every week. Kinda hard not to let the thought creep in from time to time, amirite?”
Rammer didn’t take his eyes off Juggernutter, but he handed the bottle to Terry. “Get rid of the rest of this.”
“On it!” Terry took a deep swig and immediately spat half of it back up. “Troll’s balls, what IS this stuff?”
Manfred took the bottle in turn, but instead of drinking he upended the remainder, letting it hiss against the dew-covered morning grass.
“It’s called Fireale,” Juggernutter replied, watching Manfred empty out the rest. “It’s expensive...”
“You can be putting zis into ze box labelled ‘shit zat Manfred does not care about’, now Capt Rammer iz giving you order. We must go.”
“Not before he answers the question,” Juggernutter insisted.
“Why would I think about dying?” Capt Rammer said with a shrug. “It’ll happen when I’m good and ready and not a moment sooner. We’re blood bowlers, not simpering cowards. So stop acting like one.”
“By Nuffle’s cock, alright! Save the righteous bullshit for someone who cares about that kinda thing. Now are you goobers gonna keep staring at me or are you going to help me the fuck up?”
Manfred and Terry stooped and hauled Juggernutter to his feet, but he was still fairly unsteady on his feet so the pair were forced to support his weight as they began their walk inside the stadium.
The magically enhanced spot-lights were still on from last evening’s practice. The Strikers had all managed a few hours of sleep and the rest of the team would still be fast asleep until later this afternoon when they were scheduled to play the Fish Knights. The four blitzers had all received a message though from Lobbings an hour ago, asking for their help with something. He’d left it vague, saying that he needed all of them. It wasn’t like Lobbings to keep secrets and it was even rarer for him to call in favors. They each owed him in one way or another, so it wasn’t like they could refuse. Still, 5am was a terrible time to have to be up and walking about.
“Any of you figure out more about what Lobbings wants?” Terry asked.
Manfred shook his head, “Zis is big mystery to me too. Maybe he vill explain a new play? One zat ve can use to get ze fish knights!”
“Maybe,” Capt Rammer said, sounding unconvinced.
In short order they were inside and walking onto the pitch. When they arrived they noticed several oddities. Practice cones were set up along the field in 10 yard intervals and their gear from their lockers were stacked in four piles beside the pitch. Lobbings was already getting kitted up in his own gear and gave them a wave in greetings when he caught sight of them.
“I see you four made it here in one piece, well, mostly,” he said with a wry grin. “You run into a wall or something Juggs? You’ve got blood on your face.”
Manfred and Terry exchanged glances and Capt Rammer looked like he was about to speak up when Juggernutter nodded and spat blood onto the fresh pitch.
“Yeah, sorry boss. Got a bit drunk...fell down some stairs.”
An awkward silence followed but Lobbings gave a wary nod. “All right then, are you sure you’re good to go then? We can sit you out from what I have in mind if you like?” When Juggernutter shook his head, Lobbings continued. “Well, i’ve asked you out here because i need some last minute training. I need you four to help me get into shape before our match later today.”
“Not sure how we can do that?” Capt Rammer said, with a grin. “No amount of training can cure ‘old’.”
Lobbings cracked a grin, “coming from you old timer? No, I mean with blocking specifically. I want you to come at me with the intention of knocking me out, hurting me. I’ll defend myself in 20 yard intervals and you bash away at me. Each time I make it past the fourth, I’ll start again from the start of the gauntlet until I can consistently stay on my feet.”
“Are you bat-shit crazy?” Terry said, eyes widening. “We’re not going to do that, we’d kill you!”
“Yeah, no offense or anything, but you aren’t exactly ‘block material’,” Capt Rammer agreed.
“Maybe not, but that’s why I need to do this. I cant afford to not be able to defend myself. I’m not going to keep having fresh lineman di-” he cut himself off and swallowed hard. “Look. I know this is something you aren’t going to be comfortable with.”
“You’re damn right we’re not!” Terry said. “Do you know how much you’re worth to the team? One of us could kill a rampaging Rat Ogre with a single punch and you want us ALL to beat on you. It’s insane!”
“It’s not something I want to do,” Lobbings insisted. “But it IS for the team. Trust me, I’d rather be sitting in bed all soft and cozy, but that’s not going to help out the Strikers.”
Manfred nodded and slowly moved over to his bloodbowl gear. He started donning his spiked gauntlets and shoulder pads.
“Manny?” a startled Terry asked. “You can’t indulge this...this lunacy!”
“If zis is vat Lobbings wants, zen Manfred vill help him. If he says hit, Manfred vill hit.”
Juggernutter nodded and took a few staggering steps over towards his own kit. “Think about all the times we had to hold back in practice. He’s giving us carte blanche to hit'em. I’m not about to pass up my chance to deck an ‘all-star’ thrower, even if he’s ours. Heh.”
Lobbings started over towards Manfred who was just finishing strapping up his helmet. He began giving instructions to Lobbings and called for Juggernutter to throw the ball over high like a kick off. Lobbings’ caught the ball and braced himself for the blow to come. With a resounding CRACK Manfred slammed into Lobbings and bowled him over. He came up with a tuft of grass lodged in his helmet, but he gave a nod.
“Again!” he said.
Terry began pacing, watching as even Capt Rammer reluctantly started to make his way over.
“We can’t do this, one of us is going to injure him,” Terry hissed, grabbing Rammer by the arm.
He shrugged his hand away, “his call, not ours. He asked me to help so I’ll help. Just hold back. Don’t hit him 100%. Dial it back a notch until it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Until it’s time to give him the real thing,” Capt Rammer said grimly. “There are going to be players stronger than us out there. They’re not going to hold back. We gotta ease him into it, but if he’s really going to learn to block it’s going to be all or nothing. You’re the ‘mighty blow’ king for this team. So it’s all going to come down to you, mate.”
Hours passed.
Until the sun was up. Blood spattered the field and a black and blue wheezing Lobbings lay on the field. All of his blitzers were equally exhausted, but at last he’d done it. He’d finally started being able to match their hits instead of dodging aside or letting them push him back. He had at least one cracked rib, that was certain, but he’d done it.
“We’ll get the Apoth to patch me up,” Lobbings winced, letting Manfred and Terry swing his arms over their shoulders to help him limp to the sideline.
“You’re one crazy goon, boss, but you’ve got balls,” Juggernutter said, mopping his brow. “Never seen anyone take a pounding like that outside of some halfling on ogre x-rated porn I used to watch.”
“Charming,” Capt. Rammer growled as he fell into step. “Your collar bone looks like it’s busted up something awful too. The apoth might be able to help you, but he’s going to ask questions. What are we going to tell him? If anyone catches wind that we just spent the entire morning bashing our thrower to a pulp we’re going to catch unparalleled amounts of shit for this.”
“We say the same thing Juggers said about his lip,” Lobbings said with a weak smile. “We say I fell down some stairs.”
Manfred let out a bellow and slapped Lobbings on the back heartily, causing the thrower to wince in pain and start a fresh coughing fit. The laughter was contagious and in short order all five of the players were holding back tears of mirth.
~~~
Game whistles blew and horns sounded. The kick off flew through the air. It was 2-1 in the Fish Knights’s favor and time was running out. They needed another score as an equalizer. The kick was short, right near the line of scrimmage near the sideline. Manfred and Juggernutter were making some room at the center as Capt. Rammer brought the pain to the Fish Knights Star Player, Dolfar Longstride. The crowd went beserk as the elf hit the turf. Sparkly Steve made sure to get to the ball first to cover it and then Jr. secured the ball and let out a shout that carried across the pitch.
“Twenty-four freewheel! Twenty-four freewheel!”
He tossed the ball off to Oldman Open who reversed back deep into the Striker half as Sir Baller took off at a sprint. It was a trick play the four man throwing and catching unit were well versed at pulling off, but sadly it was not to be. The indomitable Nathan Bass blitzed over and saw to it that there would be no pass made. Sir Baller was out cold, KO’d and being carried off the pitch.It wasn’t a bad call by Jr, but the Fish Knights knew their playlist well. After all, they’d scrimmaged against them in the pre-season and were on the receiving end of a rather one sided match involving similar trick plays. Drastic measures were called for so Lobbings took the reins.
“Oldman! Bring the lightning!”
The catcher sprinted towards him, fending off Sal Fish to hand off in traffic. Lobbings’ nerves of steel didn’t fail him and soon he was dodging out, wheeling to the right side of the pitch. Juggernutter leveled a peasant. He was exposed. Cageless. Just like practice with the four blitzers.
The elf, Dolfar, was already up and in his face barring his progress. The blitz was coming. He could see David Seahorse approaching out of the corner of his eye. This was it. He had to brace, meet the blow and hold him off.
With a resounding clap of armor on armor, the Brettonian blocker smashed his shoulder into his face and Lobbings collapsed backwards. His head was ringing, but he was still in the play. So much for training. Nathan Bass engaged Capt Rammer one on one, but the salty old dog wasn’t having any of it. A swift counter-punch and the Fish Knight blitzer ate dirt. This was their chance.
“Juggernutter, cover me!” Lobbings was up and running.
He scooped up the ball, rolled out past the play and launched the ball towards Capt. Rammer who was now wide open. Dolfar yet again attempted to ruin their plan, dodging out as he performed a pass block to shut down the throw, yet impossibly the blitzer managed to hang onto the ball and dodge out. He breathed a sigh of relief and ran forwards with the rest of the Strikers to congratulate their savior.
“That makes two!” Capt. Rammer said with a big grin. “Unless you boys had lost track! Maybe we’ll make a catcher outa me yet.”
Oldman smiled, “Hey, stick to what you do best you jerk and quit hogging all the lime light.”
“You see Nathan Bass and me back there?” Capt Rammer asked Lobbings.
The thrower gave him a nod and a slap on the shoulder. “Good shit, man. Just remember this isn’t over yet. We still got a few minutes left on that clock. We gotta hold them off.”
“Screw that, I say we go for the win!” Master Chef shouted.
“Ohhhhh that’s the spirit fellahs!” Sparkly steve added.
The fighting was bitter, but the Strikers barely managed to hold on for the draw. Tripping up Griswald Saltdrinker in the final seconds of the game before he could score. As the two teams lined up to shake hands after the match, Capt Rammer and Nathan Bass could be seen exchanging words. Both put on a good air of hating the other, but a certain kind of respect simmered there beneath the verbal jabs and sneering taunts. Eventually Lobbings pulled level with the Fish Knights blizter.
“Hell of a game, Bass,” Lobbings offered.
Nathan scoffed a bit and nodded. “Yeah, sure was. Lucky for you that Norbert wasn't out there though or we’d have won for sure.”
“Y’know what, I don’t even doubt it,” Lobbings said as he clasped the larger man’s hand. “Hope he’s feeling better for your next game. I wanted to play against a real pro, guess I’ll have to settle for sharing the pitch with you and the rest of your boys.”
