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You see it’s all about strategy, strategy! Long, short, tall, thin, wide, fat, spiked, smooth, ridged, ballooned - it’s strategy. Strategy, Strategy, Strategy! That’s all it is. Simple really, I can’t believe you need another run through all this. We’re winning! What’s the problem?
The room filled with stony silence. Eight rows of dour faces stared at the front of the room, the presenter and his presentation. He was grotesque. Fat, bloated rolls spilled out from a torn t-shirt, the word COACH barely legible under the stains; layered memories of whisky and barbecue sauce broken up by a scattershot of charred edged pits, left by hot rocks from the pipe clamped between his teeth. The exposed skin bristled in the air conditioned room, each hair beaded with sweat.
His legs were mostly bare, broken veins lumping a bulbous tube map across them, capped by faded jean cutoffs that cut a ravine across his arse, twisting a tattooed kiss into a grimace. His ensemble was bottomed out by ashy socks stuffed into piss stained tennis shoes, the laces done up in an incongruous tidy bow.
He looked out at his team, taking in their wooden faces, and noticed the pipe pointing out at the room. His bloodshot eyes crossed with surprise as the butane torch in his right hand lit and lifted while his left hand tilted the bowl. His chest expanded inevitably as his lungs inhaled and the ruby red cherry glowed like Santa’s cracked out reindeer finally falling from the sky.
Strraaaaaatuuuhh…oh that’s good, he exhaled, standing there drooling as the smoke cleared revealing glassy eyes under his tattered cap toppling away, as he fell backwards through the chalkboard and into the wall behind.
A moment passed. Then another, and another, before the room exploded with panicked shouting and scraping chairs crashing against each other and onto the floor.
FUCK! Was anyone listening to any of that shite?
He’s smashed the fucking board! Oh christ we’re fucked! The fucking board’s in pieces.
Help me with him, quick, quicker! I said quicker you staggering streak of piss, grab his legs you two..the same fucking side you gormless pair of slapping ball bags. There we go, alright lads, we’re set, here we go lads, ah-one, and TWO and HEAAAAAVE.
There was a collective groan as the team rolled their coach onto his side. Their distended Moriarty belched contentedly, the sound rippling across the floor and shaking the ceiling’s fluorescent bulbs in their cheap plastic sheathes. A piece of plaster, around the size of a hubcap, vibrated, cracked, swung out, held, then fell, smashing over the side of his head, scattering plaster dust like fingerprint powder across the ruin of his face. A sliver stood proud in his ear, poking out beyond the cartilage like a yard long log left in baby’s first portapotty. It slipped out, tumbling down his face and into the blood pooling around his satisfied lips.
How’s the board looking, HOW’S IT FUCKING LOOKING??
It’s fucked Ted, oh christ it’s completely fucked! None of this makes any sense, the chalk’s smeared from when he went through it, there’s nothing but splinters!
Check his back, did it rub off?
There’s nothing. Nothing at all, just sweat and grime, what are we gonna do Ted, what are gonna do??
Keep it together, I SAID KEEP IT TOGETHER, he shouted over the sound of weeping, We’re ahead, way ahead, we can do this, we just need to pull together and do it as a team.
BUT HOW DO WE DO THAAAAT?
The plaintive wail broke into hopeless sobs, 8 foot tall players laid in heaps, jumbled together like cordwood, desperately holding on, their arms full, bereft. Ted saw it was time for extreme measures. There were five minutes left on the clock before they were due back pitch side, no time to lose. He bent over the coach’s prone and leaking form, listened for a moment, then straightened in sudden disgust as a violent belch left his lips, leaving them vibrating like a washing machine without its concrete counterweight.
Right he’s still alive then. Alright lads help me put him against the wall, Dave get a sharpie and stick it in his hand, Gary you still got your spike?
Yeah course, Ted — got 2 — primo adrenochrome
Grab one quick, if this doesn’t work we’re fucked anyway.
Working together the team pushed, slipped, sweated and swore to prop their coach on his knees facing the wall. A marker pen was jammed in his left hand as the clock opposite counted down to kick off.
Okay lads, hold him steady!
Shining needle in hand, brow glistening with sweat, Ted reached out to steady himself, staring down at the corded vessels in his coach’s neck. Every eye in the room watched the point as it rose, then fell. A spray of scarlet celebrated the hit and the coach erupted to his feet, screaming incoherently, scattering players left and right. The pen, gripped in his meaty paw, began scrawling oblique runes and esoteric diagrams across what was left of the plasterboard. The air crackled with energy. Static electricity jumped from shoulder to shoulder, danced between clenched teeth, left hair in porcupine spikes, standing on end.
STRAAAAATEGEEEEEEUUUUHhhhhhhhhh — the fat man sang as eldritch horrors burst from the ceiling and the wall collapsed behind his giant fist. The players opened their mouths and cracked back their heads to welcome their supernatural pilots. Screaming as one they ran through the rubble into the corridor and up the ramp toward the pitch where the crowd’s frenzied shouts echoed and reinforced their own.
AAAAAAAND FIIIIINAAALLLY COMING TO THE FIELD WE HAVE THE CHAAAAALLENGERS, THEY’RE LEADING BY TEN AND MY GOD DO THEY LOOK ANGRY
That’s right Barry I’m not sure what the hold up in the pit was, they were seconds from forfeiting the game but ttttthhhHHHHEY’RE HERE NOW AND GAHDDAMN DO WE HAVE A GAME ON OUR HANDS
The second half was shorter than the first. The challengers raced up the steps onto the field, their passengers swelling their bodies. Their shouts blended into one cacophonous roar, a grinding shout, the sound of landslides and freak waves. Ted threw a fat finger at the other team, bent his head back and SCREAMED. The pitch leapt beyond the audible in a glissando that slit the air. The opposing captain, his hand out waiting for a shake, mewled in response. Blood poured from his nose before his head fell apart in a confetti of splintered brain and bone that spattered across his teammates’ strips.
Ted’s team burst through the spray, taking their captain’s keening for the starting whistle, closing swiftly with their stunned opposition. They moved like a threshing machine, irresistible. Innards and limbs were tossed to the sky as they chewed through the opposition’s defensive line then scattered out to take care of the nimbler players. Once the champion’s final player was left torsoless on the halfway line the referees blew their whistles for the first time that half. There wasn’t much point continuing considering the state of both sides. Shellshocked, they stood shaking every hand Ted’s team thrust at them, accepting every shoulder shake, before nervelessly dropping their whistles and walking off the pitch.
The truth of what they’d witnessed percolated through the crowd. Now their blood lust was slaked, the heady euphoria of victory curdled. A man who’d windmilled a rope of guts around his head let it slither to the ground, his hands going to his mouth as a whimper fell unnoticed from his lips.
Down on the pitch Ted and his team were throwing their coach in the air, laughing with wild abandon, oblivious to the faint sound of sirens and helicopter blades getting louder, closing in.
