Mage League Bloodball

[hawaiiansky]

Originally Posted by Celtic Forever

Great stuff as always. Do you have plans to buy OOTP12? I'm not sure that it adds anything for us fantasists ...

Thanks!
I agree. I'm afraid OOTP 12 is mostly for the realists - historical junkies. That's great, and I'm happy for them, but I'm waiting for something novel or spectacular like animation of the players. (Hah, keep dreaming) It seems there wasn't much fanfare or countdown to this release like last year. Now I know why. In OOTP 11, they gave baseball cards and made it possible to create players outside the game using FaceGen Modeller. Great for me as it fueled Bloodball!

In the next few months there'll be bugs and patches galore too.I give OOTP12 a yawn and a miss.Three thumbs down.

[hawaiiansky]

Bloody-eyed View of Shiv Park

Killerelfia –the City of the Bloody Glove! The city got that label from the “love” that the two teams who share Shiv Park, the IL’s Philbellies and the HL’s Fatlickers have for each other. No love lost between the Dark Elves and the Halflings. In most cases, the teams seldom cross paths as one is away and the other home, but when they do have the displeasure to meet, blood flows. In this case, absence does not make the heart fonder…but only fester!

Worst (or best for spectators) are the catfights between the teams’ jeerleaders. The Phil -Bellie Dancers and the Fatlickin’ Skins. The Bellie Dancers despise the slovenly and gross habits of the Skins and the manner in which their shared dressing room is filled with chicken bones, snack wrappers and other discarded waste. In turn, the Skins hate the glum habits of the pale pointed-ears. The bloodballers on both sides, however, rather enjoy the wrestling and ripping of uniforms and the resulting clothing malfunctions when these ladies get into their periodic brawls.

Squatting on Behigh St and Twirp St., Shiv Park, where rival fans knife each other nightly, is a monstrously huge rectangular park with fancy arches on its brick exterior and a jaw dropping eight-angle corner tower, the entrance for fans. The upper tower supposedly holds the remains of one of the baseball legends of ancient Hysterika, Cloudie Murk whoever he was. There is a FATS logo carved into several parts of the Park to the complete disgust of the Philbellies. Shiv Park is a beautiful place – too good for its creepy inhabitants.

It’s 447’ to dead centaur field, and along the fowl lines - 334’ to elfield and 331’ to wight. A double-trouble decker grandstand slithers around towards the fowl poles and another extends from the elfield fowl line straight to centaurfield. From the spearpoint in centaur, a mammoth 5o foot wall reaches the wight field fowl pole preventing any freebie viewing or spying for that matter. In wight centaurfield, a scoreboard has a Ballhella Time Beer logo scribbled on it topped by a Loongrin Clock which is 65’ above the field, a tempting target for many a bloodballer slugger.

When the Philbellies are in town, the seats in Shiv Park are painted red, or repainted blue when the Fatlickers barge in. A sickly maroon color results from all the repainting and upsets the stomachs of fans.

Shiv Park is sometimes called Cloudie Murk Stadium probably referring to the corpse of that old baseball geezer apparently entombed here or perhaps to the foul weather that prevails in the City of Bloody Glove.

[hawaiiansky]

Winesday, Melee 11, 2602
Slashington, DK

Bats, Blood, Beer and Broads

Bat Night at Gripit Stadium was one reason Galar Rainweasel took his kids for the nightmare game between the homely team second place Slashington Gnashnails and the visiting first place Dathroat Tuskers- a half game separating the two teams. Blood, beer and broads were the other reasons. After laying down several greenskins for three tickets, Galar was given two “souvenir” bats for his son and daughter. The tiny furry bloodsucking bats hung complacently upside down from their outstretched hands. The bats were of the Screwyville breed and were obviously drugged or magically-induced so as not to immediately flutter away.

Like the rest, the three fans clawed at and shoved anyone getting in their path as they barreled into the stadium to find their seats. Music blared as they entered. The eelectrix lights shone brightly on the putrid green grass, the bloodballers slinging the bloodball around the injuryfield, and the throngs of Elf fans yelling their lungs out of their chests.

Out on the wight field sidelines, the Pale Nails, Slashington’s Elf jeerleader squad went through their gyrations in sync with the pulsating music of the girl’s band the Floozies. While Galar fixed his appreciative eyes on the long-legged damsels, his kids gaped at the Tuskers taking their warm-ups – the horrid faces and drooling fangs of the Ogre bloodballers were a sight for fright eyes-especially for the youngins.

