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Sore Dunkbottom sat on the Sloppy Milkshake locker room floor in a circle with the rest of the linemen. Each of them were carefully pondering a hand full of cards with strange shapes drawn on them.
"Wut dis game?" Flex Hasslehoff articulated, a pair of cards with squares on them stuck between his teeth.
"Smarts said," Frown Clenchcheek pantomimed a pair of glasses and adopted a cross-eyed expression, "you am trump cards and win loot."
"Where loot?" Thick Goodgrace turned to address Frown, "This dum."
Something glimmering in the folds of Thick's neck muscles caught Sore's eye.
"Wut dis ting?" he asked as he reached out to poke it curiously. The glimmer flashed bright, and the room was empty.