“You little shit,” Nathan said with a grin. “You’re also lucky I couldn’t get my mitts on you all game or I’d have rung your bell. Would’ve been a whole different game if I’d have got to you and knocked you out.”
“Ahh, well on that one I’ve gotta disagree. Doubt you woulda been able to.”
Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah? Pretty cocky aren’t you, Lobbings?”
“Nope. Just I got my shit punched in all morning by some of the best,” Lobbings cast his gaze over his weary team as they’d formed a circle and were celebrating amongst themselves now. “Not saying you cant hit as hard as them, but they didn’t hold back and I’m still standing. I’ve got the bruises to prove it. Don’t think I’m ever going to be ‘that’ kind of thrower again.”
Bass shook his head, “You Strikers are some kinda crazy. Never heard of training like that. Well, hope we’ll see you in the playoffs.”
“Count on it! Tell Norbert I’ll look forward to seeing him then. I’ll be gunning for him myself.”
“Ha! I’ll tellem.”
Lobbings ran over and let the rest of the team pull him in as they started their post game chant. We Strike! We Strike! Together we strike! They hadn’t won, it’s true, but it was in many ways a great game. They’d needed one after their last. To help them forget. It was like they were home again. Things were beginning to look up.
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Post by hdawg on Mar 17, 2016 9:37:41 GMT
Chapter 7: Soak In Sin, Add A Pinch Of Evil, And Bring To A Boil
How does one measure greatness? Is it in the words we speak or in the deeds we perform? Or does greatness require you to leave behind a legacy that keeps your name alive long after your bones have turned to dust? Leadership in many ways is akin to a battlefield. A mental and physical test wherein there occurs a marriage between cooperation and greatness. For as many scholars and generals have stated over the ages; no one can truly lead from the rear. A leader must be able to lead by example, establish trust and respect with all those they would wish to follow them, and above all else be dauntless in the face of adversity so that others might draw inspiration from them.
Lobbings knew he was a leader, but he wasn’t sure he was great one. Not yet, anyways. Because he’d yet to do that. He needed to inspire others. He needed to be so brave that he made others feel safe enough to be brave as well. To elevate all of his players to a new level of skill and fame that would leave all other human teams in the league outshone. He’d been called a star in some tabloids, ‘a light that flickered wildly in an otherwise dark ocean’ the line had read. It struck him, because he knew plenty of great human players. Some of them like Nathan Bass and Russel Wilson he’d had the privilege and honor of meeting first hand and he knew of no humans greater than the Copper Cup 2nd place team, the House of Eagles. It was time to make his own players great. To make sure people knew just who they were and who they could be.
Nuffle be damned. He didn’t need to make bargains or plea on bended knee to a whimsical god of fate and luck. He’d inspire them. He’d lead them. They could win, if only he made them brave enough to think as much.
In a post game practice as the Strikers were heading back to the lockers to shower and undress he heard Jr. talking to Sparkly Steve and Master Chef.
“All I’m saying is you two make sure you stick close to that big lug of an Ogre, that’s your only hope of coming through this alive. We’ll lose the game, that much is sure, but we need you both alive for the dwarves after this.”
“Ohhhh, well I don’t think I’ll be up there, so there’s no need to worry about lil ole me,” Sparkly Steve, was quick to say. “There’s that new fellow Pat! He’s a ‘punching-bag’ I hear, bet he takes my spot on the line of scrimmage!”
“Yeah, and if I’m up there I think I’ll just be making sure I eat turf fast,” Master Chef said. “Hopefully it’s over quick and we can just lose this to get to our last game of the season.”
“Hey!” Lobbings said, grabbing Master Chef by the shoulder and spinning him around. “You lot cut that kinda shit out. You hear me? All of you! I don’t want to hear any more of this surrender monkey talk. We’ve got a damned good chance of winning this.”
There came a few chuckles from around the room and a few awkward coughs as folks started to talk amongst themselves. Lobbings couldn’t believe it. It was written on all of their faces. It was like the match with the Dominant Dragons all over again from Copper Cup. They’d already given up.
“No, I'm serious. Hey! Listen up, we can’t just concede before the game’s even started. They’re good, sure, but we can still win!”
An awkward silence threatened to linger, but Jr. scoffed and said, “Oh yeah, how do you figure that? I mean, we aren’t on the good shit like you, dad. Not sure what you’re smoking but these guys went to the championships last cup. We scrubbed out. What exactly are we going to do to them?”
“We’ve got Capt Rammer!” Lobbings shouted. “He scored two touchdowns last game, and that’s not even what he’s meant to do in a match. We’ve got catchers who know how to block. Lineman like Sparkly Steve who know how to wrestle!”
“Mmmmhh, yes I doooo,” Steve said with a big grin, combing his fop of sparkly brown hair meticulously.
“We’ve got damned hard hitting blitzers too and Tiny Tim is going to carve us a path through their line, aren’t you, Tim?”
“Tim is carving chicken?” the big ogre asked hopefully.
“Er- maybe after the game, Tim.”
Jr. rolled his eyes and turned to Pat Petes the human ‘Punching Bag’ as he’d come to be known by the team. “You believe this shit? I mean, you’re as good as dead and my dad is spouting stories about us actually beating these guys. Have you SEEN their squad? I mean, that blitzer Henry Freshfeet makes elves look slow. Their blockers all know their shit too, they’re going to be setting up guards all over the lines.”
“They’re short a blocker!” Lobbings countered. “He’s out with a torn-”
“Ohhhh great, ONE whole blocker less. That’s going to be great for us considering they’ll probably get a wizard from the differene that affords in inducements. Face it, we’re not going to win.”
Lobbings paced back and forth in the changeroom and moved over to a now rattled looking Pat. “Don’t listen to my son. You won’t have to start if we get the ball,” Lobbings insisted. “You can sit the first drive out. You’ll do fine, Peters.”
Pat nodded and risked a smile. “I think we’ve got a shot, if- well, if you say we do, Lobbings.”
He could feel the eyes on him. The hopes of the entire team waiting to hear. Even some of the vets like Sir Baller, Oldman Open, Terry, and Manfred. He could see the doubt in their eyes and they’d hear it in his voice if he offered a halfassed pep talk. He’d have to mean it.
Lobbings swallowed. “Look, it’s not going to be easy. No game ever is, but we CAN win.”
“They’re going to outbash us,” Capt Rammer warned, chewing on the edge of his mustache. “I mean, me and Terry can both deliver mighty blows with the best of them and so can Juggernutter, but they’ve got armor on their side.”
“Not ze peasants. Ve could be avoiding zer blitzers if zey are as fast as Jr. iz saying,” Manfred offered.
Lobbings shook his head. “Trust me, we can’t avoid it. They’ll send him straight at us when they’re on defense and they’re bound to give him the ball once they’re on offense. We’ve gotta just match them pace for pace. We might be able to go even on the bashing front, but we’ve got them licked in the passing game.”
“Um,” Sir Baller looked at Oldman Open who also looked concerned. “I mean, sure we’re good at catching and all, but if we run deep with those guys they can easily intercept or hell, they can blow us off our feet. They’re all pretty damned good at sliding tackles. Even the blockers can stop us, they'll wrestle us like Steve does in practice and just haul us off our feet. We might need to consider a slower running game over flashy passes.”
Lobbings stood tall and made his stand. The team’s doubts be damned.
“I’m only going to say this once. So listen the FUCK up! If we play our best game. If we pass like we know we can...they won’t be able to stop it. If we hit like we know we can hit. Like each one of us is a titan, we can bash them senseless. We can break through that Brettonian armor they like to think is impervious. We’re being scared off by a name; nothing more. They’re great, I’ll admit it, but I know we have what it takes to be great too. If we stand our ground, hold nothing back, shove every chance we get and fight for every last breath till the whistle blows, they’re not going to beat us. We can win this, you guys, we just have to believe it. Because if you don’t even think we can win, then what’s the point?”
Murmurs spread quickly and Tim let out a loud belch which had most of the team chuckling as he quieried, “Talking borrrring, can Tim go eat now?”
Lobbings sighed and then patted the tubby ogre’s gut. “What about you, Tim? You going to finally hit somebody?”
“Dahhh, who you want Tim hit?”
“The eagle men. Can you do that for us? We need you to be real mean,” Lobbings said, baring his teeth and growling in the hopes that Tim would get the picture.
Tiny Tim just giggled and stuck his tongue out in reply. “Huuuu huuu, Lobbings sound like woofy dog. GRrrhhh Rrhhhhh woof!”
Jr. looked furious, but most of the rest of the team was all smiles. Lobbings patted him on the knee. “Ahhhh Tim, never change big guy. Never change.”
Sir Baller moved over beside Lobbings and backed him. “We’re going to get through this guys. We’ve been through so much, and we’re getting damned close to playoffs. Let’s win this! We’ll have a shot for sure if we can beat them here and now.”
Sparkly Steve threw an arm around each of his fellow linemen, planting a kiss on Master Chef and Pat’s cheeks in turn. “Come on you beautiful bastards! What do you say? We going to be frickin famous or whaaaaaaat?”
Manfred looked to Terry and they fist bumped, stepping forwards in unison. Juggernutters’ telltale ‘let’s fuck ‘em up!’ ringing out from the showers. Spirits were finally where they needed to be. High as kites.
“We’ll do it boys,” Lobbings insisted. “I promise you a win.”
“Let’s give ole Nuffle a quick prayer for luck!” Oldman Open suggested.
Capt Rammer gave a nod and started to take a knee. “Good plan, ole timer, never a bad idea to get a god on our side.”
“NO!” Lobbings screamed louder than he intended, freezing up the change room. “N-no...” he said in a softer more haggard voice. “We do this ourselves...just us. No prayers. So we can prove it was us, not him who won us the game.”
It was a weak cover, but it was the best he could think of on short notice. There were a few puzzled looks and shrugs, but the team generally accepted it and started to break up to enjoy the rest of their free evenings before the match tomorrow.
Soon only Sir Baller remained in the change room with Lobbings as a naked Juggernutters padded out the changeroom door.
“See you two losers tomorrow!” he shouted in parting.
As the door swung shut, Sir Baller looked up and met Lobbing’s gaze. The thrower looked away, unable to meet his questioning stare.
“You got something against Nuffle all of a sudden?” he asked. “Not too long ago you were singing his praise with the best of them. I mean I know some people don’t like invoking his name and all but you’re not one of those believer types like Sparkly Steve who carries around a protection amulet to every game. So why the cold shoulder to a simple request for a pre-game prayer? Most teams do one, just indulge them.”
