Season Two: Game Two – Forest Side Warrior Princesses
Bumford is feeling good. Brand new team (even if they are weird frog people), first victory under their belt. He bursts into the changing room of Yaverslann’d, an overflowing barrel of finest dwarven BlitzBooze clamped between his arms.
“Mornin’, wusses!” He roars.
The frogs flinch from the sheer volume of the greeting. They are less enthusiastic about their new coach.
Bumford eyes a spot to deposit his cargo, manfully slamming it on a bench next to Gwan Tekkit. It sloshes over the rim, splashing the spotted legs of the hapless frog. It fizzes and sizzles on contact with him, and Gwan leaps yelping into the air, rushing for the nearest water source.
“Present for you lot for doing so well!” Grins the dwarf, producing a number of beakers from his beard.
The frogs listen to the painful moans of Gwan and decide perhaps abstaining is the wisest course.
“Pah! Fine, suit yerselves. Cowards. A little salt-infused pick-me-up never hurt anyone.”
Bumford lifts the barrel above his head, bites a hole in the bottom with chunky dwarven teeth and downs the whole thing in one.
When he finishes, he hurls the barrel at the wall behind him, and it bursts, showering the team in splinters and flecks of alcohol.
It takes a few minutes to restore order to the team. A few minutes, and not a small amount of threats.
“Right. Amazons today. Bloody amazons. Watch out, they’ll try and distract you with all their provocative clothing, curvaceousness and jiggling promontories.”
The frogs are startled by this stream of eloquence from their coach.
“It means their boobies, do I have to spell everything out for you? Arnok forfend… They’ll distract you give you the old runaround when you ain’t looking.” A look of fond remembrance comes over Bumford’s face.
“Uh, coach.” croaks Stretchy Pete. “We are an entirely separate species, and therefore have no desire whatsoever for human females.”
“Wait till you see ‘em!” Winks Bumford.
A powerful knock at the door, and famed chainsaw-maniac Helmut Wulf walks in. He and Bumford greet each other warmly, clapping hands and laughing.
“Thought you’d all need some help today chaps,” he says.
“But coach, won’t Mr Wulf be susceptable to the aforementioned croak distractions you were mentioning?” Stretchy suggests, smugly.
Helmut looks at the frogman with disgust, before furiously walking away.
“That’s very insensitive of you, Pete. I’m dissapointed. Everyone knows Wulf had a dreadful chainsaw accident many years ago, when Nobbla Blackwort challenged him to a juggling match, leaving him missing key aspects of his anatomy. Speaking of which, I’d be careful on the pitch today. Helmut don’t half hold a grudge.”
Stretchy Pete gulps nervously.
As the team are filing onto the pitch, Bumford stands with his meaty arms folded, sussing the competition.
A quiet croak followed by a louder cough grabs his attention. He turns to see Lottabottol, again.
“I was, ahem, perhaps wondering if you valued my assistance again this day.” He says.
“No, I’d rather punch myself in the face.”
“Please, sir Dwarf!” Lottabottol falls to his knees. “You have no idea how hard it is as a serious Slann blood bowl player to make a career! No one hires me, no one wants me! I have sic thousand children to feed…”
“Ah, fine! Just quit yer blubbin’. On ya go.” Bumford slaps him on the back, knocking him face-first onto the floor.
The amazon team, while no seasoned veterans like the last match, are nonetheless serious contenders. Several of the women, Blossom and Demeter, are rumoured to be ace ball-handlers. Bumford snickered when he was first told this.
The Forest Side Warrior Princesses (the what? thinks Bumford) are indeed every bit as revealing in their uniform as Bumford had warned. As expected however, the only one really noticing was Bumford himself.
Yaverslann’d are receiving the ball this half, and arrange themselves for the kickoff. The moment the ball lands, Flicker Dee grabs it in sticky hands and rushes to the south, accompanied by several of his fellow Blitzers. The Princesses try to pile on the pressure, but the combination of springy frogs darting about and the manic whirling Chainsaw of Helmut Wulf sees them contained in the centre of the pitch. For what seems like an age the Amazons are contained further and further, the Slann confidence growing, until finallt something snaps. Out of nowhere the Princesses are hurling frogmen out of the way, exploding from their unwilling cage, chasing down and beating up anything that moves, not least poor Helmut, who finds himself set upon by no less than seven of them at one point.
Deciding that waiting around and showboating is not perhaps the wisest move, Flicker runs the ball in for a touchdown.
As the teams set up for the next drive, Bumford notices the time left on the clock. There’s enough time for the Zons to comfortably score, equalising before the second half even begins. He needs to do something.
He stands up on the head of a nearby spectating troll (a conspicuous fellow in glasses and a trenchcoat) and turns towards the predominantly female followers of the Princesses.
He cups his hands around his mouth.
“The gender-pay gap is a myth!”
The ensuing rampage of fans sees three dead, many more wounded, and a veritable mountain of hatred pointed towards the dwarf and his team. Thankfully, it’s bought just enough time to make equalising this half all but impossible for the Amazons.
It is half time, and Bumford is chatting to his team.
“That was fun, eh! Bunch of emotional, over-reactive-”
“Uh, coach? croak Do you think they’re actually going to hunt us down after the match and do those things they said croak they were going to do?” squawks Todd’m Bouncer.
“Naw, I shouldn’t think so. Probably. Maybe. Well, there’s a small chance. Like 50-50, I’d guess. You’ll be fine. Right, off you go! Remember, no ogling!”
The Amazon offence is brutal. Absolutely no quarter is given. A punishing wall of, ahem, flesh repels any attempt by the Slann to get to the ball. Several frogmen try to use their gifts to attack the ball carrier from the air, but are each time crushed entirely.
Tired of their sport, the Princess player Hestia charges down the pitch, ball in hand, ready to score. Again, Bumford seizes his opportunity to help his team. He again clambers on top of a spectator.
“Oi! Get yer baps out!”
Hestia stops, aghast. “Excuse me?”
“You ‘erd! Waheeeyy!”
A look of rage. “I’ll have you know, I am a campaigner for the equal treatment of women in sports, and I will not abide crude remarks from the type of sexist pig that thinks it’s acceptable to yell-”
She doesn’t get any further, because, perhaps in a fit of determination, Lottabottol streams from behind and thumps her on the back of the head. He, and several other Slann, surround the ball as best they can. It looks certain they will prevent the touchdown…
But several of the other women have heard and seen the exchange, and furiously storm down pitch, giving the frogs an absolute beating. They then pick up the ball and slowly walk it in, with a last withering stare at Bumford.
The referee blows his whistle. The score is 1-1.
The attitude is tense in the dressing room.
“Well, you drew. But at least you didn’t lose, so you’ve actually lost me a bet.” Says their coach.
“Coach, we believe we must discuss some of the tactics that you used today. We believe in parity of treatment of all races, genders, species, and-” Wasteyenot is cut off by a rumbling sound coming from the hallway.
“Hold that thought froggie-boy. Don’t tell it to me… Tell it to them. Turrah!” Bumford vanishes through a trap door, locking it behind him, as the dressing room door is bashed back, revealing a gang of very unhappy, very muscular and very armed Forest Side Warrior Princess fans.