“Professor Snoopler stood at the counter of Jack’s Uniforms, Tombstones, and More and held up the team’s new jersey, replete with the logo they had commissioned from the best artist they could find at the University of Nuln. Well graduate student artist, they weren’t about to PAY for the work after all.

“Dreadheim Poetic Society, lovely,” he sighed, stroking his pointed goatee. “Wait, what is this? Poetic? I specified in the application ‘Poetics’! You know, the study of how the text’s effects work on the reader? The sister to hermeneutics? These will all have to be remade!”

The proprietor, probably Jack from the look of him, stared at Snoopler with a bored expression. “Ain’t what the application says. Here, have a look for yerself.”

Snoopler snatched the bill of sale from the man’s hand. “Well I never! Someone spilled mustard on the page, see it covered up the ‘s’.” He jabbed at the application with a long, spindly finger.

The man just stared at the Professor. “No refunds buddy.”

“I’ll have you know the mayor himself is a fan of our team! You’ll have to answer to him!”

Nothing changed in Jack’s posture or face. “Sure, send him over. He still owes me for some trophies he had engraved with his name. One was ‘Blood Bowl Champion of the Universe of the Year’, another was ‘Best Blood Bowl Player Ever’. Stuff like that. I’ve a mind to beat the cash out of him, and I could use a good warm-up for my afternoon scrimmage.”

“Well, I certainly will!” sputtered Snoopler as he backed out of the shop. “You haven’t seen the last of me!”

An hour later, Snoopler and Mayor Beaknose were sitting in the team’s office (actually the storeroom of the town’s Orcidas outlet). Beaknose was shaking his head.

“There’s no way, I’m absolutely not going to talk with Bert. We’ll just have to change the team’s name. It’s not like we have any other equipment… or signs……. or anything, really. What? No, I think maybe his uncle is Jack? It’s never been clear to me.”

“On the upside,” continued Beaknose, “I managed to get you a first match against some goblins. It’s winter so not many teams are playing, but I think this will give your players a chance to stretch and get the town talking about the team. And if they’re talking, they’ll come watch us, which means gold in your pocket and reelection for me.”

“Goblins? Aren’t they always trying to pull off some backhanded trick, like sneaking a chainsaw onto the pitch?”

“Maybe in the big city, but these goblins seemed really nice. They’re from a hospital, Cragsmead or something, and claimed that they would do their best to keep the team healthy and whole.”

Snoopler was assuaged. “Well, I guess that DOES sound like we might be able to have a match that’s on the up-and-up.”

“Yeah, and their coach tells me that they often use their troll to carry the ball. Can you believe it? I think it’s going to be a walk in the park,” crowed Beaknose. “I bet you win 5-0.”

“Hmmm.. coach Rictor. I’ve heard that name before, and if he’s the one I’m thinking of there’s no way it’ll be that easy.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Beaknose, patting Snoopler on the back. “Probably some other coach you’re thinking of. It’s going to be fiiiine. By the way, have I ever showed you my trophy collection?”

“Oh, and I have one other piece of good news,” continued Beaknose. “Have you met my son Titus? I think he’d be perfect for the team. No, he’s not strong at all, quite the opposite really. Arms like old asparagus. But he writes REAMS of poetry, just can’t get enough of the stuff. I’ll send him along after the match and you can have a look, see if he’d be right for the team.”
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