The stadium is one big mossy Blood Bowl ball, and at long last, after many abuses and grim spectacles, it’s been punctured. It drains slowly in the moonlight. All that action–all that potential for action–vanishing into the night. But there’s still one bug hiding under that vast deflated canopy, and as I enter the subterranean locker room, there’s two.<\/p>\n
“Perv,” I say. “Everybody’s gone home.”<\/p>\n
“This is home.”<\/p>\n
“That’s a bit maudlin, don’t you…” Then I notice the battered Morg n’ Thorg patterned sleeping bag. “Oh. That explains a lot.”<\/p>\n
“I’m a long way from Potatoeville, coach.”<\/p>\n
He scoots an inch down the bench. That’s more accommodation than I’d expected–I sit down.<\/p>\n
“It’s never going to get any better,” he says, “is it.”<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Should I tell him? Hell, why not. I’d been planning to wait until he was in a more stable frame of mind, but just look at the little bastard. He’s stable, alright–he’s sunk to the nadir like a big fat cannonball and I wouldn’t task ten men and an elephant to budge him. Not without the right leverage.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
“Perv, you know…I made quite a bit of money over the last two tournaments. Big Moot capital. Trophy fees. Misrouted inducement cash. I’d been building it up for one big get-out-of-town fund that’d let me blow this team forever. And you know what happened?” I looked down at his wide wet eyes and smiled. “I bet every damn penny on this match.”<\/p>\n
“Oh.” Red eyes throbbed with the effort of wringing one last tear. “Coach, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t…I should have….”<\/p>\n
“I bet you’d lose.”<\/p>\n
I was worried about that bit. He’s still got a few spiked things hooked around a few deceptively-hard points of halfling anatomy and I’m still a rattling grease-trap scarecrow in a tissue paper suit. But the explosion is so deep underwater that the surface Pervince doesn’t more than ripple. His fat bloodied lips part and his brow tightens.<\/p>\n
“I’m selling off the Skeeters,” I say, before anything can bubble up. “I’ve taken you boys as far as I can. Most of you can win every once in a while and seem to be at peace with that, and you need victory and glory that I’m genuinely sorry to say I’m never going to be able to give you.” Is he ready to hear it? He has to be. It’s now or never. If I leave he won’t speak to me ever again. “Unless. I’d like to make you a deal.”<\/p>\n
“A deal.”<\/p>\n
“Perv…where did you say you come from? Potatoeville?”<\/p>\n
He nods distantly.<\/p>\n
“So tell me: what else comes from around Potatoeville?”<\/p>\n
—<\/p>\n
“And it’s a wonderful<\/em> day for the Creator Cup finals!”<\/p>\n “Sure is, Jim! Clear skies means you’ll be able to see the wood elf blood from the cheap seats!”<\/p>\n “Interesting way to put it, Bob, when everyone else is sure <\/em>the Arrows are going to win this match handily.”<\/p>\n “That’s what everyone said about Pervince’s boys versus the high elf Dragon Princes in the first <\/em>round of playoffs–right until the last forty seconds of the game and ten minutes of overtime, when those pointy lugs got their entire elaborate heraldic headdresses shoved up their…”<\/p>\n “And it looks like The Arrows will be kicking off! It’s high and outside…NEARLY outside! Oh, the Skeeters are going to have to scramble to get it into play!”<\/p>\n “For the last time, Jim, you’re a professional! It’s pronounced Skeet-az<\/em>!”<\/p>\n “Well, then, I suppose it’s the Skeetaz <\/em>who are struggling to get the ball midfield while elves leak through their defensive line like…”<\/p>\n “Blood through a wardancer’s nose! Now that’s the kind of punch that gets nominated for the Bob Bifford Merit of Pugilistic Dishonor, folks!”<\/p>\n “Yes, but the Arrows still harassing the ball carrier, aren’t they?”