The following anti-elf epithets are authored by myself and available for free and unlicensed personal and commercial use.
#1: Dandelion botherer
The locker room smells like inspiration and perspiration; an improvement from only yesterday, where it smelled like putrefaction and losing factions, gauche malaise and roach buffets, halfling reek and unpaddled creek. Air fresheners work wonders. So does enough dwarf scrumpy to trick the nose into thinking I’d died and gone to purgatory.
“You may be wondering why I called you here today,” I say. My two assistant coaches nod slowly. “That’s handy, because I was wondering in a more general sense why you were here.“
This arouses further confusion. Or something. It’s hard to tell with their baseline expression.
“Yes, you’re taking my money. Or, the team’s money–which I like to think of as my money, because it helps with the self-loathing and teetering on the brink of complete mental collapse. You’re following me so far.”
“So that’s what I’m offering you, is it? Is that the only thing that attracted you to my team? Money?” I smack a sack of gold coins onto the table. “Because if that’s the case, I could walk out and buy another assistant coach just like either of you in a heartbeat. If you’re just here to point out technical errors and collect your sack of gold, then that’s that. But maybe that’s not why you’re working for me. Maybe you’ve got something special–in here. Maybe you saw all the other teams out there–the elves, the chaos beasts, the undead, the fanservice–and maybe you walked past those teams and you came to this little rinky-dink gym that doesn’t have much, except my team. The little guys. The fatsoes. The team everyone said would lose–the team that maybe, just maybe, you knew stood a chance. Maybe you’re here because deep down and against all hope you think we’re going to win this season.” I put my hands on the table. “So tell me right now, friends. Which–“
“Definitely the money.”
“I begged the elf guy to take me but he said he was full up already.”
“I was five minutes late to work for a team of Skaven.”
“I lied and told my mom I was working as an orc cheerleader.”
“My parents are Surfrider fans and they said I wasn’t invited to dinner Sunday.”
“I cried for the whole weekend after our first game.”
“My girlfriend left me because I smelled like halfling socks and now I live in a locker.”
I drum my knuckles on the table. “Okay,” I said. “So…I’m hiring a third assistant coach today.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And I was hoping to get somebody who didn’t just want the money.”
“I guess you could find someone who liked losing?”
“We’re done for the day,” I say.
#2 Tree uncle
#4 Pointy Percy
A half-eaten Big Moot sandwich on the table, unfurling onions throwing out grease rainbows, sauce settling in orange gobs. A worrisomely-dedicated Blood Bowl spectator’s charcoal sketches of our last few plays on the table. Perhaps it’s the scrumpy and high-morbidity fast food talking, but I was starting to see a pattern. It ran as follows:
- Halflings are scattered up and down the pitch with elves confronting them
- A thrill goes down the spine of all right-thinking halfling-hating people for miles around as my team is kicked absolutely stupid
There was another pattern that ran, concisely put:
- Halflings surround one important halfling like a wall of cholesterol and unruly hair
- Zero important halfling fatalities for a brief period
And a third:
- My treemen keep the front lines from surrounding my mob and I advance the center up slowly with protection
- I scored that one time
“Hm,” I say, and I manually digest an onion.
The trick was that a Blood Bowl opponent can’t have his whole team running around blitzing my players the whole time, as heartbreakingly tempting as it was. No coach can plan for that kind of headache–no, only one player at a time can charge to attack. Everyone else has to settle for hitting somebody they’re already pushed up against or moving up to hurt someone later. So therefore–as long as I made sure that my VIHs were protected whenever he makes a press, and had my treemen keep him from getting too cozy pressed up against us, I could minimize the damage to my halflings and keep hurting him back every time he got close. The trick was, whenever he came up flush with me, I’d push him back and not follow him forward–that way he’d be forced to carefully close with me again and I could hit him again. Simple. Easy. I’m probably not missing anything, I think, thoughtfully keeping my gorge tucked down as my stomach realizes I’ve only just eaten more of that Big Moot shit.
Let’s call it the Magic Box maneuver. Or the Fat Luggage. Or the Lunchbox. Fuck it, we’re calling it Lunchbox. One halfling carrying the ball surrounded by a halfling on each side with treemen fronting to knock aside any blitzers and the rest keeping anyone pushing forward at bay until I’m ready to try to break forward. That ought to give him some pause.
Of course, I was saying “him” when in reality I’d finally broken through to the second day of matches. I could be going up against anyone tomorrow, anyone at all; about all I can say for certain was that it probably wouldn’t be…
“Boss. Tomorrow’s matchup.”
I look down at the logo of the team we’re facing. The very familiar logo.
“Shit,” I say.
#5 Salad champs
#7 God damn stupid idiots
#8 I hate elves
NEXT WEEK: THE FINAL MATCH VS. THE SURF WHATEVERS
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