Mage League Bloodball

[hawaiiansky]

Bloodball's Best-forgotten Facts: Jeerleaders
__________________________________________________ ________________________________________
All Bloodball teams have squads of Jeerleaders, such as the Fright Stockings of Quikargo (HL), the Yankednecklines of New Ork (HL) and the Shredlegs of Sinsenasty (IL).

These barely-clad goon-gals scamper around the fields in MLB parks and stadiums in their short tunics in pregame ceremonies and between innings performing lithe and shameless “plays” on the racepaths, the burial mound and homely plate. Jeerleaders (also known as leerfeeders) often mimic the banter of bloodball players by yelling out suggestive lingo during their fake flinging and clubbing simulations. Typical bloodball exchanges between the flinger and grabber, for example, such as “put it in there,” “right down the middle,” and “low balls” accompanied by graphic actions on their part, rivet the attention of the fans who break out in loud guffaws and knowing glances. Parents watching on hellevision are warned that children should cover their faces and plug their ears with slopcorn to prevent the viewing of any harmful images and sounds. Once this warning was issued to the citizens of Hysterika, there was a sudden, increased interest by all ages in the irrational game of bloodball.

The Jeerleaders also taunting and yelling colorful epithets at the opposing team and their fans too. Frequently visiting Jeerleader squads hurl refuse into the seats in an effort to work up the home fans in hope for a fan invasion and a resulting forfeit for the opposing team. On some squads like the Pointy Twin Daggers of Brokenlymb, the fiery Jeerleaders’ main role is to distract the fans, grumpires, other officials, and the opposing bloodballers from illegal actions being conducted by their own home team players, brainers, batbrats, and grounds creepers. While crowd eyes are staring elsewhere, they are doctoring bloodballs, altering the field by digging potholes or depositing obstacles on the racepaths and performing countless dirty tricks.

It is also clear that the Jeerleaders have a tremendous positive effect on their own lusty Bloodsballers. Of course, most fans of other races are repulsed by the appearance of these visiting “ladies.”

[hawaiiansky]

The 2602 Weird Series - Game #6

Chewsday-Aghast 24, 2602

Brokenlymb, New Ork
Maggots Field

“That blasted bloodball is harder to coral than a stallion with its tail cut off!” Gnome bloodcaster Dead Barberic cooed into the afradio’s psychike. He commented on the passed ball that Brokenlymb grabber Goldpick had just allowed to scoot by his mitt. The Gnashnails’ Dancehorse had earlier singled to open the game, raced to sockem and hurt on consecutive grasstrimmers. It was the first run of the contest. 1-0 Nails in the top of the fickle first.

The Maggots Field crowd buzzed, angry as hornets. The visiting Gnashnails’ Rooter Club behind the visitor’s dugout however, taunted the Dagger grabber by yelling out “Moldpick” and “Goldmisser.” Dagger starter Mountainstein howled on cemetery hill in frustration.

The Orks went down in disorder in their half inning to Chantsinger’s flings. The Gnome announcer commented, “Like three eels in a pond.” Mountainstein matched the Dagger starter, one-two three in the top half of the second. .

Bottom of the inning. Oakenboot singled with one out. Tying run on fist base. “Time for a barnbuilding.” Barberic said. He added, “The Daggers would like to have some runs, but their clubbers are constipated.” Sure enough, a confident Chantsinger whistled a speedball past Ironshovel and then Goldpick struck out swinging. The crowd turned on Goldpick. Shouts of “Gouge his eyes out!” “String him up!” and other pleasantries greeted the failed clubber as he got his grabber’s paraphernalia on.

Barberic hollered, “Howdy fans! My, My My. If you’re just turning your afradio on, we’ve got a real hole digger of a bloodball game today, my friends. A 1-0 armpit scratcher. Slashington is leading Brokenlymb by the nose. Three full innings, two hits – one by each team.”

“We’re in the bottom of the foul fourth. One chicken in the coop.” Doomsmasher rode Chantsinger’s thunderball into the gap in wight centaurfield for a single. A grave-looking Gravelshard stepped in and took ball one. On the fling, Doomsmasher stole sockem. Second fling. Gravelshard spat out a groundball to Chantsinger. “Two chickens in the coop.” On the play Doomsmasher reached hurt base. Oakenboot had a chance to tie the game up, but instead pooped out to the hurt baseman Falconquester. “Three chickens in the coop. Close the door.”

Mountainstein struck out two Nails in the top of the filthy fifth. “Another easy as fly pie inning for the Dagger starter.” Chantsinger was flinging a nice melody in the bottom of the fifth as two Daggers flew out. A crossbolt single by Cavepick and a walk to Mountainstein soured his tune. Barberik caught the moment. “Well there are two birds on the clothesline ready to fly to their nest, folks. Shalfeinder steps in with the lead racer on fist.” On a 2-2 count, the speedy Ork elfielder swung mightly at one of the Elf’s sneaky banana split flings…. And struck out! ‘That was time to bring home the bacon. Tough luck for the Daggers” Dead Barberik noted.

The sickly sixth. Mountainstein sent three more Gnashnail clubbers to the retirement home – 15 in a row. In turn, Chantsinger easily cut though the meat of the Brokenlymb disorder disposing of Deepdigger, Doomsmasher and Gravelshard.

The seventh heaven. Dagger Shirtstop slung out Falconquester but bobbled Cometsword’s. Mountainstein slung a couple across to fist to keep the speedster close. It didn’t matter because Moonsinger lanced a shot past Doomsmasher down the wight field line. Cometsword flashed home for the second run and Moosinger strolled into sockem base. Unearned run, but it counted. The home crowd groaned. 2-0 Gnashnails. The smell of defeat rose and lingered. “It’s only two runs, friends. Stick around the stove. The Daggers have three more ups” Barberik said consolingly. An icyle to hurt was caught by the hurt baseman Ironshovel. A mild threat by the Daggers in the bottom half as Ironshovel had worked a walk off Chantsinger and had moved to sockem on Goldpick’s groundhog, but got the next clubber, Cavepick, to fly out to Cometsword.

