Skids couldn’t believe his luck, first time trying out for the Six Feet Underdogs and he got a spot! What luck that another goblin had ended up as a smear of bloody goo after he was thrown by the legendary player-coach-owner and founder of the team, Gerald Pemberton-Fitzroy. Now Skids was jostling for a prime position in the mushroom cavern deep inside Six-Feet mine, the teams home ground, to hear the ancient warpstone troll address the assembled players. After a few well placed kicks to the gonads of his fellow gobbos Skids manages to wriggle to the front of the crowd and there before him was the Marquis of Bogart himself.

Gerald was perched on a wooden throne fashioned from the body of a treeman he had once killed. Around his shoulders was draped a cloak made from the skins of the many opponent players he had slaughtered, his upper torso was barely contained by his waistcoat. Below this protruded a sizable stomach, which appeared to be moving of its own accord, as if something, or someone, inside was still fighting to escape. The folds of purple fat drooped down to his knees below which Skids could see the unhealed leg injury that Gerald had sustained in one of his earliest matches leaving him needing the aid of a cane to walk. His crab like claw stroked the fake beard fashioned from the fleece of a skunk that he had recently taken to wearing; many said the smell of the skunk helped hide the odour of Gerald himself. His flesh was a network of healed scars, particularly around his mouth where many appeared to be scratch marks made by the unfortunates Gerald had ingested; they formed a deeply lined set of rays centred upon his enormous maw.

With obvious effort the warpstone troll levered himself to a standing position, resting heavily on the creaking cane for support, and addressed the assembly in his incongruously clipped noble voice.

“My dear rodents, goblin scum and other offal of this world, today is a day long in arriving. I have summoned you all to announce that I have played my 250th game.”

At this he gestured towards a series of tally marks scratched into the cavern wall. Skids tried to count the marks but there were more than three so he gave up. Gerald continued

“It is on occasions like this that one’s mind does reminisce upon one’s life, one’s choices, regrets, successes and upon one’s future. I am old, slow and my mind is not what it once was. Each block I take could be my last, eventually this aging body will no longer be able to heal and I will cease to be. I must wonder if the team would not be better served by a younger, more virulent leader.”

At this the haggard form of Gerald appeared to shrivel and shrink, the meagre light from the few tallow candles illuminating the wrinkles around his face. As susurration of shock rippled around crowd; surely Gerald was not thinking of retiring! Tears welled in Skids eyes but then he saw Gerald glace up, the light caught his eye behind the monocle and it sparkled like the gems once mined in the deeps below. The Marquis continued

“I know that there are some among you who would have it so, I have heard whispers that I am passed my prime, that I should hand over the mantle of leadership and return full time to my experiments with the warpstone dust, and on reflection perhaps it would not be so bad to leave the field before the disgrace of old age mars my legend. So I ask you all now, who would come forwards and replace me?”

A hush fell amongst those assembled to be broken by a goblin Skids did not know but whom he had seen whispering in the ears of others around the team training camp. This greenskin was dressed in the finest dog leather and stolen dwarfish armour, he practically skipped up the steps to the dais past Lem the rotter dog who growled deeply through his ruined throat.

“An’ ‘bout bloody time Gerald, we bin ready to tek ovver for yonks. First up all gobs get double grub an’ then we ganna talk ‘bout pay. Me ladz think we should get some see. Weez gon’ an’ got a, y’know, an onion like.”

“I believe you mean a union, which has been behind much of the discontent of recent times, and likely the reason we have played so few games in the weeks gone past” Gerald responded

“Yeah, like an onion, juz betta fer ya, no one likes them veggies do they, so ‘ow we doin’ this cob?”

“All you must do to become the owner of the Underdogs, and receive all the gold from our games to distribute and dispense with as you see fit, is to take my cane as a symbol of your position.”

A look of undisguised lust oozed across the goblin’s face as he greedily reached out to grasp the bejewel walking stick, soon to be replaced with a look of surprise as his severed head bounced back down past Lem. Gerald had decapitated him with a lazy swipe from his claw. The troll drew himself up to his full height; his eyes practically shot fire over the heads of the onlookers and his voice bellowed forth like the cry of a Balrog.

“Now are there any others who wish to take my position? No? Because I have had another thought, although 250 games is a great many and makes me the 13th oldest player alive, and I am heralded as the greatest living player on any underworld team, it is not enough that I should stop. I will continue to lead you on the pitch and off for many more games yet and at least until I am the oldest of all players, the greatest of all players in any team and the most renowned and feared of all players in the land and when that time comes then I shall consider passing on my position to someone who is of my choosing, not some scabby scummer who has no head!”

At this a great cheering erupted amongst the players, especially from the group of goblins who had smiled and nodded when the would be usurper had first mounted the steps.

As the players broke into a chant of the “Stinky Shite Buttocks Song” Skids knew there would be no more talk of onions amongst the goblin players, which was perhaps a pity because he would have liked to have got paid. But he reflected, at least he can look forwards to playing along side the great Gerald Pemberton-Fitzroy for as many matches as he could survive.

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Happy 250th game to GPFR, and to many more to come!
This tale may have been inspired by binge watching Vikings, Gerald is definitely my Ragnar Lothbrok!

Next project is to write the lyrics to the “Stinky Shite Buttocks song” the new U-dog team anthem. That and play another 250 games with Gerald Lothbrok.