<\/p>\n “Doesn’t matter, Jim. In severely injuring at least one <\/em>elf, the Potatoeville Skeetaz are already winnaz.”<\/p>\n Pervince howls from the sidelines, throws haymakers to nowhere, sends his assistant coaches–all at least twice his size–scattering for the benches. I’ve got a pretty good view from the owner’s box, and let me tell you, it’s usually more interesting than watching the game–you can usually tell what’s going on an a Skeetaz match from the cries of orc-engineered agony and the shades of color on Pervince’s cheek. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tense. We haven’t cracked Wood Elves yet, and at our bracket, this is the <\/em>Wood Elves team. Suddenly Pervince goes bright red, and stamps his feet…<\/p>\n “Touchdown! That’s one for the Arrows, and from the lack of celebration, I think they’re settling in for many <\/em>more!”<\/p>\n “I wouldn’t count on that, Jim. Few more of those and I think Pervince might strap on his old spiker and wade in himself!”<\/p>\n “Haw! That’d be a sight, wouldn’t it, Bob!”<\/p>\n Every indignity Pervince has ever suffered is about to blow a stack of bad sponsor food and nirate-soaked halfling blood fifty yards out his ears. But he is gracious.<\/p>\n “Another kickoff…another successful pickup from the Skeetaz! And the blood is flying up on the central line…is that a channel through to the end zone I see?”<\/p>\n “Not likely, Bob! Look at those wardancers mobilize…”<\/p>\n “And look at those backs break! They’re pushing the defense back to the middle and that runner is squeaking through like a half-ton mouse! He’s fending off the late-fielders…he’s breaking tackles left and right…he’s going…going…HE’S GONE FOR IT! TOUCHDOOOWN!”<\/p>\n “It’s rare to see an orc play that relies so much on mobility, isn’t it, Bob?”<\/p>\n “Maybe that’s Pervince’s halfling sensibilities on display, Jim.”<\/p>\n “Ha!”<\/p>\n “Yeah, that was a good one. Coming into the second quarter, Skeetaz are kicking off…looks like the Arrows are rushing the ball back. I think they’re hoping to run a pain train from beyond harm’s reach, but they’re gonna have to get some catchers through…haha! Hope they can catch those teeth<\/em>!”<\/p>\n “Yes, but three of them have <\/em>made it through, Bob! All he has to do is pass the ball up the field without an interception…”<\/p>\n “Correction, Jim. All he has to do is keep the thrower away from those orcs! Look at those Skeetaz punching up the left side of the field!”<\/p>\n “He’s throwing–it’s tangled up in center field! The catcher’s fumbled and it’s popping around like a gadfly in the melee. It’s…”<\/p>\n “It’s in the Skeetaz hands! They’re muscling through, they’re weathering an elf blitz…not much longer on the clock…Arrow blitzer goes for the tackle and HE’S GOOD, HE’S OVER THE LINE! SKEETAZ BRING THE SCORE TO 2-1 AND WITH LITTLE TIME REMAINING, IT LOOKS LIKE THEY’VE WON THE CREATOR CUP!”<\/p>\n I find Pervince in the locker room later, one placid pink halfling in a grunting, unbroken mass of green muscle. Burning orc eyes and dilating nostrils follow me as I try with all of my accumulated panache and professionalism not to scream and drop fetal.<\/p>\n “I erase any linger doubts, boss?” says Pervince.<\/p>\n “Doubts? Never. You’re the best damn coach in the world, Pervince, and that’s a fact.”<\/p>\n He yields a very rare grin. “We did okay.”<\/p>\n “You sure did.”<\/p>\n “Think we’ll do better next time?”<\/p>\n “Do I? You bet your kneecaps.”<\/p>\n –FIN–<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The stadium is one big mossy Blood Bowl ball, and at long last, after many abuses and grim spectacles, it’s been punctured. It drains slowly in the moonlight. All that action–all that potential for action–vanishing into the night. 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