The eerie eight. Both Dagger Mountainstein and Gnashnail bullpenner Songshade befuddled the limping clubbers.

The naughty ninth. Rofur Gravelshard flung the top half of the ninth. With one down, Falconquester watched four straight flings go for balls and scurried to fist. Gravelshard faced Cometsword and then Moonsinger. Cometsword sent a mosquito to elf and Moonsinger sputtered a popfly to fist. “He put the cork in that bottle” Barberic commented in admiration of Gravelshard.

“Last throw ups for the Daggers” spoke Barberic nervously. Songshade flung thunderbolts. Doomsmasher had built a 3-0 count before he tried to hammer one. He got over the speedball and smashed it right to Tearhunt at fist. He flipped the ball to Songshade who reached the bag before the doomed Doomsmasher. One out.

Tegdush Gravelshard swung two clubs, flung one down and settled himself in at the pieplate. Songshade wasn’t intimidated. Barberik squawked out, “We’ve got a farmer facing a fox in the henhouse.” On the first fling the fox beat the farmer. Gravelshard pulled the bloodball down the elfield line over the fence and 383’ from home. Home run! The snoozing Brokenlymb fans were snapped out of their trance and shook Maggots Field with a thunderous ovation. Gravelshard pranced around the bases, crossed the plate and even returned from the dugout to tip his hat to his adoring fans. “Slums! Slums! Slums!” the loyalists shouted. Not over yet they thought. Now 2-1 Nails. The Gnome was frantic. “Hit the cellars. A tornado is coming!” Barberic screamed.

Dagger Oakenboot saw one fling sail low. Swung at one fling, missed and fowled back three straight. The plucky elfielder stepped out, squeezed his cap of sweat and turned towards Songshade. Oakenboot was looking for another speedball; Songshade wasn’t obliging. A dirtpounder to sockem baseman Falconquester made it two down. Heavy beads of sweat on his brow, Barberik screeched out “Looking like Weird Series’ harvest time for the Nails!”

Or was it? The Slashington bloodballers hugged the dugout rails and the bullpen fence. In anticipation. Champions? Whatever clubbing Ironshovel singled deep between hurt and shirt. The game-tier was on fist. Redbellow raced for him. “Hares are faster than snails” remarked Barberic.

It was up to Doinus Keyvein spinach-clubbing for that goof-off Goldpick. A .360 clubber during the season. His first time up in the Series. Songshade was flinging heat. “He’s got that fire stoked!” The first fling was past Keyvein before he had breathed twice. He couldn’t get his club around fast enough and fowled two back to the screen with the Elf grabber Cutcat chasing. Keyvein took a scary one for ball one.

“My, oh my. I’m going to have to change my drawers” announced Barberic.

Recalling Gravelshard’s blast, Songshade flung a slippery skidder…. Keyvein slashed at it with his black-colored club… but not what he expected… he missed it by a mile. Strike three!

“The Gnashnails have broken the Daggers! The Gnashnails have blunted the Daggers! The Weird Series title is going to Slashington!” A shocked Barberic sobbed into the afradio.

New Ork’s Worst blue-licemen (for no-gooders, that is) cordoned off the field as fans tried to enter and massacre the victorious Elves. Brandishing clubs, staves or crossbows, the constables glared at the depraved and disappointed Orks. The fans swore but pulled back in despair. Riots in Brokenlymb neighborhoods tonight, no doubt.

The Gnashnails’ Rooters Club joined the victors on the diamond as bloodballer and fan celebrated a 4 games to 2 victory by Slashington over Brokenlymb.

[hawaiiansky]

Bloodball’s Best-forgotten Facts: Tickle Tapeworm Parades

Occasionally some smart-aleck academic is able to translate passages in the books of the ancient Hysterikans. It’s boring, painstaking work but what else are these highbrows good for in this world? Well one day during the wars a hundred years ago, one don dusted off a tome, rifled through it and noticed a “painting” of ecstatic crowds of native Hysterikans on both sides of a wide bullivard; they watched a column of their strange four-wheeled, self-drawn wagons parading down it. Inside each wagon were waving personages while above them some objects were “snowing” down on top of them from tall buildings. It was titled “Ticket Tape Parade in New York City.” Whatever that meant?

Smirking the wiseass academic struggled and translated it as “Tickle Tapeworm Parade in New Ork City.” He theorized that this was a celebration of some sort for some returning heroes, nobles or outstanding individuals. This so-called scholar surmised that apparently tape worms were removed from the sickly, assembled, whitened (hence their color), cutup and thrown from high places in recognition of the great deeds of the famous citizens below. However, it must have been hard to gather enough tapeworms even from a large urban area. Perhaps other body parts were used as well. Shrugging his shoulders, the ambitious academic eager to impress his betters showed the text and translation to his superior who, in turn, passed it up the chain of command in the Orkish army. Taking the credit for the discovery himself, his superior worried that this upstart was vying for his own position, so the actual finder was “awarded” the permanent post of duster for the rest of his life.

It so happened that the Orks had just won a resounding victory over the Goblins in Manfatten. To the triumphant general, it seemed like happenstance. Why not celebrate the army’s success with a tickle tapeworm parade of his forces down the main thoroughfare of New Ork? Good for morale that! There were numerous ill prisoners, some of whom must be suffering from that malady because of the long siege. The commander ordered his surgeons to diagnose the condition of the captured Goblins and to remove the tapeworms. Butchers were available to slice up the nasty parasites into tiny bits and to whiten them for the big event. Of course, the harried surgeons quickly tired of this tedious task, and to speed up the process, ordered soldiers to execute a fair number of prisoners, ill or healthy, and to extract intestines to supplement the discovered tapeworms. In no time at all, there were a sufficient amount of “tapeworms.”