“Well, we aren’t most teams. Are we?” Lobbings said, turning his back and locking his kit away. He grabbed his towel and made to leave, but Sir Baller quickly sidestepped in front of the door. Lobbings’ escape was blocked. “Move...” he said.
“What’s going on? Being mopey over Mr. Backup I’d get, or if they’re been a bad omen or something. But it seems like no one can even mention Nuffle around you these days without getting told to hold their tongue.”
“He’s scum,” Lobbings said with as much vehemence as he could muster. “He took Danny. He’s nothing but pure evil and I won’t have him involved in our team. Not anymore.”
“Ha, come on, man! I mean....the way you’re talking about him it’s like you know him personally. In the flesh, big hat and pointy teeth and all. Involved in our team? Not anymore? You make it sound like he's part of our cheer squad or sitting in the crowd each game. He didn’t do Mr Backup a solid, that’s for sure. But maybe it was his time, you know? Like we all play our course, he just wasn’t up to the lifestyle is all.”
“Danny died, because Nuffle wanted his pound of flesh. He didn’t just die, it was part of a pact, one that i made that fell through. Well FUCK Nuffle,” Lobbings said, glancing around like he was looking for him. “Hear me? Fuck you!”
“Wow, you are a believer? You aren’t kidding. Okaaaay, well I’ll just keep this to myself man, but you might want to ease back on the morphs from the apoth. If you’re talking about literal or imagined deals with Nuffle then you’ve got bigger problems than just the House of Eagles.”
Lobbings’ turned on Sir Baller. “Yeah? And what about you, huh?”
“Um, what about me?”
“You made a deal with Nuffle yourself. You said so on that game against House Zauvirr. You made that impossible play out to tie it as the clock hit zero. You told us all that you prayed to Nuffle, so you know full well he’s real.”
“Yeah...like the tooth fairy kind of real. Like how you pray to the Father Christmas to bring you chocolate and presents instead of lumps of elemental coal, levels of real. I mean, I'd love to make a deal with Nuffle to all hit like Trolls and get a few good breaks to win the game, but it's just a myth, to give old bloodbowlers in retirement something to talk about.”
Lobbings shoved Sir Baller to one side and gave him a patronizing smile, “well this old blood bowler is telling you to think what you like and pray to whoever or whatever you goddamn well please, but keep Nuffle out of this. Last warning.”
“Sure,” Sir Baller said with a slow nod. “No big bad N-god. From now on my lips are sealed.”
Lobbings reached out and patted Sir Baller on the side of the cheek. “Get some sleep buddy, it’s going to be a long day tomorrow. See you on the pitch.”
Sir Baller mumbled some form of yes, but stood there for a long while in the change room. He knew he’d been standing there for an inordinate amount of time, but he’d never have guessed it was as late as it was if it wasn’t for the janitor coming in through the change room door. He wore baggy blue overalls and wore a matching baseball cap.
“Oh, sorry mister, didn’t think anyone was still in here. I can come back,” the old cleaner offered.
“No, it’s fine I just- Was thinking. I’ll get out of your hair,” Sir Baller said as he collected his backpack and shut his locker.
“You’re one of them Strikers. My son is a big fan, could I trouble you for an autograph?” the man asked, holding out a small black ledger book and a pen.
Baller looked down at the book and smirked. "An autograph, huh? You always carry a book and pen around with you?"
"Trust me," he said, "you work in a place like this and you never know who you might bump into. Please sign, It’d mean a hell of a lot to him and you'd be eternally in my debt."
“Sure,” Sir Baller said, taking hold of the book and signing his name with a quick flourish. "But don't you mean you'd be eternally in MY debt?"
The man laughed as he examined the signature. "Oh yes, yes. Something like that."
Baller turned and hurried off down the hall, shouting back over his shoulder. “Well, hey! Tell your boy when you give it to him that we’re going to beat the House of Eagles tomorrow! I’ve got a good feeling about this game.”
The sounds of Sir Baller receded down the hall and then faded entirely. The man stood there, holding the black ledger. It looked plain enough at first glance, but if an individual focused on it for any length of time they'd have noticed it was bound with an odd skin and stitched together by what looked like bones. Runes that resembled skulls imprinted on dice adorned the entire exterior of the notebook.
The man's mouth slowly curled into a toothy grin and red pinpricks glowed beneath the brow of his baseball cap. “Oh you’ll win, Baller. Of that, I have no doubt; pity about the whole son thing. Since it’s merely a convenient lie, of course.”
A dark and ominous chuckle rolled out from his throat as shadows and foul energy claimed the changeroom, infusing the Strikers' gear with the gift of savagery and a healthy dose of luck. “So kind of you to make your second pledge to me.”
The signature glowed a fiery red on the parchment and then vanished, sucked up into the swirling maelstrom of vile intent that surrounded the cackling god as he recited the oldest of passages from his dogma.
“First by word, second by name, and now all i need is by blood. Soon, Baller. Soon your soul will be mine and Lobbings' defeat will be at hand!”
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Post by hdawg on Mar 20, 2016 2:45:39 GMT
Chapter 8: Playoffs Bound
The thick rolled-up paper slammed down hard on the break room table, shattering the relative quiet of the gathered team and startling Master Chef, Sparkly Steve and Pat Peters. The Trio were engrossed in a game of cards with their share of last weeks winnings strewn about. Their stacks of coins rattled from the foce of the blow and more than a few tumbled to the floor.
“Steady on!” Master Chef shouted, clutching his pile before any others rolled away. “What are you on about, Ole Timer?”
“We’ve done it! It’s right there in god damn print, hot off the presses too,” Oldman Open said with a triumphant fist pump.
“A newspaper?” Pat asked, starting to unroll it. “People still make these?”
“More like, do people actually still READ these?” Terry asked as he made his way to the table to peer over Pat’s shoulder.
“Not just any paper! It’s bloody Spike Magazine! Flip to the front page of the Channel-H News section on the Silver Cup.”
Sparkly Steve helped Pat flip to the middle section where they could pull out the insert. They let the rest of the paper flutter to the table below as they stared wide-eyed at the front cover. There in full color were the four team crests of the Silver Cup finalists. The winged flying banana of the Banana Warriors, the navy blue talons gripping a blood bowl ball of the House of Eagles, the green lizard arms and flaming skull crest of the Carnivore Claws, and the red and black crest with a golden thunderbolt coursing through the middle. The symbol of Hdawg’s Strikers.
“Holy fucking shit...” Terry said, glancing at Oldman Open. “This for real? We really did it?”
He nodded. “This is it, boys. We’re going to the Silver Cup playoffs.”
“Give it here!” Juggernutter bellowed, leaping from his seat and grabbing the magazine. “Let’s see what it says about yours truly. Hmmmm. Lotta typin’ and stuff.”
“I’ve already read the whole article, I could just summarize it if you guys want?” Oldman Open offered.
“No, I got this...ahhh! Okay that’s a ‘J’ and I think that’s a ‘U’. Yo, is this my name right here?” Juggernutter asked, holding the page up to Pat who was closest.
Pat shook his head. “Nah. That’s the word ‘just’. It says ‘-then just sit back and relax.’ on that line.”
“Wait, Juggers, can you not read?!” Oldman said, slapping an open hand to his forehead.
“Hey, I can read...sorta. I’m just pretty belligerent, alright?”
“I think he means dyslexic,” Terry corrected.
Manfred was sprawled out on a nearby sofa, rubbing his bunions. He paused long enough to scratch his chin and shake his head. “Actually, I think zat he means illiterate, not dyslexic meine friend. Zat is vhere ze latters appear all, how you say, Fucked up? Juggernooter simply cannot read because he is a schroovut.”
“Schroovut?” Terry said, one eyebrow raised.
Manfred shrugged. “It iz not nice name in north.”
“Yeah yeah, I’m all those things,” Juggernuter said. “Wait, but don’t all those words mean the same thing though?”
All the Strikers shook their heads in unison, even Tiny im who was locked in a solo Tic Tac Toe duel. It appeared the Ogre was still deadlocked with himself 42-42.
“Oh... well yeah, I guess what I’m tryin’te say is I can’t read good and stuff,” Juggernutter said, shrugging and handing the article off. “Hey Manfred, you’re smart. You wanna read this article to everyone?”
It was Manfred’s turn to shrug as he looked at the article. “Ze speaking in public iz not meine strongest of suits. Much vil be lost in ze translation I fear, for I am strong like vhale, but eloquent like bumble bee.”
“Seriously, guys, I don’t mind giving you a quick rundown on it,” Oldman offered for a second time. “I’ve pretty much memorized the whole article.”
“Are bees eloquent or not?” Master Chef asked. “Or am I missing something?”
“I think for Manfred’s point to work he was implying they aren’t,” Terry offered. “At least for his proverb to make any sense.”
“Niet! I have already been telling to you, zis iz not proverb, but instead Mammi Mangles life lessonings. Vhen vil any of you learn to be listen?” After a few more grumbles Manfred nodded. “But yes, bees are loud and vith ze buzzing. Not eloquent.”
“And they have such sharp stinnnngers. Like, EW!” Sparkly Steve said, chiming in.
Oldman Open let out a defeated sigh and took a seat. Just when it looked like the article would never be read Capt Rammer stood from the window’s alcove where he’d been attempting to ignore his teammates’ prattling. He stalked over to the magazine article and snatched it from the table. At first it looked like he’d simply crumple it up and throw it away, but after a pause he carefully drew out a pair of tiny reading spectacles, unfolded them, and proceeded to balance them on the crest of his nose. He glanced at the baffled looks the entire team were giving him.
“What?! Someone had to take charge of you idiots while Lobbings and Sir Baller are gone.”
Manfred nodded solemnly. “Ah yes! Zis iz word. Schroovut iz idiot.”
“Wait wait...you wear glasses?” Juggernutter asked, trying to hold back laughter. “Oh my GOD, i never pictured you as a four-eyed nerd, Capt.”
“They’re reading glasses, punk! You wanna go?” Capt Rammer snarled, lowering a fist directly in front of Juggernutter.
After several more minutes of splinter arguments, discussions of how eloquent any insect can be if it can’t talk, and another draw for Tiny Tim’s Tic Tac Toe count, Capt Rammer cleared his throat and read the Channel-H news article aloud.
