3: Madcap Maulers VS Nautical Imperatives
“It’s a bloody disgrace is what it is,” Bumford grumbles, pacing the changing room of Nautical Imperatives. “Utter snotling shit.”
The team know Bumford. They’re scared to ask what might be causing his unhappiness.
“Look, just look!” Bumford thrusts his clipboard into the face of Hard to Larboard! who narrowly avoids losing a tooth.
“Not only is the smegging pogoer not fit to play, but the flipping Bombardier has lost his bottle too! Imagine getting injured against a Halfling team, disgraceful.”
“I hear the trees are somewhat fierce in their-”
“Shut it Steady!, no one asked you, you good-for-nothing wet fart of an excuse for an elf.”
“No bombs, not even a one. So unfair.” Bumford wipes a tear.
“Still, no use crying over spilled unpowder, eh? We’ve still got the ol’ ball and chain and the chainsaw! Eh? So wipe that look off your faces and go get them, c’mon, hop to it!”
The elfs file out.
“Did he say chainsaw?” asks a merc by the name ofHoward.
A small army of Goblins meets them on the pitch following two enormous green and blue trolls. An orc, his massiveness emphasised by the goblins around him, saunters over to Bumford.
“Oi, Bumford! Long time no speak. Still sore abowt da last time I beats ya?”
Bumford stops and looks at the greenskin. He turns to the elf next to him.
“Bloody Orcs. Uncivilised savages is what they are, and Da Boss is the worst of ’em” Bumford spits. The elf wipes the phlegm from his perfect outfit before Bumford continues.
“No grace, no style. No dignity.”
“Buumfoooord, I’s talkin’ t’you!”
“Stick it up your bunghole you squig-faced troll-licker! I stil haven’t got the stench out o’ my boots since our last game! Tell your mum I said ‘hi!'”
Scowls from the orc. Giggles from the goblins. Da Boss clubs one of them who hits the dirt and doesn’t move.
“Bah. Imagine not having a backup bomber. Amateur stuff.”
Somewhere nearby a throaty engine roars into life followed by a grinding sound of metal on metal. Bumford immediately cheers up.
“Ahh, that’s better. Welp, off you go then.”
“Uh, coach, no advice? What do we do?”
“Make it fun. That way everyone wins!”
“But the chai-”
“Make it fun! See you all at half time.” Bumford turns and struts to the sidelines, leaving a small gaggle of elfs looking at him as he goes.
One elf spots the referee chatting with Da Boss and another troll, this one covered head to toe in jewels and expensive looking clothes. The same troll is on an advert on the stadium walls. “Sir Trollington The Third’s Executive Products for Deserving People”. The troll is laughing and shaking hands with the ref, shovelling handful after handful of cold cash into his open hands.
“Is that… allowed?”
Before an elf can respond, the whistle blows.
The day is beautiful. The sun is bright, the day is clear. Elfs line up and prepare to kick the ball deep into goblin territory.
The moment it’s in the air, an insane goblin with an enormous spiked metal sphere attached to a chain starts swirling and swirling, knocking elves over wherever he goes. An even crazier looking goblin with a chainsaw starts cackling and sprinting around the pitch, chasing elfs back and forth. The ball is largely forgotten.
Steady! stands still as the chainsaw gobling chases him having just downed Belay!. Mustering all the strength he can muster, Steady! throws a wicked punch, flooring the goblin and knocking him clean out. Bumford cheers from the stands until he realises it was the Chainsaw that was injured. The cheers from him turn to jeers and threats. The words “twist”, “privates” and “blunt knife” float through the wave of angry dwarfish.
The elfs grab the ball and run it in, almost being stopped by a wave of green. The referee moves to send the Fanatic off, but he is intercepted by Sir Trollington, who crosses his palm with enough silver to stop the ref in his tracks.
The games continues in a similar fashion, with the Elfs managing to score two more times before full time. The goblins actually remembered the ball on occasion, nearly scoring once or twice, until Bumford’s threats to take the goblin down scared the elfs into aggressive defensive action. Each time, Sir Trollington consistently offers enough green to the ref to keep the fanatic on the pitch, but is looking a little more unhappy each time he does. The ref’s whistle blows full time, 3-0 to Nautical Imperatives.
Miraculously, no one is permanently injured. The elfs are actually chatting happily with each other. No one hurt, 3-0 up. Enough money in the bank to start actually replacing lost players. Bumford kicks the door in. It actually flies off the hinges.
“First! The Bomber is too sick to play. Second! You actually injure the Chainsaw player, so much so he has to stop playing! Third! None of you sustains so much as a scratch! Utterly worthless, totally useless! Not so much as a death! Why do I even bother!”
Bumford collapses sulking into a chair. The chattering has stopped.
“Pff, still. Season’s still got some way to go.”
“Who’re we playing next, coach?”
Bumford sniffs. He looks at his clipboard. “Chaulssin Shadows. Oh, hang on.” He sits up, looking more excited.
“They’re elfs too. Black armour. Spikes. Insane semi-naked lady elfs. Oh this should be good! Apparently they try to kill as much as they score. My kind of elf!!”