A few days later the inhabitants of New Ork, mostly Goblins, were dragooned into participating in the first tapeworm parade down the Broodway. Crowds were cowed into cheering the Ork victors as they marched proudly with their ugly grins on their stupid faces. Quite a success the commanding general mused afterwards.

Tickle tapeworm parades began to be used in New Ork for other purposes besides winning battles. Over the years, mayors, explorers, princes, sportsmen, and a host of others have been honored with this special event.

In bloodball, the first tickle tapeworm parade dedicated to managers and bloodballers took place after the New Ork Yanknecks had defeated the Brokenlymb Daggers in the 2601 Weird Series. Even if there isn’t a steady source of tapeworm sufferers, jails hold countless numbers of criminals who become unwilling providers of the “snow” that falls on the heads of the honored during these tickle tapeworm parades. Another bloodball tradition had been started. Teams figured it was an excellent way to rub defeat in the faces of the losers and slop praise upon the winners.

[hawaiiansky]

Bloodball’s Best-forgotten Facts: The Commissioner’s Throwfee

Beginning at the end of last year’s 2601 Weird Series, the Commissioner of Bloodball, the dishonorable Kenisee-mountain Landlost has bestowed upon the victor of the Mage League Bloodball Weird Series a trophy for the victorious team, the aptly-named, Commissioner’s Throwfee. It is the symbol of bloodball supremacy throughout the bloodball world.

It’s called a throwfee for two reasons. One is that the Commissioner enjoys tormenting the bloodballers. manager, and the rest of the team. As a result, he has devised a rather unusual manner to award it. A catapult is dragged onto the field after the final out of the Weird Series, and the Commissioner loads the throwfee onto it and fires the throwfee into the crowd of milling victors who attempt to catch it. A bloodballer risks being impaled or struck by it or squashed under fellow teammates, but that is all part of the fun for young and old alike in this award ritual. The other is that an exorbitant fee is charged to the winning team for its possession. It is no secret that this ensures that Comm. Landlost receives a substantial cut of the Weird Series’ bonus that the winning team receives. An overflowing bag of greenskins is immediately delivered to the Commissioner’s Office by the winner.

No ordinary trophy this. It is supposedly made entirely of silver (but some say that it is silver-plated). Each year the trophy is unique to recognize one team for their achievement and to commemorate its resounding victory over the other. Last year it was a sculpted figure of a Ork Brokenlymb bloodballer being strung up on the gallows by a New Ork Yankneck - a broken dagger laying on the ground. This year it shows the teeth-filled mouth of an Elf Gnashnail bloodballer munching on a Dagger. Two trophies are constructed each year as the Commissioner has no idea which team will ultimately triumph in the series. The unsued throwfee is melted down and reshaped the next year.

[hawaiiansky]

Thirstday
Aghast 26, 2602

The New Ork Deadly Times

“The Battle of Whooperstown”
By Thrill Gallows

The Grab Wizard Award winners gathered in Whooperstown in upper New Ork to receive their own trophies for being the best mitt-snapping, ball-grabbing, and arm-slinging injuryfielders and out-of-this-world MLB fielders in 2602.

This had to be no ordinary ceremony when the Commissioner of Bloodball is involved. Kenisee-mountain Landlost seems to derive great pleasure in embarrassing, tormenting and potentially harming those intrepid fielders who gobble up those groundhopping bloodballs, spearheads, mosquitos, poopers, and Hexes League lungers.

Today the Commissioner acting as Master of Scaremony devised a diabolical display of dangerous, defensive deeds. The local Ork militia was ordered to raid a local Harmoury and procure some mortars and small cannons. These death-dealing artillery pieces were hauled onto the famed baseball blood diamond at Whooperstown. The grandstands were abuzz with excited chatter from Hall of Shame dignitaries, fans, and family and friends of bloodballers.

Then, the Irrational League Grasping Glove winners first took the field. Meanwhile the artillery crews were scooping up bloodballs from buckets and rammed the rolling balls into the cannon and mortar muzzles. The surprised bloodballers in the field were a bit skittish as the muzzles behind home pieplate were trained on them at their positions in the field.

To lengthen their discomfort, Comm. Landlost gave an impassioned, tedious and rambling speech bestowing praise upon the assembled fielders. “…and these brave souls are eager to prove their worthiness of receiving this prestigious award by being subjected to a barrage of bloodballs shot out from the fire and smoke-filled mouths of artillery.”

Shouts of “We didn’t sign up for this” “He’s trying to kill us all” and “You must be joking” burst out of the mouths of the concerned and angry bloodballers. When the crowd heard these cries and protests, they booed and castigated the fielders. Their gripes washed away like sandcastles on Slimesea Beach.

The battery of weapons were fired. A cascade of plunging bloodballs showered down upon the fielders. Simultaneously from ground-aimed cannons a salvo of goundballs was unleashed as well as crossbolted-bloodballs. Blasted at from all directions, some bloodballers tried to catch the bloodballs, others attempted to get out of the way, while others crouched covering their heads. When they thought the blast was over another volley of bloodballs rained down from the sky or bounced on the ground towards them. Bloodballers were bloodied, bruised and battered. Stretchers removed the injured.

Then it was the Hysterikan League glove wizards’ turn. Cannons and mortars were reloaded and the bombardment continued with fresh meat on the field. When it was all over the field was littered with white bloodballs like the aftermath of a hailstorm. “Oh well, none of the scoundrels was killed” the Commissioner thought disappointedly. He figured that they’d have all winter to recover –the lazy, good-for-nuthin’ rogues.