~~~
As he finished reading it most of the team wore big grins. All save for Juggernutter who was clearly sulking over not being mentioned by name anywhere. He was convinced that Capt Rammer must have missed a sentence somewhere and had him go over it a second time. Pat Peters was also looking more than a little nervous. He’d withdrawn from the game of cards and was collecting what coins he had left when Sparkly Steve noticed his worried friend. “Hey big fellah, what’s cookin good lookin?” Pat glanced over to Steve and shrugged. “I dunno...never been to playoffs before. I mean, i barely made it on the team and that was scary enough.” “Ohhhh yeah? Tense huh? Need me to give you a nice oily massage? Loosen up those big muscles before the match tomorrow?” “Nah, I just...I just don’t want to let anyone down you know? Everyone seems really good at something and I haven’t got anything to offer the team yet.” Sparkly Steve gave his luxurious head of hair a shake and grinned. “Mmmhmmm, it’s true. I bring the fashionably chique aura of amazing to an otherwise drab and pedestrian team. I’m glad that someone at least has the raw brawny talent to notice me for my good looks!” “Well...i meant more that you can wrestle. The blitzers can all block and hit really well. Some of the people can guard or catch. I mean, hell, even Mr Chef can dodge. I hear that guy who died, what was his name?” Sparkly Steve lost his smile and glanced away. “Oh yeah, you mean Danny?” He sniffed and brushed away a lone tear. “What a beautiful bastard. He died too young!” “Yeah, well he was a kicker. Maybe I can start practicing that? If i make it to playoffs that is.” “Don’t worry, big man! We’ll get there in one piece. Look, check this out, this is what you need.” Sparkly Steve pulled out a small nuffle charm on a chain. “The other boys think I’m just a big silly goose for keeping it, but I’ve worn it to every game and it’s always turned out alright!” Pat took a discerning look at the charm. It seemed simple enough. No glow or magic to it or runes to protect the wearer. “Um, didn’t you get like knocked out a bunch of time? And injured super badly too? I heard you had a really bad injury that messed up your armor.” “Oh gods, yes! That was horrible!” “And didn’t you also get like...a niggling injury that the apoths said would never fully heal?” “Sure did! That’s my niggly ole knee, but gosh if it doesn’t feel good scratching at that wound.” “So um...” Pat shifted about awkwardly, “so, how does that charm protect you exactly?” “Keeps me from dying, silly! There’s a lot worse things than some messed up armor or a bad leg. I mean, that shredded armor, i took some glitter to that and made it all the rage in the fashion league!” “Guess that makes sense, sorta...” Pat said as he glanced down at the floor. “Just need to get me a charm like that before playoffs.” “Tell you what, I’ll give you mine for now,” Sparkly Steve said, lifting the pendant off his neck. “Just like, as a loan till you find your very own sparkly and even more fantastically awesome charm. Deal?” “Wow, you sure?” Sparkly Steve nodded, giving Pat a big hug. “Mmmmmhmm, and as a thank you. You can give me a niiiiice long back massage after tomorrows game to work out all my kinks. Deal?” “Erm-” Pat struggled awkwardly for some way to back out of the offer, but came up blank. “Yeah, i guess that’s fair.” The door to the break room opened, and Sir Baller and Sir Lobbings finally arrived. Each was carry a heavy burlap sack. “Hey, boss! You hear the good news? We made the playoffs!” Terry said excitedly. Lobbings dumped the sack on the floor in front of him, the sound of thousands of tinkling bits of metal clanging off metal filled the room. “Who cares about playoffs?” Lobbings growled. “We play our games one at a time. Or had you all forgotten we’ve got the Nailers tomorrow to play. We take this game for granted and someone is liable to get hurt bad. These dwarves are hungry for a win.” Capt Rammer shrugged. “What’s it matter, win or lose we’re in, right? Let’s just take it easy next game.” Baller also dumped his bag, which made the same sound Lobbing’s one had. He opened the noose at the top though and revealed its contents. Hundreds if not thousand of black and silver nails glistened in the bag. “These are what those armored stunties are going to feel like tomorrow. They may look like they’re made of soft flesh like you or I, but rumours have it throwing a punch on them is like trying to break nails. It’s gonna hurt, so we’re all going to practice.” The looks of dismay were evident on most of the Strikers’ faces. Manfred sat up though, looking overly pleased by the overflowing sacks. “Yes! Zis is greatest of challenges. Ve vill be breaking ze nails vith our fists! True manly ambition cannot be contained!” Baller grinned, “That’s the spirit, Manny. Let’s fill up some of the tackle dummies down on the pitch and go through a drill. I want you all hitting these things no problem before you turn in for the night. We’re going to need to be able to slam these things as hard as we can if we want to break some dwarf bones.” Lobbings grabbed the article and held it up. “So enough about this, let’s get this practice going! 10 minutes! Full Kit! On the pitch! Move like you’ve got a purpose, people!” Groans and sighs followed as Tim suddenly looked sad in his corner and began crying. Lobbings quickly crossed and patted him on the back. “Hey, Tim. Everything okay?” “Nooouuuuu Tim not ‘kayyyy! Tim play Tic Tac Toes and Tim lose. Boooo hooooo!” Lobbings looked to Sir Baller who gave a helpless shrug. The thrower quickly noticed both tallies read Tim at the top and pointed to the sheet. “But you were playing against yourself, right?” Tim gave a sorrowful nod, while sniffing big boogers back up into his nose. “Well, that means...that you won! Right?” Tim paused, a cog covered in bone-headed sawdust could almost be heard turning in his head, and his face lit up. “Tim win?” he said, looking from Lobbings to Sir Baller. The catcher put on his best smile and nodded. “That’s right, you won, big guy!” “Tim WIIIIIIINNNNN!” he shouted, getting to his feet, jumping up and down and hugging the pair to his greasy belly. The entire room shook from the mountain of an ogre’s leaps as he finally let them free and hurried off towards the field. “Tim go punch nail dwarfs and make brains come out!” A terrified and partially crushed Sir Baller gave Lobbings a thumbs up. “Well that certainly sounds promising.” ~~~ The two teams managed to find their way to the pitch in time for their match. Juggernutter managed to get one of the cheerleaders’ numbers. The Weather managed to stay nice all game long. The Strikers’ head coach managed to purchase them a bribe. The Nailers managed a blitz on the opening kick off. The Strikers managed to break nails like they did in practice...a lot and score. The Dwarves managed to tie the humans right before the end of the match. The Humans managed to teach a few dwarves how to surf. Sir Baller managed to save the game at the very last second. And Pat ‘the Punchbag’ Petes managed to live through the game. Oh, and Pat also managed to find his best black suit. He managed to find a flower shop that was open late hours. He managed to fake a warm smile. He managed to speak a few kind words. He managed to not get any tears on his tie. He managed to stay to the end of the sermon. And he managed to be one of the casket bearers. Another Striker managed to die. And Nuffle finally managed to claim a soul he’d been hungering for. The rain finally managed to start. Like the gods finally managed to cry. And as the last horse-drawn coach managed to pull out of the stadium, Lobbings managed to convince Pat to finally leave the fresh onyx grave. But not before Pat managed to leave Sparkly Steve’s lucky token on the fresh tilled earth. The stone read: We’re glad we managed to meet as beautiful and gentle a soul as yours, Steve. May you always be loved and may you ever sparkle down on us from your spot up in the heavens. You will be missed, but never shall you be forgotten.
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Post by Kaiser on May 20, 2016 17:47:09 GMT
damn i want more
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Post by hdawg on May 20, 2016 22:19:13 GMT
I'd gotten ahead of myself a bit and started the next chapter, hoping against hope that I'd make it to the finals and then lose But sadly I got smacked down hard by Cerumol. So I can post up what I've got so far, just need to rewrite it since the strikers lost </3 Still, can't George RR martin it like I've done and leave it unfinished. I'll post up something soon then to get an end to this tale.
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Post by hdawg on May 28, 2016 0:10:20 GMT
Chapter 9: Peanut Butter and Jelly So, I've never done this before...written I mean. I've always wanted to though, so ahhh, here goes nothing. Oh wait! I suppose it's worth noting something before i get too far in. Terry and Manfred were rarely ever seen apart. Hmmm, that probably seems a tad odd to bring up without context. Okay, well, in life there are things which immediately bring a second thing to mind. Like peanut butter and jelly, salt and pepper, soup and crackers – gods is it just me or is about time for lunch? Well, Terry and Manfred were two such things. You could hardly mention one without thinking of the other. They'd always been close and short of another ratpocalypse they always would be. Terry was the Ketchup to Manfred's fries, the milk to his cookies, the fish to his... crap, I'm doing it again. But I think you understand what I'm getting at. Enough at least that I can move on.
So, where to start? Not at the beginning. That'd take far too long and it's terribly drab and pedestrian for my taste. But, I also can't start at the end either, this tale loses most of its punch and besides, it'd risk sending the wrong message entirely. The middle then, at a perfectly random moment. It was a day some time after we strikers 'won' a match due to an odd concession by the Kaiser's Seahawks, but before we went on to lose to the Carnivore Claws the following week.
I remember the day well. The sun was out and shining on the city square of Middenheim, not a cloud in the sky! It would have been pleasant if not for the blistering heat and the utter lack of a breeze. As it stood it was 'balls hot' as some of my teammates would say. Terry was taking every opportunity to remind us as much. Who do I mean by 'us'? Well, let's see. Capt Rammer was there, and Manfred of course. Never far from Terry that one. And I, Oldman Open, made our fourth member. We'd decided to head to the market for some much needed relaxation. After all, we ended that game against the Seahawks super early, why not live it up a little? Plenty of time before we'd have to hit the Blood Bowl pitch to train again.
So we'd done some sight seeing, me and the Capt. The Striker stadium is located right there in town you say? True, but we'd still only had a few days fully off, let alone an entire weekend, to go exploring. Terry and Manfred grew up here in Middenheim so they were showing us around to all the best sites. Manny was a northerner, yes, but he didn't spend long up there. And yes, I'm sure about my facts. He'd been raised by Grammi Mangles up in Norsca but when she passed away Terry's family the Von Erlachs, a noble Middenese patrician family who served as senior military commanders in both the Kaiser's army and abroad, took him in. Manfred probably never heard the full story, but being a great lover of history and having served under Terry's father for a time as a squire I knew it couldn't be a coincidence that the boy came to live at the Erlach estate. Lord Erlach had many virtues, but being charitable was not one of them. Manfred's father, the chieftan of a norse tribe, assisted the Erlachs at the end of the second chaos incursion. I suppose it turned out that despite starting off as enemies the old chief saved the southern Lord from Middenheim. The saying an enemy of my enemy can become my friend, I suppose. And a debt is a debt, especially to a noble. The Erlachs took the boy Manfred Von Mangles in and raised him in tandem with their own son.
'And then Oldman poopsed his pants cuz hes ooooollldd and then had all the buttsexx with a hairi troll!! Joogernuutter gotz all the girls and Capt. wares glassus and is lame!'
My apologies, Juggernutter got a hold of my pen for a second there and started scribbling. I'm surprised he was as coherent as he was. Part of me suspected he was illiterate or at the very – WHAT? My story does not suck. Just because it has history instead of a bunch of pictures of tits and asses like the types of published material you usually 'read' does not make it crappy. *Sigh* Fine, I'll get on with it.
