Airports are not conducive to my best thinking, so despite the gaps in visiting Derby I think this will have to be another. After re-reading your first post about working for the town I was tempted to revive Honoré St-Decéncé but I think he’s probably trapped somewhere that needs someone cleverer than me to figure out.
The penalty “Offside! Offside! Ref, that was offside!” The footballer in the red jersey was practically jumping up and down as he pointed frantically towards the goal. Two of the opposition were now racing towards it with only the keeper to beat. “I didn’t see anything,” said the referee. He sounded puzzled. “In fact, I can’t seem to see very much.” He blew his whistle to halt the game, just seconds before the striker kicked the ball over the goalkeeper’s head and into the net. Then he took his glasses off to clean them. “Goal?” called the striker, but the referee was shaking his head and disallowing it. “Unfair!” yelled Pestililence. The footballer who’d called for offside came up alongside him. “I know you’re up to something,” he said, his words like stiletto knives sliding into exposed ribs. “I will figure this out.” “Not me bub,” said Pestilence. “I can’t be blamed if the ref’s got glaucoma now, can I?” “He can’t have glaucoma,” said the footballer. “They have regular physicals. So you’re messing with his glasses.” He stalked off. “Bet you anything he’s got glaucoma,” whispered Pestilence to himself. And then jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder. “Thanks War,” he said, “I needed to check my heart was still working.” “The score is 27-0,” said War. “I think we are winning, but there are not enough dead for me to be sure.” “Fam, they’re not supposed to die,” said Pestilence. “Wait, you’re not Fam. Well, according to Fam you’re fam, but you’re not Fam fam, right, fam? Oh jeez, he’s got me doing it now.” “Can I kill a little one? Please?” Pestilence looked after the footballer who’d been calling for offside with obvious desire in his eyes, but he shook his head. “No boss,” he said. “We want to keep playing in this league. The Boss boss wants us to win it, he’s got some plan. So we just have to be subtle, right? Kill a little one after the game. Have him slip in the showers, or walk under a bus or something.” “Stabbed by a street-gang, right,” said War, wandering off. “Penalty,” announced the referee. He looked at the goalpost and gestured for it to stand behind the penalty spot, and had to go over to inspect it when it didn’t move. “I’ll take it,” said Pestilence running up easily to the spot. “This is fun!” As the other side lined up to the side, clearly anticipating a 28th goal, Pestilence used the opportunity to give them all identical strains of gonorrhoea.
2 comments:
Airports are not conducive to my best thinking, so despite the gaps in visiting Derby I think this will have to be another. After re-reading your first post about working for the town I was tempted to revive Honoré St-Decéncé but I think he’s probably trapped somewhere that needs someone cleverer than me to figure out.
The penalty
“Offside! Offside! Ref, that was offside!” The footballer in the red jersey was practically jumping up and down as he pointed frantically towards the goal. Two of the opposition were now racing towards it with only the keeper to beat.
“I didn’t see anything,” said the referee. He sounded puzzled. “In fact, I can’t seem to see very much.” He blew his whistle to halt the game, just seconds before the striker kicked the ball over the goalkeeper’s head and into the net. Then he took his glasses off to clean them.
“Goal?” called the striker, but the referee was shaking his head and disallowing it.
“Unfair!” yelled Pestililence. The footballer who’d called for offside came up alongside him.
“I know you’re up to something,” he said, his words like stiletto knives sliding into exposed ribs. “I will figure this out.”
“Not me bub,” said Pestilence. “I can’t be blamed if the ref’s got glaucoma now, can I?”
“He can’t have glaucoma,” said the footballer. “They have regular physicals. So you’re messing with his glasses.” He stalked off.
“Bet you anything he’s got glaucoma,” whispered Pestilence to himself. And then jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder. “Thanks War,” he said, “I needed to check my heart was still working.”
“The score is 27-0,” said War. “I think we are winning, but there are not enough dead for me to be sure.”
“Fam, they’re not supposed to die,” said Pestilence. “Wait, you’re not Fam. Well, according to Fam you’re fam, but you’re not Fam fam, right, fam? Oh jeez, he’s got me doing it now.”
“Can I kill a little one? Please?”
Pestilence looked after the footballer who’d been calling for offside with obvious desire in his eyes, but he shook his head. “No boss,” he said. “We want to keep playing in this league. The Boss boss wants us to win it, he’s got some plan. So we just have to be subtle, right? Kill a little one after the game. Have him slip in the showers, or walk under a bus or something.”
“Stabbed by a street-gang, right,” said War, wandering off.
“Penalty,” announced the referee. He looked at the goalpost and gestured for it to stand behind the penalty spot, and had to go over to inspect it when it didn’t move.
“I’ll take it,” said Pestilence running up easily to the spot. “This is fun!” As the other side lined up to the side, clearly anticipating a 28th goal, Pestilence used the opportunity to give them all identical strains of gonorrhoea.
Greg - no, airports are not exactly a breeding ground for creativity. No apologies required :)
I think you might be having too much fun with these guys. Which makes this all the more enjoyable to read. Pest is truly fantastic in your hands :D
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