Landlost held a trophy awarding ceremony and each of the 2602 Grasping Glove winners hobbled, was assisted or carried onto the stage. Two Ogre bodyguards flanked the Commissioner just in case a hostile bloodballer tried to seek revenge on His Dishonor.

All in all, this “Battle of Whooperstown” has been a frightful day indeed. That’s my view.

Here’s the list of the 2602 Grab Wizard winners that I tore out of today’s program:

[hawaiiansky]

Thirstday
Aghast 26, 2602

Terrorhaunt, Oweirdo
Canundra

“This is your FAVORITE bloodball ABC wordspitter, Blowhard Coldspell, bloodcasting LIVE from Rottfears Centre in Terrorhaunt, Oweirdo.“

“CANUNDRA, Hysterika’s noxious, northern neighbor, is infamous for its usually BITTER … BONECHILLING air and …. BLINDING, snow BLOWING storms. But TONIGHT bloodball fans are here enjoying a humid, hot, Ballhellish night to HONOR the winners of the 2602 FLINGER of the YEAR Awards claw-picked by the Bloodball Scribewriters of Hysterika.‘’

“But first … the Royal Canundran Haunted Police will start the festivities with a ROUSING rendition of its RAW anthem… “COLD CANUNDRA!”

Cold Canundra!

Our snowy and frigid land!
Truely hate a lot on all thy ice I stand.
With freezing faces see thee breath rise,
My blue eyes frozen to see!
From far and wide,
Snow Canundra, we walk in slush for thee.
Gods keep our land snow ‘n ice free!
Cold Canundra, we stamp our feet for thee.
Cold Canundra, we tramp on snow for thee.

“That song by the Haunties sent shivers up and down my spine, fans…either it’s the screechy voices of the singers or thoughts of a frigid winter to come.”

“What the FANG are we doing here so far north tonight anyway?….Well, as you know, fans…there are no mager league clubs in Canundra….but the Mage League Bloodball does have some native-spawned Canundrans on its rosters. Among them is homefrown favorite … Anonduil ARROWBRAND, that evil Elf of the Slashington Gnashnails.”

“ In fact, the winner of the HL’s Flinger of the Year is savage southclaw Arrowbrand - a nail-gripper and shape-changer flinging starter for the Gnashnails. He went 16-9 … with a 3.70 ERA…. and 98 strikeouts in his first, fiery, fiendish season in the Big Bam!”

“The local boy gets a standing ovation for his hellhill heroics!”

“Famed Fenai Icehammer, an Ork, was nose picked as the IL’s Flinger of the Year. Starting for the brokendown Brokenlymb Daggers, Icehammer even outflung Arrowbrand with an 18-5 record, 2.04 ERA and 179 strikeouts.”

“The stranger receives a few boos and catcalls as the fans troop out of the stadium.”

“This is Blowhard Coldspell. Have a fright night!”

(© The Academic Bloodball Collegium)

[hawaiiansky]

Satyrday-Aghast 28, 2602
Screwyville, Kingschmuck

The New Ork Deadly Tymes

"Can't See the Clubs From the Trees"
By Thrill Gallows

All official clubs for Mage League Bloodball are shaped and carved in Screwyville-the famed Screwyville Clubber. All fans recognize its logo, an angry furry bat with its claws gripping and swinging a bloodball club.

Vast forests of trees throughout Hysterika and Canundra are cut down to satisfy the demands for clubs (blood staves or wands as they are also called) by bloodballers and fans especially tykes, those wish-we-were-but-never-will-be bloodballers. Such devastation is decried by legions of tree-loving Elves. Bloodball Commissioner Kenisee-mountain Landlost dismisses them out of hand deriding them as bark-lickers and leaf-losers.

Today the Screwyville Clubber Factory is releasing two new models of clubs for amateur bloodballers. One is based on the custom-made club of Halin Leadboot of the Screwloose Frowns and the other for Jadokus Grosbad of the Sinsenasty Shreds. Leadboot nicknamed his actual club “Black Booty.” Grosbad’s club is called “Bad Ash.”

Clubbing 375, smashing 25 homers and driving in 78 runs, Leadboot dwarfed all other clubbers and won the Hysterikan League Best Clubber Award; the pipe-smoking Dwarf achieved this even having missed the last few weeks of the season with an injury. The Imperial Grosbad (.336, 7, 43) had a record-setting 25 game clubbing streak and snatched the Irrational Best Clubber Award in 2602.

Leadboot and Grosbad were guests at the Screwyville Clubber Factory. They were showered with wood chips and sawdust by mini-tuniced maidens and the owner presented their trophies on behalf of the MLB.

[Celtic Forever]

"Jeerleaders" - heh, heh, heh ...

[hawaiiansky]

Originally Posted by Celtic Forever

"Jeerleaders" - heh, heh, heh ...

Heh Bill,
Where you've been? I thought you'd have a new league up by now or Season IV of the Fantastic Baseball League. Sure miss that. We could really use another pure fantasy league with your sense of humor. How about it?

Mike

[Celtic Forever]

Oh, wait for it, my friend ... just wait a wee bit longer ...

[hawaiiansky]

Munchday
Aghast 30, 2602

Quikargo, Killnoise

Two Elves won the 2602 Newblood of the Year Award in the Blowhard City today. They were selected by the Bloodball Scribewriters of Hysterika after a grueling week-long talkfest supplemented by wenching and beer guzzling.

The Hysterikan League winner, Lagararariand Cometsword, elf fielder of the Weird Series champion Slashington Gnashnails had a .324 clubbing average, socked 29 homers, and knocked in 87 racers. It was the second year straight that a Gnashnail has won top greenhorn in the HL.