So we were walking around the city for the day and Manfred recommended we stop at a nice little satyr's bistro for lunch. Hoof'N Horn I think it was called. Amazing cherry tarts and halfling bearclaw pastries, mmmmh simply delicious! We'd just gotten comfortable when Capt Rammer noticed a pair of familiar faces across the patio. Who else would it be but Sir Baller and Sir Lobbings the team captain himself! Turns out they were talking to that tall dark elf news reporter from Channel-H News, Ivanna Blocku. Now I wanted to just leave them be and Manfred clearly agreed with me that it was best to let them enjoy themselves. Well, Terry being Terry enlisted the aid of Capt Rammer and the pair decided it would be funny to just barge right over and – sigh, they may or may not have upended entire flagons of ale on both their heads. What a way to make an entrance! Though it turned out to be more of an exit since, suffice to say, that scared off Ivanna pretty fast. She stuck around to ask them a few more questions as Terry and Capt cleaned up the mess they'd made, but she was obviously just trying to be polite. Once she'd left we got to talking...
~~~
“Dick move, Terry,” Sir Baller laughed as he flicked his jersey up and down, spraying ale about. “Funny mind you, but still a dick move.”
“Gods, the look on Lobbings' face though. He turned all shades of red,” Capt Rammer said with a big grin as he slapped the back of his soaked tunic. “Still not sure if it was from anger or embarrassment.”
Lobbings shot his most withering glare Capt's way and shrugged the offending hand away. “It was from shame, actually. I've never been so ashamed and I've just been sayin g to that lovely reporter what serious, honest and honourable teammates I-”
“Bollocks!” Terry laughed. “That'd never be us and you know it! Even if it was, you'd never admit it.”
“Why must he have ze bull testicles?” Manfred asked, one eyebrow raised. “Always vith ze talk of ze cow ballz.”
“It's just an expression, dummy,” Capt said, elbowing Manny in the ribs. “You've heard Terry say it how many times daily? You've gotta know what all our swear and slang words mean by now. Quit putting it on.”
“I vill be putting nothing on. It iz far too hot. Und just because ve are ze living in zis country meine friend, zis does not mean I must be learning strange traditions or vords for svearing.”
“Hey watch it, I wouldn't elbow him if I were you. Manny's liable to take your head off! He's all pent up after not getting a chance to pummel more of those Seahawks,” Terry said, elbowing the large man on the opposite side right in the ribs.
Manfred looked a bit confused and mostly annoyed as he swatted his two fellow blitzers off him. Oldman Open shook his head at their antics. “Sorry, think you two are confusing him with yourselves. You're the head hunter Capt and they call you 'the trampler' for a reason Terry. Manfred's not really going out of his way to mess people up.”
Fresh drinks arrived on a tray, nimbly carried by the elegant fingertips of a dryad waitress. Lobbings collected his drink and then deposited a hefty amount of gold coins onto her serving tray; no doubt because he still felt embarrassed at their previous shenanigans. He then held the dink aloft. The other Strikers grabbed their mugs and glasses and did the same.
“Let's make a toast,” Lobbings said with a playful wink.
“Yeah?” Terry replied, glancing from one team mate to the next. “Sounds like you've got something in mind. What do you say, Lobbings? What shall we toast?”
“Nah, I yak enough already. Baller, you can do the honours!”
The catcher shrugged. “Alright. Well hey, as far as i see it we've all gone through a hell of a lot to still be sitting here. Six seasons with the Hell Hounds. Another two or three seasons with other teams for you three grey-hairs,” he said gesturing at Capt, Baller, and Lobbings.
“Or 'no-hairs' as the case may be!” Capt Rammer exclaimed as he gave Lobbing's smooth chrome dome a playful pat.
“The point is, this toast should be to all of us seeing this second season in Iron Phoenix through to its end. We've got the six of us originals left. Here's to winning our first cup this year and all being alive to hold the trophy on high for the fans to see! Deal?”
Silence settled on the other five as they stared at Baller. Oldman Open even put down his cup mid-toast.
“Wow..” Lobbings murmured.
“Bad luck I think to toast something like that,” Rammer added.
Manfred and Terry nodded as Oldman Open said, “Yeah I mean that's quite the boast- err, I mean, toast to make. We're good and all, but there's some A-class teams out there for Silver. Also, don't we need to win all of our remaining games to even make it to playoffs?”
“Half!” Lobbings was quick to correct. “Well, about half. Not like i've spent more than a few weeks crunching the numbers or anything, but as long as we break even on our wins and losses and the right teams lose we've got a damn good shot at playoffs.”
Capt shrugged. “Possible then. Hell, I'm game. What the fuck, you only live once right? Nuffle be damned I say. Sorta like a toast-oath. 'Here's to us being badasses-to-be'.”
Manfred lifted his glass and let it clink against Terry's. “I for one vill be right zere beside you all as ve vin ze cup. Und I vill be ze one to hold it up for all to see.”
Terry's grin and subsequent nod was infectious. Even Lobbings who seemed worried by the mention of Nuffle cracked a smile and lifted his glass.
“If it's to be a true toast we've gotta do it the Strikers' way!” Lobbings said.
Cups clattered against one another as their voices became one. Together we strike, we strike! We strike, we strike! We strike, we STRIKE!
~~~
It was 5 weeks later from the day those six Strikers had sat at the Hoof`N Horn and made their vow before one another and the gods themselves. This was game one of a best of three for the Silver Cup playoffs. They'd done it. Just as they'd promised. They were huddled tightly together with the rest of their team on the dugout by the side of the field. The vibrations from the stands sending tremors through the ground and up their spines from the intensity of the mounting anticipation. Despite the chanting of the crowd and the blaring of horns the magically enhanced voices of Cabal Visions two main Blood Bowl sportscasters echoed throughout the stadium. “Hello and welcome! I'm Bob Bifford and we're here to bring you another edition of 'someone's playing and we've got no idea who they are!'”
“That's right, Bob! I'm Jim Johnson and let me just say this is a pretty shady gig we've landed here, even for the walking dead. I mean, really? One microphone to share between the two of us? It's going to get downright foul in here if I need to sit near Bob when he lets one 'rip'.”
“Dahhh, that's right, Jim! I do enjoy the odd reverse gut-beltch from time to time and I've been told they sometimes smell a lot like halfling and limburger cheese!”
“Ugh disgusting- I think I'm going to throw up my blood of Mary.”
“Hmmm. Dont'cha mean a 'Bloody Mary' there, Jim?”
“No, no. A common mistake, but there's nothing like a warm cup of Mary. The bloodier the better I always say! So, what are we commenting on this week, Bob? Any idea?”
“Awww come on, Jim. You know I cant read! But i heard from my stagecoach driver on the way over before the match that this was The Iron Phoenix somethingerother.”
“Is that the name of the tournament or is that the name of one of the teams?”
A long silence broken up by static crackles followed.
After nearly a full minute Bob came back on. “Sumthing called Silver Cup Semi-Finals. The Iron Phoenix, get this, seems to be one of those league thingys that confuse me.”
“Ahhh gotcha. Frankly, I'm surprised we even signed on for this. I was sure we'd convinced that slacker of an agent that our contracts would be changed so we'd only have to do finals for these smaller 'side' leagues.”
“Well, I dunno, Jim. But doesn't Semi-Finals have the word Finals in it?'
Their bickering reduced in volume as the House of Eagles took to the field and the Brettonian french horns began blaring out the nation's anthem. The crowd once again took to starting a chant, their ocean of teal and white jerseys swaying back and forth from left to right.
Eaaaaaa – Guuuuuuuuuls! Eaaaaaa – Guuuuuuuuuls!
By the time the Strikers were ready to run out they were all looking to Lobbings for that one final push.
“Hands in, everyone. Hands on top of Tim's!”
The ogre's large pumpkin-sized fist held open flat became the base for the other ten players to cling to as they met their leader's steeled gaze.
“We've got this boys. All the days training, all the sore nights. This is it. It all comes down to a little over an hour and a half and game one is going to be behind us. Don't leave anything in the tanks. Can't think about game two. Not our style. We've gotta give it our all out there. We stick together and we win together. You all know the game plan. Let's execute!”
“Heads on a swivel!” Capt Rammer growled.
Terry punching his taped up fists together as Manfred shook his large biceps. “Ve vill strike zem, jah?”
Jah! Shouted the team.
Their cleats tore turf, their helmets popping on one by one as the stream of red and white jerseys took to the field. The roars from the Strikers fans started to drown out the Eaaaaa-Gulllllls chant which until then had still been going strong.
Champions of the Reik, Champions of the Reik; STRIKE! We strike, we STRIKE!
“Singing our tune!” Baller shouted to Lobbings as they took their spots in the backfield for the incoming kick. The eagles were lining up tight on the line of scrimmage.
“I don't like the smell of this...” Lobbings said, starting to backpeddle. “Watch it mate, think they're gonna-”
They kicked off before the whistle was even blown. A false start blitz, but the game was on in earnest as the Eagles Star muscle blitzer Chiltern Headground bore down on Terry from behind. He was still strapping on his helmet and waving to the crowd as the Eagle player connected with his backside with a sickening crunch. Terry hit the ground hard, but the head coach was already waving on their spare team of apothecaries they'd hired for the match to get him some smelling salts to get him back in this game.
“Stick to the plan, boys!” Lobbings shouted, calling an audible to change up the play on the fly. “Rally center rally center, 24 left wheel cage!”
Lobbings scooped up the ball, joined up with his son Jr who formed the rear of an impromptu cage. Manfred and Juggernutter screened them from the front as Baller took up his position at the center. Lobbings let fly and the pass was made. Ball secured!
But on came the eagles. Bearing down with murder in their eyes. They too had a game plan it seemed. The blitz had been no coincidence as a bolt of lightening was swift to blast out from the stands. Sir Baller went down hard, shuddering from the electricity coursing through him, but Juggernutter caught hold of the bouncing ball. That wasn't to last as the blitz came fast and hard. The loose ball was scooped up by another Eagles' blitzer as he dodged away from the scrum forming, but he couldn't complete the hand off to a wide open blocker. “We gotta get this under control NOW!” Baller shouted.
The catcher should have been dead or stunned from the force of the magical spell, but the worst he seemed to be sporting was a bad hair-do. The blackened ends stood up straight at odd angles as he got back to his feet. On the far side of the pitch Chiltern Headground's fist connected with Oldman Opens face.
He was down instantly, bleeding profusely. Badly hurt for sure, stretchers already stumbling to try and get out onto the field to get his writhing body clear of the action.
Jr and Baller scrambled to cover the ball, but Timothy Devries was all over the ball again, scooping it up despite their coverage as he tried to dodge out. Jr tripped him with a slide tackle.
“Grab it, Jr!” Baller shouted. “I've got your back.”
