T w e n t y S i d e d
I get the sense that whomever named the Arnheim Seahawks has never watched two seabirds buffet and flap each other’s brains out over a piece of hot dog a third vomited up, or else is accustomed to a nobler breed of bird than I. I also get the sense that none of their high elf players have been to the seaside, but that’s not an abstract judgment; it’s because they’re fishbelly-pale toffs who look as though when they need to relax from the rigors of land ownership and gala seasons, they simply loose crossbow bolts at the slower-moving servants. Watching their attendants manually warm up their joints and apply cream between their toes returns me to a problem I’ve been trying to crack since I first took this team over:
Why the hell do people play this game?
“Pervince is talking to the team again,” says an assistant coach. “He’s giving the pre-speech.”
“That’s fine.”
“It is? I was just…”
“So for a few days now I’ve had this mental image–more like a dream, honestly–where I’m going into the locker room in the dead of night to get the schedule for the next few matches. And then I hear this gentle scuffle, like a mouse, and when I turn I see a tuft of hair flash by along the bench, and some lockers behind me creak open, I hear the door shut, lock, and suddenly a candle bursts alight by the basin and when my eyes adjust there’s just this wall of silent halfling faces staring at me, and Pervince is standing behind them with a barbecue fork and carving knife, scraping, scraping, and a dozen little flashes sting my eyes and all of my players are holding forks too. Then I hear a scream–mine. Then the dream ends. So, just to run this by you–just to get an outside opinion–would you say this is likely to happen?”
“…no?”
“So yes. There’s no problem with Pervince giving the team speeches.” I turn back to the high elves and their butler-assisted calisthenics. “That’s a load off my mind, actually.”
Continue reading ⟩⟩ “Half Time CH13: High Tailing It”