Earondel Dusktooth, another Elf, was nose picked as the IL’s Newblood of the Year. Playing shirtstop for the Bosstown Graves, Dusktooth clubbed .331 as a magybaby, third-best among clubbers in the league. He stroked 5 four-brown baggers and had 39 ribeyes for the Graverobbers.

Neither bloodballer was particularly thrilled to receive the magebaby trophy this year at the Helltown Hotel in Quikargo. It featured a bronze Elf wearing a diaper and a bloodball cap and taking a futile swing at a speedball. Someone has a warped sense of humor in the League to dream that up; the Commissioner was immediately suspected but wasn’t present for the presentation. Both winners refused to strip and wear nappies for the press afterwards and were seen leaving by the rear exit of the hotel in order to avoid further embarrassment.

[hawaiiansky]

In His Commissioner’s Secret Service
By Spewin Phlegmout

Chapter 1 Tale of Two Waters

A tall Dark Elf with metal-gray eyes, L stared out his skyscraper window. He gritted his teeth. A week before the main ceremony and this happens. Horrible mess. Not a job for goons like the two Ogres outside.
************************************************** *********************************
In Manfatten on the Beastside Highway heading south, Jams Wand swiftly turned the wheel of his steamsportster sharply bypassing a thrown caltrop on the roadway inches before the wheels of his speeding conveyance reached that patch. The steamcoupe in front slowed a bit and a crossbow suddenly appeared from its side window. It was pointed at Jams Wand. The crossbow was fired and its bolt whistled past his cheek.

Annoyed Wand put his steamsportster into fifth gear, revved up, and nearly side-swiped the sportster. Wand’s crystal-blue eyes glinted as he looked at the surprised face of the ugly Ork driver. The driver flinched and he tried to avoid Wand’s vehicle. Swerving to the right the Ork rammed into the barrier and hopped it. Wand watched as the Ork’s “funeral wagon” plunged into the murky waters of the Beastside River.

“Now what was that all about?” wondered Wand. “Road rage?” he speculated. Another delay this morning. L was not going to be pleased.
************************************************** **********************************
The piercing eyes of the small dragon on Ms. Honeyplenty’s desk glowed green. Immediately followed by L’s grave voice on the innercom. “Ms. Honeyplenty, could you send in trouble-o-seven when that loafer finally arrives?”

The petite Elf couldn’t help but smile at Jams Wand who had just entered L’s waiting room. Wand smirked back and flipped his Yankneck bloodball cap backwards landing right on top of the coat pole where it spinned merrily.

“Goodmourning, Honeyplenty? Getting plenty?” he insinuated.
The secretary was used to both his risqué remarks and L’s gruff commands.

“HE wants to see you now!” she countered.

“And YOU want to see me tonight?” Wand offered leaning closer to her.

Ms. Honeyplenty pinched the dragon’s tail and a hot flame issued forth searing Jams Wand’s right hand. Wand pulled back, grimaced slightly, and opened the door to L’s inner sanctum.
************************************************** **********************************
“Nice of you to honor us with your presence, Jams. Two hours late. Have a seat.” L unceremoniously pushed the newspaper across the tabletop towards him. The headlines on the sports page of The New Ork Deadly Tymes blared:

LEADBOOT ESCAPES DEATH

Halin Leadboot, star clubber of the Screwloose Frowns, was nearly drowned yesterday when he fell down an embankment into the Mightyslipperi River. The vaunted Dwarf slugger was bass fishing when apparently he stumbled into the swift currents and was carried downstream until someone dragged him to shore. A shaken Leadboot insisted, “Had too many brews and tripped. It were water sprites that saved my hide. That’s all.”

“Sir, an accident?” Wand posed.

“Would I call YOU in for an insurance claim?” The short-tempered Landlost, the MLB Commissioner, barked back at trouble-o-seven.

(to be continued)

[hawaiiansky]

In His Commissioner’s Secret Service
By Spewin Phlegmout

Chapter 2 SPorts Evil-Causing TRouble Elite

L grimaced, “In fact, trouble-o-seven, it’s the fifth assault on prominent bloodballers this month .. the others were Cometsword, Moonsinger, Icehammer, Forten. When pressed, all of them reported so-called mishaps and carelessness … yet the fearful wretches refuse to utter details about these incidents except to claim divine providence saved their skins.” L was exasperated. “Nonsense!” he exploded.

Jams Wand stewed while L packed his pipe with toebacco and fired it up. The putrid smoke blew in Wand’s direction.

Wand coughed, pondered and said, ”It could be another bloodball club trying to ensure a better finish next season, … or a bitter rival for the annual bloodball awards, or …even the Bloodslayers Union. I don’t think, pardon me for saying, that bloodballers were particularly happy about your heavy-handed crackdown of their union-organizing activities this summer, sir.”

L was losing his patience. “Or the tooth fairy or the bloodball gods themselves,” he rushed out in an exasperating tone.

Then L flung another report in Wand’s direction. “Maybe just a coincidence, but… our Gnome operative, Fleaneck Lighter, in Lost Wages sent this.”

James Wand read a detailed story of how a certain gambler in Lost Wages had made bets on darkhorse bloodballers to win the Most Valuable Bloodballer Awards and on next year’s pennant winners. The gambler would win millions in greenskins should he win those bets.

Unconcerned Wand shrugged. “No way these lesser bloodballers will be selected by the BSers.”

Honeyplenty’s sweet voice interrupted their contemplations. “Important dispatches, sir.”

After the delectable Honeyplenty had sauntered out, L sighed deeply. “These are official requests by the favorites to withdraw their names from consideration of the MVB Awards. The same bloodballers who had suffered those recent misfortunes.”

“By the way, sir,” Wand broke in, “What is the name of this gambler?”