Scooping it up the pair managed to wade back to the midfield where Lobbings, Manfred, Lobbings, Tiny Tim, Juggernutter, Capt Rammer, and Terry were all mixing it up with Eagles players. They swarmed them from all angles, throwing blocks with wild abandon. There was no finesse to this, no stand-off and picking the right moment. It was a blood bath. Jr had barely reached the partially formed cage when Chiltern Headground blitzed in and knocked Jr on his ass. Again, the speedy Timothy Devries was all over the ball scooping it up.
From further up-field, surrounded by Eagles players and drenched in his foes' blood as well as his own, stood Capt Rammer.
His eyes roaming around like a crazed and cornered beast as he let out a bellow.
“Looks like they want a scrap!! Strikers, let's FUCK EM Up!!”
He caved in a peasant's face with a mean right hook and Terry the Trampler did what he does best and blitzed the ball free, trampling all over his prone form as the rest of the Strikers set about knocking all of the eagles to the turf. Finally Jr was free and collected the ball.
He ran out free of the clusterfuck and was greeted by the sight of a slightly wobbly Pat 'the punching-bag' Peters getting back to his feet. He was in the process of straightening his helmet as he waved for Jr. To throw him the ball. He was wide open. Outside the reach of any of the Eagles, but for some reason Jr held onto the ball.
“Don't do it kid...” Baller panted as he dodged away from a peasant's counterblow. “Throw it...FUCKING THROW IT!”
The greedy little bastard ran with it, unaware of the Blitzer who'd already leapt to his feet and was now bearing down on him. With a hard tackle the Eagles blitzer knocked the ball loose and scooped up the ball. This could easily turn into a last second score for the Eagles instead of the Strikers.
“We gotta mark him!” Baller shouted, sprinting through coverage with Jr.
“I've got a clear shot, I'm taking it!” Jr puffed.
“Don't, you don't know how to block right and this guy isn't easy to bring down. He's a pro!”
“You take the hit then?”
Baller again shook his head as they tore after the Eagles' blitzer. “Not strong enough.”
“Then what the fuck are we gonna do?! He's almost at the endzone. He's gonna score!”
“Try trusting your team mates, like you shoulda done!”
Right as Baller and Jr rushed in from the Blitzer's flank, drawing his attention to fend them off, Terry came out of nowhere with a wild closeline hook, injuring the ball carrier badly. He was gurgling from a partially collapsed windpipe as Eagles Apothecaries rushed to his aid. Terry had already scooped up the ball and looked like he was ready to toss it to one of them, but Baller shook his head in dismay. The halftime whistle blew.
“Outa time,” Baller said, padding over towards the dugout for a much needed drink of water. Some Eagles players had to be pulled off of Juggernutter who was face down getting fouled and part of the Eagles bench also had to intervene to get Capt Rammer off a second peasant he was busy battering into the hospital bed.
Before Baller could reach the sidelines he shot one more look at Jr. “See? Trust in your team mates. Next time...IF you get a next time, trust the numbers on the jersey in front of you. Throw and he'll catch. You gotta believe that Jr.”
“Sorry, alright. I fucked up.”
Terry shrugged and ruffled his mop of thinning hair. “Relax kid. You'll get another shot. I'll make sure of it. One hell of a first half.”
As they reached the dugout the weary Strikers were all standing around holding their sides as Master Chef put on his best impression of Capt Rammer as he reenacted moments earlier when he'd gone off the deep end.
“So then he's like – FUCKS EM' UP BOIZ! And starts beating ever last tooth out of that peasant's poor fucking face!”
“And he didn't have many to start with,” Pat added with a hoot of laughter.
As Baller, Terry and Jr, arrived the young thrower rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry, Pat. I shoulda thrown to you back there. I just- you looked so wobbly and I wanted to score.”
“Greedy bastard...” Juggernutter mumbled as he pushed tufts of the astroturf from his helmet's facemask.
“Nah, i mean I probably woulda dropped it. Can't second guess yourself in the moment,” Pat offered with a warm smile.
“Thanks,” Jr said with a genuine smile. “We'll make it up.”
“Whistles about to blow,” Lobbings said. “We've got our wizard. We've got some of their peasants down and that one fast blizter is down for sure. He's still knocked out. Winds out of their sails, but they've still got the ship and oars to put this thing in the dock.”
“Vait, vhat is vith all the sailing terms?” Manfred asked, looking confused.
“Tim like boats!” the ogre said, clapping his huge palms together. “They go in bath tub! Huuhuu huu!”
“Alright, well if you do a good job again, Tim, I'm going to buy you as many toy boats as you want. Let's do this Strikers.” Lobbings broke the huddle as the whistle blew for the second half.
They kicked off, the ball bouncing into the waiting hands of the agile Eagles' Blitzer, Henry Freshfeet. They focused Capt Rammer early with a blitz as peasants and blockers swarmed over to foul him. This time the ref noticed and ejected one of them, but not before the ball was recovered. Manfred pushed deep into their half to engage the ball carrier's support and baller got adjacent to get in his way and mark him. Terry attempted to dodge out but failed, getting tripped to the turf. Tiny Tim had four players locked down near the line of scrimmage, but Freshfoot was off with two other blitzers screening for him.
It was time. Lobbings looked to the bench, the head coach nodded and the flag was waved. Red for fireball. With a roar of flames the two players guarding the ball carrier were slammed to the ground, their tunics smoldering. Both temporarily stunned from the force of the magic, but neither out of it.
“NOW!” Lobbings screamed. “Get the ball loose!”
Capt Rammer obliged, blasting Freshfeet to the ground as Baller crossed most of the field, going for it twice over to scoop up the ball. But here came the retort. He managed to stand his ground miraculously. Fending off the pair of much larger Eagles players as they collapsed around him to block his escape route. Capt Rammer, aided by Tiny Tim and several other players did work to knock a path free, but one Eagles player remained, blocking his progress. Manfred was down field waiting for the play they'd set up.
But Baller seemed to hesitate.
He waited a split second too long and as he tried to dodge out, he was caught by one of their flailing feet and he went down. The ball was loose once more.
Lobbings cursed under his breath. He knew that distracted stare all too well and suspected he knew what had distracted his fellow player. Still, he had to play damage control.
“Overtime! We're going for overtime, cut them off. Block their crew.”
Easier said than done. Tim had been ganged up on by the four Eagles players and was stunned. Jr. Was done as well, KO'd by a blitzer. Freshfeet already had the ball again and was caged by most of his team.
“Three in front with me! Master Chef, Pat, flank the sides! Capt-”
“Way ahead of you, boss!”
With a wet crunch Capt Rammer slammed a spiked shoulderpad into one of the screening peasants and with a plaintive gurgle the unfortunate man crumpled to the earth. Reacting instinctively the Eagles were already pushing to the opposite side of the field from Capt Rammer to keep him at bay longer. Terry was trailing the play as well it was mostly Lobbings and his lineman left to hold the push towards the end zone.
The clock spun down wildly. Time was on their side and the crowd had noticed too, screaming up a storm as they realized Freshfeet couldn't make it in time. Juggernutters was at the back surfing a blocker by the name of Edward Button into the enraged crowd. They beat the ever living shit out of him, leaving him alive, but crippled.
“There's only one of them that can make it...” Lobbings realized. “Everyone! Get on the ball carrier from behind and screen that blocker! He's gonna pass! PASS PASS PASS!”
Lobbings rushed forwards to get in his way, but was pushed free. The blocker dodged out through the freshly created hole as Henry Freshfeet let fly. Lobbings watched the pass from the ground, his eyes wide and heart pounding in his chest. It was on the mark. It hung there, creeping closer to the blocker's fingertips.
Drop it. Fucking Drop it. Lobbings willed, but everything went silent as the Eagles' Blocker caught it, held it aloft and then spiked it. The bench and a slew of Eagles fans rushed the pitch and lifted him and Freshfoot up into the air like mortal gods. Lobbings sat there on one knee, as though he was underwater. The weary and disheartened looks on the faces of his team mates scattered around the pitch mirrored what his own must look like.
The Strikers had lost game one.
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Post by hdawg on Aug 1, 2016 21:20:29 GMT
Chapter 10: All Bells Eventually Toll
A light rain drizzled down on the old decrepit stadium. It wasn’t impressive, it wasn’t posh, hellfires it wasn’t even really serviceable. Flickering lights shone down through the evening gloom, many of the bulbs long since burnt out. The spotlights illuminating old wooden stands with decaying planks, the faded white yard marker lines on a brownish hued grass pitch, and the rusted old fences which surrounded the dugouts. This sorry excuse for a stadium was in sorry need of a face lift, but it was the place the Striker Fans had come to call the Thunder Dome. Where no matter what, lightening could strike at any moment.
Lightening flash symbols were painted in gold and red on the white wash marble walls leading up from the change rooms. Each one carefully hand painted by loyal fans many of whom would take turns daring one another to sneak in past security to add their artwork to the growing collection. Terry stood, hand outstretched, tracing the outline of one such lightening bolt. Some of the mortar crumbled away beneath his fingertips as he picked at a jagged bit of loose masonry.
The sound of cleats on astrogranite behind him alerted him that he was no longer alone. He lifted the half empty bottle of Kislev vodka that he held in his other hand and took a swig.
Manfred‘s voice echoed up the ramp. “Vhat are you still doing here Terry? It is late und ve have game two tomorrow. Come! Ve should get you to ze stagecoach und go to-”
“We’re not going to win it...”
Terry’s voice was hollow, tired, and most of all it was angry. He closed the hand that was tracing the lightening bolt outline and made a fist, slamming it into the wall with frustration as he turned to face his childhood friend.
“We’re going to lose and then all those people who believed in us, all those people who DIED for us. What the fuck is it all gonna have been for?”
Terry seemed to sway there, expecting a response from Manfred so the tall northman made his way up the ramp.
“Vell, ve don’t know if this is being a loss. Jah? Ve still have ze two games to play because zis is best of three.”
“Heh, that’s a joke if ever I heard one,” Terry said, lifting the bottle, but hesitating before drinking. “We won’t ever make it to game three. We had about as good a shot as any this match, and we fucked it up. Baller fucked it, Jr fucked it, hell even I fucked it by getting taken out so damn early. Wasted a perfectly good apo on my sorry ass.”
“Give me zat,” Manfred said, holding out his hand imperiously towards the bottle.
“Who are you, my mother? Fuck off, Manny.”
“You vill begin to be getting ze reputation as second Juggernooter if you are drinking all ze time. I am not being mother, I am trying to save you embarrassment.”
Terry looked at the bottle with a mixture of horror and disgust and hurled it against the opposite dugout wall, shattering the glass and what was left of the alcohol all over the floor.
Manfred and Terry both froze and then glanced at one another.