L smiled, ”Oh, an Ork … he calls himself Greeenskinner, known to be the treasurer of SPECTRE in the wild, wild west.”

Sweat covering his brow, Jams Wand reflected on SPECTRE - the SPorts Evil-Causing TRouble Elite.

Commissioner Landlost wasted no more time. “Wand, by reputation you are quite a cardshark, and you might fancy a game or two in Lost Wages. Do you good. A little vacation of sorts. I want you there on the next dragonflight. Find out what this Mr. Greenskinner is up to. There may be more to this than making money. The integrity and future of bloodball may be in your hands.”

[hawaiiansky]

In His Commissioner’s Secret Service
By Spewin Phlegmout

Chapter 3 Up, Up and Away … Down, Down to Stay

The 747 dragon - seven rows, four seats in each row, seven sections –with 196 passengers (plus pilot and fright attendants) aboard flapped and soared in the heavens towards Lost Wages.

Jams Wand never cared much for dragonflights. The beating of the dragon’s wings was monotonous, the brimstone breath of the beast unbearable. The frightattendant was irritable and disheveled from the windy conditions on the dragon’s undulating hide as she made her way down the spineway uneasily. More than one drink had already spilled.

Wand’s saddlemate was supposedly an Ork brainer from one of the Beast Coast miner league clubs. The motormouth intrigued Wand with his tales of bloodball, yet this Ork pried too persistently into Wand’s business at every opportunity.

“Universal Bloodball Supplies, is it?” the Ork repeated.

Wand said curtly, “Yes, I deal in blood…balls and clubs out west.”

A gaggle of Orks today. There were those two Ork thugs this morning on the Beastside Highway, their bodies hopefully feeding the fishes in the river’s depths, then this Mr. Greenskinner. Now the Ork on the trip west. Coincidence? Unlikely. This Mr. Greenskinner was trying to pin a tail on Wand’s donkey. Wand would watch this oaf carefully from now on.

Wand pretended to read an article in this month's Sports Mutilated about Grosbad’s 25 game clubbing streak. Wand thought about SPECTRE instead. It was strongly rumored in the Secret Service that SPECTRE - the SPorts Evil-Causing TRouble Elite. – was somehow responsible for the losses by the Brokenlymb Daggers in the Weird Series –two years running. The Ork kept talking for a while but eventually his voice trailed off.

Wand couldn’t help notice the petite, curvaceous Elf maiden in the spineway saddleseat across from him. Her bare, bronzed legs shone in the sunlight. A jeerleader. Her skimpy Philbellies’ outfit revealed all. She must have a strong constitution. Mighty cool and breezy up here. Wand didn’t mind taking her all in, and she flashed him a smile in response.

Night fell. The flight dragged on. Wand found himself involuntarily nodding off, his body in his flankside saddeseat leaned precariously over the side of the dragon’s back. A saddlebelt securing him from falling.

Wand stirred. A light flickered as a fright attendant holding a lantern walked past Wand on the spineway. But it wasn’t her movements that had roused him. It was a scraping sound and a slight shifting of his body along his waist. Wand looked town at his side. The Ork’s knife was slicing though Wand’s leather saddlebelt. Halfway though already. Two more passes and Wand would be free of his saddleseat and hurdling to the ground far below.

Wand caught the Orks’ greasy hand in one hand and jammed his right fist into the Ork’s stomach –a three-fingered jab. The Ork grunted, his hand holding the knife loosened its grip. But not before another dangerous slice through Wand’s safety belt.

Wand recovered the knife and swiftly severed the Ork’s saddebelt. The Ork was doubled over, and Wand merely allowed the Ork to use his body's weight and momentum to fall past him and off the right side of the dragon’s flank. The Ork pitched into the darkness below. No scream as he was still gasping for breath from the force of Wand’s earlier thrust. Wand spotted the twinkling eelectric lights of the city of Lost Wages below.

No one noticed. With the knife, Wand made it look like both his and the Ork’s belts had frayed. He had made it appear that fortunately for Wand his had held. Proud of his work, Wand settled back and feigned sleep.

When the fright attendant had returned and discovered an empty saddleseat, she shook Wand awake. “Where’s your saddlemate?” she yelled in horror.

Wand said wryly, “Oh, I guess he couldn’t wait to make an impression in Lost Wages.”

[hawaiiansky]

In His Commissioner’s Secret Service
By Spewin Phlegmout

Chapter 4 Gnome of Your Business

Having landed, Wand waited patiently at the Lost Wages Scareport Roost while the baggage was unloaded from the underbelly cargo cage slung under the dragon; the beast was glad to be resting and eating after its long journey. After witnessing the dragon barbecuing and gulping down live sheep, Wand collected his bag containing bloodballs and clubs, the tools of his trade consistent with his cover as a salesman with UBS - Universal Bloodball Supplies. Checking from time to time to see if anyone was following or especially interested in him, he strode into the terminal building.

A plump Gnome with a grin as wide as his belly rushed forward to greet Wand Wearing a Yellow Crabb Taxi uniform, Fleaneck Lighter introduced himself and led him to the steamcab perched outside. He had offered to carry the bag but Wand held on to it firmly.

“Hot as Ballhella!” Lighter grinned as they stood in the blazing sun, “…. and so are the ladies, the card games and the alcohol. Going three for four isn’t bad in Lost Wages or in bloodball, is it?” The Gnome had a habit of scratching his neck, hence, his nickname. “Good fright, Mr. Wand”

“Call me Jams. It was for me though I can’t say the same for my saddlemate,” Wand summed up his sky-high adventure.

Lighter quipped, “Glad you survived. I would have hated to have made the drive here for nothing in this heat.” In a deep baritone voice, Lighter broke into an obscene version of the classic Take Me Out To See Bloodball. He stoked the steamcab and sped off.