“Fuck....” Terry said, his eyes wide. “That was close. I didn’t even think about that,” he said cracking a grin. “Juggernutter the second. That’s a terrifying thought.”
“Gah! I vas going to offer to be drinking zis. Vhy you vaste good Kislev алкоголь?” Manfred asked, using his native tongue’s word for alcohol.
“Whatever. Your stuff tastes like shit,” Terry said as he slung an arm around Manfred’s shoulder. “Lead on then, good sir. To new adventures?”
“Nein. To bed meine friend. Ve have ze match in ze morning.”
“Wake me up when it’s all over...”
~~~~
Lobbings caught Baller just as he was getting into a stagecoach to bring him back to the Strikers guild hall.
“Hey! Baller! I want a word.”
Baller reached for the door handle. “Whatever it is, it can wait for the morning. I need to wash all this dirt off and I-”
“I know what happened on the pitch,” Lobbings said, cutting him off and slamming the half open stagecoach door shut. “I know you saw him.”
Baller scanned Lobbings’ wild eyes slowly and then shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, mate. Looks like you could use the sleep and a bath more than I do. Have you seen yourself lately?”
“Nuffle,” Lobbings spat out. “You saw Nuffle.”
“Oh come ON! Not this horseshit again,” Baller said turning away and pacing, his hands on his hips.
“Look at me! Look me in the fucking eyes and tell me you didn’t see him? You had a clear route out. You’ve made dodges like that a hundred times and you hesitated. I fucking SAW you do it. Nuffle was there. You made some sort of deal with him to sell your soul. Admit it!”
When Baller finally turned to face Lobbings he wore a weary expression. He shrugged his shoulders dejectedly. “Look...If I saw him, and I’m not saying I did. I wouldn’t ever trade my soul away. I mean, what? I made a deal to give myself up AND lose us the game? That’s about the worst deal I’ve ever head of. If Nuffle was there looking at me from the stands and offering me victory MAYBE I would have taken it, alright, but he wasn’t. You gotta let this thing go.”
Lobbings lost most of his bluster and threw his hands up in the air. “I just- We had the game. I could see it so clearly, like tracers. Lights flickering across the pitch. Where we needed to run, where each of us had to stand. It’s like I could see the ball in your hands crossing the end zone line and then all of a sudden they had it instead.”
Baller opened the stagecoach door. “Maybe you were the one making a deal with Nuffle. Ever think of that?”
The door slammed shut, leaving Lobbings outside the Thunder Dome as the stagecoach trundled off. The next one pulled up, the old driver tipping his damp tophat at him and asking him if he needed a ride.
Lobbings stepped in without a word and sat in the back seat. It took him several minutes to realize the driver was on his second or third attempt to ask him where he was going. He pulled two gold marks from his pocket and pushed them through the slot between the back seat and the front.
“Just drive. I don’t care where...”
~~~~
Baller sat in his stagecoach as it bounced along the cobbled streets of Middenheim. His hand trembled violently as he curled and uncurled his fingers. He couldn’t stop the tremors. Ever since he’d seen it. Ever since he’d seen him.
Lobbings was right. Nuffle had come to him and even more terrifying he’d realized his folly. He’d signed his name, someone else had dealt for his soul before, now all Nuffle needed was the final piece in the puzzle and his life was forfeit.
The god of luck? More like the god of blackmail. Fail the dodge out or lose your soul. Miss a block or you lose your soul. Make Lobbings as miserable as possible or lose your soul. Where would it end? When would it. He knew all too well the answer was never. He’d have to quit, or give Nuffle what he wanted.
He couldn’t remember ever signing anything to him, but there it was in his own handwriting on a tattered piece of- Memories of the old janitor from the stadium came flooding back to him. The crooked smile, the way he folded the paper up reverently. He’d known the man was lying about having a son when he gave the autograph, he could tell he was an old skeezer, but he’d just assumed he was going to sell it to some rabid Striker fan. No, his motives had been far more sinister.
“Fuck!” Baller snarled, pounding a fist against the stagecoach’s interior.
The vehicle rolled to a stop and the slot slide open. A woman driving the stagecoach put her face up to the slot. “You knocked, sir? Ye be wanting out or sumfin? Ye already paid up to the Guildhall.”
Baller waved her on. “Sorry. Drive on.”
The reins gave a crack and the team of horses started moving again. The swaying and bouncing of the coach doing nothing to assuage Baller of his mounting fears. Nuffle was all too real and he was after him. Lobbings had been right.
For the first time in his life he felt truly lost.
~~~~
The strikers stood in a semi-circle. The roar of the crowd was somewhat muted this time around. Their gazes all downcast. As they shuffled about awkwardly.
Jr looked at Pat who was looking at Juggernutter who seemed confused by the silence. He was looking at Tiny Tim who was picking his nose. Oldman Open was looking to Manfred for some sort of cue but he was all wrapped up in Terry who still seemed hung over from last night. Baller and Lobbings stood on opposite sides of the semi circle both of them seemingly lost in thoughts.
“Well? Is anyone going to say anything or are we just gonna fuck around all day holding hands?” Capt Rammer said, breaking the spell.
“Speech?” Tiny Tim said, looking excited as he clapped his big mitts together. “Tim likes speech!”
All eyes turned to Lobbings. He glanced around and though he managed to open his mouth, as though to start, he quickly shut it again.
“I haven’t got one,” he said plainly.
Murmurs whispered between the ranks and Tim’s face drooped visibly. “But Lobbings always give speech,” Tim insisted.
“Not this time.”
Tim puffed up his chest. “We are uhhhh team. And team plays with dah ball! And Tim Big and hit cuz we play hard and work as team and- and ummmmm OH! And we try bestest and throw stuff and all win and be happy friends. Cuz we strike!”
The eagerness in the big lug’s eyes was just too heartbreaking. Despite the dour mood several of the players’ couldn’t help but smirk.
Master Chef patted Tiny Tim on the hip. “Well said, big guy. That was one hell of a speech.”
The ogre beamed and held out his hand. Manfred gave him an approving nod and placed his hand on top of his. Master Chef, Jr, Rammer, and Juggernutter were quick to follow suit.
“Ve made a vow some of us,” Manfred said. His face grim. “I do not say zis to point ze finger. To how you say, call you out. I say zis because zis vas vhat we promised. Ve Strikers, vill triumph. I, Manfred Von Mangles, of Kislev and Ze family Von Erlachs vows zis. No matter vhat!”
Baller looked to Lobbings and the pair nodded. They both slowly moved forwards and added their hands to the pile.
“Bring it in guys. We’ve got a game to win,” Lobbings said, his voice steady at last.
The remainder of the team all came forwards adding their hands to the collection until it became hard to see where one person ended and another one began. All had their hands in, all save for Terry.
“We’ve gotta find a way to stop that one guy. That fucking elf of a blitzer. He danced all around us last game and chances are he’s going to do it again.”
“Ve vill see how vell he dances vhen ve break both of his legs then!” Manfred said with a big grin and a stroke of his curled mustache.
Terry grinned back and shook his head. “He’ll be screened you big dummy. They never leave his side, always babysitting his ass. He’s going to bide his time and score once we’re all tied up and the clocks almost at zero.”
“He can bide all he likes.” Manfred grabbed Terry and hauled him into the circle. “But he’ll only score over my dead body.”
Terry swallowed and gave Manny a trusting nod before looking at his two other fellow blitzers. “Get’er done, eh boys?”
Juggernuter offered a half crazed grin and Capt Rammer winked. “Let’s fuck their faces up so bad they can’t tell them from their assholes.”
“Always did have a way with words, Capt.” Oldman chuckled.
“Don’t worry,” Lobbings offered. “I’ve been thinking about how to deal with this Henry Freshfeet for a while now and I’ve got a plan. Terry's right, they always guard him so we need to find a way to separate him from all of his buddies.”
The team crowded closer as Lobbings quickly whispered his scheme. When it was done the Strikers all began to slowly nod.
“It’s unusual, I give you that,” Capt Rammer said.
“Might even work?” Pat said hopefully.
“Only way we’re going to find out is we give it a try. Together,” Baller said, initiating the chant. “We strike!”
'We strike' roared back each time he repeated it. Soon their voices carried out across the pitch and the once dull crowd took on the chant. It rose to the rafters of that dreary old stadium. It might have been white washed walls, rickety old wood, and sun seared grass, but it was also alive with the screams and energy of the Strikers' mob.
Lightening always strikes twice.
The crest was emblazoned above their change room doors. Today was their day. A new dawn. Time for the Strikers to earn their stripes.
~~~
The kick from the Eagles was short. Most of the strikers fanned out to cover deeper down the pitch with Jr and Lobbings covering the ball. Manfred stood as the only one between the Eagles and the would be ball carriers.
The Striker defense seemed very weak from the outset.
Chiltern Headground, the freakishly strong blitzer can crashing in, knocking Manfred to the ground. Sure enough, the nimble Henry Freshfeet dodged in, scooped up the ball despite Jr and his Father’s efforts to stop him and rolled back out to complete a throw to the speedy Timothy Devries who was off like a hare towards the end zone. The Strikers fans began booing at their poor performance, but the Strikers didn’t budge. They had to stick to their plan.
Next, Terry and Pat the punching bag Peters got themselves isolated. Terry piling on to some peasants to draw the Eagle’s ire. Most of their team headed to them, fouling Terry into the dirt. As those players peeled off to get Terry and the rest headed downfield to protect the ball carrier it left one player exactly where the Strikers wanted him.
“NOW!” Lobbings bellowed.
Juggernutter had already hit Henry Freshfeet to the pitch moments earlier and before the player could find his feet again the vast majority of the Strikers had him surrounded, raining cleats down on his face and neck. He'd paid the Ref well to avoid getting called on a foul. They were free to squeeze in as much punishment as they could humanely deliver.
Lobbings kept tabs on Timothy as he ran towards the end zone. They couldn’t wait too long though or he’d score. He was fast; damned fast.
“We need to act now!” Lobbings shouted.
“I agree,” Manfred said between kicks to Freshfeet’s face. “Ve must do it now if ve vant to stop ze score und recover ze ball!”
“NO!” Jr said, grinding his boot down on Freshfeet’s throat. “We need to make sure this guys stays down! A little longer!”
Lobbings wasn’t having any of it. He glanced to Baller. “Go for it! Get the ball.”
The catcher took off at a sprint. Despite the Eagle’s runner being speedy, none could match Baller stride for stride. The catcher quickly gained ground on him, running him down at the 1 yard line. Just as he was about to cross the line and score a flash of lightening arced out from the stands and struck him down.
A cheer went up from the Striker fans. Their ace in the hole. Dangerous to spend it so early and as though Nuffle was laughing at them, Lobbings watched in dismay as Chiltern Deepblood dodged out, scooped the ball up from under Baller's nose, and ran it in to score anyways.
The whistle blew and a very smug, though somewhat bloody Freshfeet stood back up and spat on the pitch. “That all you pussies got?”
Juggernutter looked to Lobbings. “Well, so much for that plan. Got any others, boss?”
Lobbings chewed on his lower lip nervously. “I’ll have to think of something...”
The next kick was short, landing right behind the line of scrimmage. Jr carried it into a cage forming on the right, but Terry was surrounded and fouled into the turf. KO’d. Eagles players rushed to close off that side of the pitch and Lobbings was quick to wave his son back.
“Drop back into our half! Baller go deep! Rammer, screen him!”
“On it, boss!” Rammer shouted moving to cut off any pursuit.
The eagles read the play well, shifting players over to interfere. Rammer could only stop so many. Chiltern Headground himself moved to block Baller. All it would take was a few dodges. No need to knock the big man over, but alas another blitzer was all over Jr. Manfred came blitzing in to free up the young blood bowler.
“Get ze ball to baller! He vill score. Run and throw like you’ve never thrown ze ball before!”
As Jr rushed forwards his cleats failed to find purchase on the slippery grass, slick with blood and he went down. The groans from the crowd and his team mates said it all. The Strikers wouldn’t be scoring this half.
Manfred wouldn’t quit though. Even as an Eagles player rushed the loose ball and threw to their player deep in the Striker half, the big northman rallied.
“Ve must stop him! Juggernooter, get ze ball free und I vil try meine best to throw to someone to hand off to Baller, ve can still score und tie zis up!”
Juggernutter’s blitz was on the mark, but he kept his feet. Manfred failed to pick the ball up and it bounced free. With a smirk, the Eagle blitzer danced away, narrowly dodging Juggernutter’s foot and picked up the ball. The score was heartbreaking. 2-0 the board now read with french horns blaring their triumph all the louder as the halftime show started.
“Nice try Manfred...” Juggernutter offered. “You did your best.”
“I vas stupid und greedy!” He snarled at him, the normally calm and gentle giant unnerved by the score. “I should have told you to guard ze ball. Now ve must vork extra hard to vin zis game.”
“Buddy, I mean look around. I don’t think we’re winning anything. It’s two to zero.”
“I said zey vould win over meine dead body and I meant it. Ve still have a shot at zis.”
Manfred stalked over to Baller and whispered to him. “After ze kick, if it isn’t too deep, do you think you can get to zem?”
“Sure, but I won’t have anyone with me.”
“Jah I know zat.”
“And I’m not exactly the strongest player here,” Baller added.
“But zey vill not expect how fast you vil be.”
“It’d take a miracle for me to actually take one of those blitzers down on my own though.”
Manfred nodded grimly. “But ve need to make ze big plays. Now or never. Lobbings is looking how you say, frazzled. Ve must be doing zis now before zey get further ahead. Jah?”
Baller swallowed, but nodded. “Alright. If you run down the side with me and cover me. I’ll go for the ball.”
The ball hung in the air as the Strikers kicked to the Eagles. As the ball started its descent and the eagles set about throwing their preliminary blocks, Manfred let out a bestial roar. It echoed across the pitch and to the stands nearby.
“Every Striker, mark a man. DO EET! DO EET NOW!”
Despite not knowing the northman’s plan, his team mates moved instinctively. Each one pressed forwards, engaging the foe. Baller took off at a sprint, Manfred right behind him to lend a hand. As he ran on, he watched as the catcher’s body began to shimmer and flicker, his movements lightening fast. His body at times seemingly incorporeal. A cloak of energy seemed to wrap itself around Baller as he lead with his elbow and despite the odds, manage to deliver a massive blow. Stunning Henry Freshfeet and knocking the blitzer out cold.
“Holy Nuffle’s tits, i did it...” Baller stammered.
He stared at the ball at his feet and moved to pick it up when his world went black.
His neck snapped backwards from the force of the blow. It looked bad. Real bad. Most of the Strikers couldn’t even tell if Baller had lived through the blow to the back of his spine. The eagles players swarmed the ball and formed a cage near his limp form. Whatever small flicker of hope he and Manfred had created was quickly doused.
“They got Baller!” Master Chef shouted.
“Let’s FUCK’em up!” Juggernutter shouted, spurring the team on.
He blasted a peasant off his feet, stunning him. Capt Rammer followed up with his own block injuring a different peasant. Next was Terry, Blitzing in on the cage to stun one of the Eagles Blockers and get in the ball carrier’s way. Tim let out a roar and swung a proper haymaker for the first time ever and knocked Trev the peasant’s head clean off his shoulders, killing him instantly.
“NO mercy!” Tiny Tim screamed.
“Nuffle’s tits,” Jr stammered, coated in the unfortunate peasant’s blood. “Didn’t know you could hit that hard, Tim or even knew the word mercy.”
“Tim watches history channel...” Tim offered with a shrug. “They say dat lots.”
Master chef was the last to lay out a peasant, knocking him out. “That’s a bunch of them down! Let’s get the ball!”
The Strikers had just made it 5 on 10. Maybe Baller’s sacrifice wasn’t entirely in vain? The Eagles cage reformed. Intact and just as strong as ever despite being without their peasants as fodder to slow down the Striker advance.
“We need a way in!” a strange man wearing Striker gear shouted.
“Who the fuck is that?” Jr said, noticing him for the first time.
Lobbings was just as bemused. “No idea, actually.”
“Name’s Edwin Advar. You’know, from the large and affluent Advar family? I’m your journeyman for this match!”
“Surround the cage, I’m going in!” Rammer called out, blitzing a player loose for Lobbings to deck.
“We gotta lock down that ball. Get it loose, I’ll go for the endzone!”
The moment Baller went to dodge out he was face down on the pitch, badly hurt and his leg twisted under himself at an awkward angle. The Eagles used the gap to roll out down that side of the pitch. Manfred was quick to blitz in on his own, but he could’t connect. The Strikers set about fouling some of the Eagles who remained face down on the pitch, but the Goblin ref blew his whistle and lifted a red card.
Lobbings waved his hands back and forth. “No! I paid you...I paid in full, remember?” he hissed.
The goblin shrugged and offered him a toothy grin. “I don’t remembah squat, bub! And that looked awful illegal to my peepers. He’s OUTA here!”
Edwin Advar was out of the game and the Eagles still had the ball. Juggernutter was blitzed and injured as the ball carried dodged out and crossed the middle of he pitch into the Striker half. Master Chef with the help of Tiny Tim and Terry made a hole for Manfred to blitz in, but after knocking the ball free he tripped while going for it. All too easy for the eagles to once again snag it and push their drive deeper. More importantly this was using up all the Striker’s time. They had needed a quick score. With every passing moment, with each block and recovery it was taking them further away from a potential draw to push them into overtime.
As an eagle blitzer slipped up, a brief chance arrived to try and score before the final whistle to force one last kick off. If they could get that far, maybe something would happen. A riot, something to extend the game. The Strikers moved to cover the ball, Sir Lobbings waiting deep to try and catch the pass, but Jr slipped in the grass.
Chiltern Headground blitzed in and brought a gauntlet right through the back of Manfred’s shoulder blades and into his chest. The large man let out a pain gurgle and collapsed. Capt Rammer who was right beside him could see just how bad the injury was. He immediately started calling for the stretchers and apothecaries before he’d even hit the ground, injured from a follow up block from an Eagle’s blocker. The Eagles ran the ball in to score, making it 3-0, the match soundly decided in their favor, but none of the Strikers seemed to notice.
Tiny Tim stood overtop of the still body of Manfred and Terry, the only blitzer still on the pitch held him tightly as Manfred's eyelids flickered up and down rapidly.
Manfred reached out, grabbing onto his friend’s shoulder pads. “Did I- did ve stop zem?” Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth at an alarmingly fast rate. The apoths worked quickly, knowing he must have serious internal injuries.
“Stay with me, big guy. Focus up, we’ve got another minute left on the clock," Terry said grinding his teeth together at how tightly Manfred was squeezing his hand.
Manfred shook violently as the apo’s started cutting away at the back of his tunic and armor, removing the back entirely. Pat’s face blanched when he saw the hole Chiltern Headground had made in Manfred’s torso. Blood spilled from the cavernous gash as swaths of bandages were shoved into the wound in a futile attempt to stop everything that was inside from spilling outside.
All the color in Manfred’s face was draining, a pained smile on his face as he clung to Terry. Somehow very suddenly small in his friend’s grasp.
“It- it hurts, meine friend,” he wheezed, blood frothing over his lips as the surgeons cursed and toiled away. “It iz very dark und- und I- Terry vhere are you?”
Terry’s fingers laced with Manfreds as he screamed “Fucking do something! He’s dying. Fix him you bastards!”
The head apo stepped back, his hands bloody up to his elbows. “There’s nothing we can do.” He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Tears streaked down Pat’s face and Terry looked on in disbelief as he watched Manfred’s chest shudder one last time in a futile attempt to draw breath. His head lolled to one side and with a last wet gurgle he lay still.
Lobbings stood beside Jr. and Master Chef, his own eyes wet with silent tears as they stood vigil around Terry. He rocked the big man’s head in his lap, whispering to him over and over. No matter how man times he called out Manny’s name. No matter how hard he tried to tell him that they had to hold up their vow to win finals together. Nothing he said brought the warmth back to his friend’s body.
At last, Lobbings placed a hand on Terry’s shoulder.
“Time to go. We’ll bury him with full honors after the match, but they’ve got to clear the pitch.”
When Terry lifted his gaze to meet Lobbings’ his face was a twisted mask of rage. “I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but somehow I’m going to make them pay for what they did to Manfred.”
Lobbings could only nod in response as Terry lifted Manfred up himself. He walked past the stretcher bears past them all to the side of the pitch where he lay him down amid the Striker’s banner.
The game ended. It wasn’t special. There was nothing to absolve their loss. No final retaliatory kill. No redemption. The Strikers lost. It was simple.
Manfred was buried alongside his team mates. His gravestone wasn’t fancy. No quote engraved. Just his name. His name as Terry wanted it to be.
Manfred Von Erlach
“He was my brother, even if he hailed from afar,” Terry said at the funeral.
He didn’t say much else during the eulogy. No intimate story shared between the two of them growing up. No last regret or sobbing plea. Manfred was gone. And so Terry sat alone by his grave. It was over after all, the season done for good. He sat alone by his grave again and again in the hopes that somehow the pain of losing him would lessen.
Terry is still sitting by that grave.
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Post by Squiggy on Aug 1, 2016 22:34:33 GMT
Wow. Just...wow.
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Post by tector on Aug 2, 2016 8:50:35 GMT
Great job!
Will we hear about their new adventures in gold?
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