Wand grinned. He had taken an immediate liking to the diminutive spy. He interrupted, “Fleaneck, where are we heading?”

“Why the Slamsingle Casino and Hotel, of course, … it being a lair of our dishonorable Mr. Greenskinner. On the way, I thought I’d get you up to speed about our mutual friend and his singular operations…”

[hawaiiansky]

In His Commissioner’s Secret Service
By Spewin Phlegmout

Chapter 5 Greenskins and Glitter

Jams Wand knew that SPECTRE had its claws in nefarious bloodball-related schemes but not to the extent that Lighter had discovered.

Lighter reported, “Our station here has recorded wagon shipments filled with greenskins coming in and out of Greenskinner’s HQ at the Slamsingle where he is the chief cardshark. We know the sources. Dirty greenskins all.”

“How so?” Wand asked.

The Gnome gave details about a host of illicit activities, all aimed at taking advantage of the fans’ obsession with bloodball.

Lighter lit up at Wand’s interest and said, “They’re counterfeiting bloodball cards for one thing, a lucrative business. Collectors would routinely fight duels over the possession of rare cards. SPECTRE is muddying the waters by producing and auctioning off near-perfect forgeries to unwary buyers.”

He spat out the window violently, perhaps to cleanse his mouth and preface his next remarks. “And the dastardly no-gooders are selling spiked lizard chews from bloodball packs to hook tykes and teens. A habit-forming treat difficult to give up.”

“They’re even enticing lissome jeerleaders for a highly paid rendezvous with high-heeled patrons,” continued an irate Lighter.

“Ah, the Red Heel trade,’” remarked Wand who noticed that Lighter was anything but light on the pedal of his steamcab and seemed to be speeding up after each crime that Greenskinner was involved in.

“Well, SPECTRE has attempted to bribe bloodballers, grumpires and managers,” Wand added. “It made tons of greenskins on illegal betting on bloodball games especially during the Weird Series.”

“That fits in. We’ve tracked outgoing shipments right before the Weird Series. Not a coincidence I believe. It’s not been the first time either.” Lighter concluded.

Wand summed it up, “Greenskinner appears to be SPECTRE’s treasurer. A banker of sorts. He receives money, hordes it, and disperses it when his masters command it.”

“Lately he hasn’t. Something big is in the wind, something foul, Jams… I know it. But what?” Fleaneck said desperately.

“That my friend… is what I intend to find out,” assured Wand.

Wand enjoyed the rest of the ride like a vacationing tourist. A sign greeted visitors to the Greenskin City. The Gambling Temple of Hysterika: Hell-to-come to Fabulous Lost Wages!

Lighter drove his steamcab right down the famed Moneystrip. He brightened up as he entered the Strip. He cheerfully pointed out The Speedballagio and Seizor’s Palace. The Mangle Bay Resort & Casino and The Mangy Grand with all the glory of their gaudy exteriors and blinding, flashing eelectric-firefly lights slid past Wand's eyes. A bloodball-theme dominated the décor of these gambling houses. Some casino structures resembled fronts of famous bloodball parks like Yankneck Stadium and Wiggly Field.

Minute later the steamcab pulled in from of the Slamsingle. The den of thieves.

[hawaiiansky]

In His Commissioner’s Secret Service
By Spewin Phlegmout

Chapter 6 What’s Sharpened in Wages, Slays in Wages

Having checked into his hotel room, Wand opened his bag and examined his wares. Next he showered with chunks of ice followed by a scalding hot water rinse. Afterwards he dressed in his black ‘n blue, Virginmount-plantation cotton pajamas.

He surveyed the room service menu and used the hellephone to order. “Yes, this is Wand, Jams Wand in Room 366. I’d like to order the braised, mango mudfish with roasted fire-ants, a tossed sagebrush salad and a bottle of shampain-2050 vintage.”

Within minutes, Wand’s dinner was delivered on a rolling wagon car in the center of which a large silver serving cover was atop a tray. After tipping the lackey, Wand closed the door, turned and headed towards his meal.

To his consternation, the silver “cover” was rising off the cart, seemingly by its own powers until Wand noted the snarling green visage of a Goblin underneath. Actually the wiry, Goblin intruder was wearing a helmet and worse was holding in his grimy claws a sharp and gleaming sabre. The cart broke in two in the middle and the assassin rushed forth and lunged swinging the sabre at Wand in one swift motion.

Wand barely had time to flinch. The edge of the sabre made a sickening ripping sound as it sliced though Wand’s pajama sleeve. It was torn from elbow to shoulder, but miraculously had touched no flesh.

Wand ducked around the killer. He reached inside his opened bag on the bed, and retrieved a bloodball club. Too unwieldy a weapon against a determined slayer, but he used it once to deflect a blow by the sabre. Twisting the handle, he withdrew a rapier from its “scabbard.” Now we were even thought Wand.

It was the Gobln’s turn to be surprised. He swung his sabre again which Wand easily paried. The Goblin was taken by surprise even more when the tip of Wand’s rapier pierced his lung. He fell with a thud.

“This is Jams Wand in 366. I’m afraid I ‘ve made somewhat of a mess in my room. Could you send someone up here to clean it up? Thank you.”

He looked at the remnants of his shredded pajama sleeve. He said to himself, “#@&% … Greenskinner, you’ll pay for this.”

Waiting, Wand settled into an armchair and read the predictions for winners of the Most Valuable Bloodballer Award in sports section of The Lost Wages Sunburn. It was public. In black ‘n blue the Commissioner revealed that MVP favorites, Icehammer and Leadboot had withdrawn their names from consideration. A scandal and bound to have repercussions in the League if not rectified. Wand smirked saying to himself “I’ll see what I can do.”

[hawaiiansky]

In His Commissioner's Secret Service
By Spewin Phlegmout

Chapter 7 Fun-and-Games

The next day Wand met with Lighter. He was tired of being the passive target and decided to be proactive and take the battle against Greenskinner’s bloodball-sucking operations in the city. Lighter pointed out some tempting targets that Wand and he could interrupt or interfere with.
************************************************** *****************
The odor of barbecued lizard tongue was pervasive. Wand was watching the flames and billowing, putrid smoke rise from the warehouse that he had just fire-bombed minutes earlier. This was Greenskinner’s main lab and supply depot. It had manufactured and housed his horde of drug-laced dried lizard tongue slabs which were added to packs of counterfeit bloodball card packs. Teens across Hysterika would be suddenly cut off from satisfying their addiction for along time to come. Perhaps they would take the opportunity to break their habits.

It had been a busy week. A wagon filled with ill-gained greenbacks had been hijacked by Wand; this would put a dent in Greenskinner’s revenues. A printer of fake bloodball cards was sabotaged. Greenskinner’s flunkies were intercepted and detained by Lighter. The smooth-running machine that Greenskinner ran was being hit again and again. Wand hoped it would provoke Greenskinner to confront him directly.

After each day’s fun-and-games, Wand gambled at the hotels casino expecting Greenskinner to face him at the Hexas Holdem table. It hadn’t happened.
************************************************** *****************
Stunday, at the Slamsingle Casino, Jams Wand’s gleaming blue eyes stared at the dealer’s claws as he dealt two cards to each of the Hexas Holdem Poker players. No tricks, no fix. The dealer was playing fairly so far. Wand excitedly examined his first cards, His Mole was the spleen and ringworm of grubs. Not a bad start.

A waiter approached the table. Wand ordered, “A Verbiage Martini-…. spoken not slurred.”

A couple of seats to his right, an elegantly-dressed Elf brushed her blond bangs away from her perfectly formed face. Wand couldn’t forget her - the jeerleader on his memorable flight to Lost Wages. Wand recognized the bloodballer diagonally across from him too. Wand hoped his poker playing was worse than his clubbing average. There was a burly Ratzman to his left …and directly opposite Wand was … Greenskinner.

“At last” thought Jams Wand.

[hawaiiansky]

In His Commissioner's Secret Service
By Spewin Phlegmout

Chapter 8 Scary Tale

Greenskinner was a monster. His head was completely contorted as though someone or something had grasped it and reshaped it violently into a twisted pretzel. The face, if you can call it so, was lopsided with the right eye “drilled” right through Jam Wand’s head. The other seemingly-frozen eye was set two inches below his right, and it stared straight down at his hand of cards that he clutched with his left set of claws. His tusks gleamed from the overhead lights, and he smiled vilely at Wand.

Jams Wand didn’t want to gaze into that horrid visage, but he felt compelled to do so, even as he did, he neglected concentrating on his own cards. That was the point after all, Wand thought, wasn’t it Greenskinner? Wand made a point of following Greenskinner’s left eye instead.

Wand bet on his Mole. The Slop was served-the jackass of grubs, the ten of grubs, the dogface of spiders. Wand noticed that Greenskinner’s down-gazing left eye sparkled when the dogface of spiders was revealed. Another round of betting.

Soultear the jeeleader hestitated before she placed her bet. Wand inquired about her life in the Mage League. “Oh, I love tormenting the visiting team, spitting at bloodballers, calling them names…I’m not always bad to others,” she directed to Wand.

“I was hoping you would be,” Wand replied. Soultear blushed.

As they played, talk among the players centered on bloodball as it inevitably does. The Ratzman was speculating aloud as to whom was the best newblood flinger of this past season. Wand noticed that the comment seemed to somewhat unhinge Greenskinner’s normally stoic visage.

“So Mr. Greenskinner, ever play bloodball?” Wand probed.

“As a matter of fact, I have, Mr….?”

“Wand, Jams Wand.”

“I was a rising prospect in the miner leagues, a slugger of sorts, Mr. Wand, but a thunderball by a young, wild flinger hit me square in the face. …and well…, you can see the effects of that orb as it struck and smashed my profile to pieces … I thrashed in agony at the pieplate scratching at the damage with my claws. I’m afraid my reaction,” Greenskinner chuckled, “made matters much worse. Eventually my features were… reassembled.” Greenskinner grinned menacingly at Wand. “I’m not overly fond of the bloodsport now especially as I never regained my composure as a clubber and I was discarded. Hexes Holdem is so much more peaceful…and more financially rewarding.“

Not as much as your illegal bloodball-related businesses, Wand felt like adding.

Wand wasn’t sympathetic, but it explained Greenskinner’s tendencies to reek havoc on the sport that had denied him success on the diamond. He sought vengeance on bloodball by being its parasite, using the sport to line his pockets with greenbacks, but what else did he want out of bloodball?

The dealer turned The Burn. It was the dogface of harts. Greenskinner’s left eye gleamed. Wand speculated that Greenskinner was going for four of a kind in dogfaces. The Ratzman and Soultear folded.

Greenskinner raised the bet. Wand met it.

The Quiver. It was aptly-named as Wand’s heart certainly complied. The last card was flipped by the dealer. The dogface of grubs.

Greenskinner tried to hide his feat of gaining that fourth dogface, but Wand knew he had him. Both betted their entire stash although Wand acted resigned to his fate. Greenskinner snarling wickedly revealed his fourth dogface-four of a kind. He was about to gather in all the chips.

“Hold on… high straight flush- ten to dogface, “ Wand announced. “I guess you didn’t see it coming, Greenskinner, just like that speedball that caught you by surprise in the miners,” Wand rubbed it in with relish.