Niol Chantsinger (1-1) was on cemetery hill for the Nails while undefeated Tureth the Vulgar (3-0) flung for Dathroat. Galar expected it to be a real Gnashnail-biter.

“Slay Ball!” screeched the grumpire, and Rainweasel’s kids responded with others with “Spill Blood!” His son added “Kill ‘em! Kill ‘em!” to the delight of Galar, the proud father.

The Nails struck early in the first with Meldur Moonsinger blasting a two-run homer over the elfield fence. 2-0 Nails. Gala had already gulped down his first Fibb’s Brewery Draft and gave the finger to get the attention of the beer seller and ordered another. His daughter meanwhile had gotten into the spirit of bloodball and was spewing some surprising gutter talk against the Tusker fist baseman. Ah, they grow up so fast, thought Galar in a daze.

Although the Tuskers had cut the lead to 2-1, the Nails replied with one run and then a three-run shot by Lagarariand Cometsword into wight centaur made it 6-1. In celebration, Galar spent a few more greenskins on boxes of Whacker Snack that had candied slop corn and sea slugs; he avoided the sticky and slimy concoction himself but his children lapped it up eagerly, goo sliding down from their chins.

The game was turning into a rout by the 3^rd as Slashington piled on three more runs on a bases loaded double by the flinger, Chantsinger. 9-1 Nails. After that hit and three more brews, the game seemed a blur for Galar. He slept through the seventh inning stretch when some jailed prisoner had his neck stretched, and the Nails added another run. But later he remembered getting into a tooth and nail fight over a fowl ball with an elderly Elf whom he battered and then presented the bloodball to his beaming son.

When the game ended with the Tuskers failing to score in the 9^th, the bats suddenly awakened from their forced slumber, escaped from their “captors” fingers and clutches, and swirled upwards towards the upright eelectrix stadium lights. Massing there briefly in the thousands, the Screwyville Bats in a rage took their revenge on the departing fans biting their necks, clawing faces and entangling themselves in the hair of the fleeing. Hundreds of elves were trampled as everyone made a rapid exit of Gripit Stadium.

Outside Gripit Stadium, Galar Rainweasel and his kids had escaped relatively unscathed. Smiling broadly they took a local grailtrain home. “That was awesome, Dad!” said Galar’s son who still clutched the souvenir bloodball. “Just another game of bloodball, son.”

[hawaiiansky]

The Hysterikan League Weekly Bloodball Report: Week 5 (Melee 10-Melee 16, 2602)

Weekly Grinds

Winning 5 of 6, the Slashington Gnashnails (21-10) gnawed their opponents and reclaimed 1st. The Nails blunted the Tuskers three in a row at Gripit Stadium. Then they took 2 of 3 from the Frightsox. Eowebririand Watersnake (6-2, 3.77, 33) won his 5th and 6th games of the year. Tying for the MBL homerun lead, Lagarariand Cometsword blasted his 9th homer.

Scowl Looks

The Screwloose Frowns (19-13) moved from 4th to 2nd winning 4 of 6. Newblood starting flinger Holin Goldenstein (4-1, 4.54,14) combined with two relievers to whiteye the Frightsox 6-0 on 5/16 to salvage a pair of games with Quikargo and then beat the Fats on 5/15, 5-2. In that latter game, Dimli Gemcut (.378, 2, 26) went 4 for 5. The Fatlickers were swamped by the Grimfaced in 3 of 4 games at Shiv Park. The swinging stunties have a combined team .308 clubbing average).

Pock Marks

The Bosstown Red Pox (18-14) climbed out of 5th to 3rd on a 4 and 2 record this past week. They managed to split a pair with the Fatlickers; newblood Dmener Tonguerant (2-0, 1.00, 8) recently promoted from the miner league Slimsea Cheat flung a complete game against the Fats on 5/11 and another nine inning stint against the Tyrants on 5/17. They hung the Yanknecks out to dry winning three in a four game series at Yankneck Stadium. Shortstop Gmoxer Madraider (.371, 4, 17) got 4 hits in a 10-7 drubbing of New Ork on 5/15.

Fang Points

The Dathroat Tuskers (18-14) charged into Gripit Stadium in a battle for 1st and were de-tusked 10-1 and 3-2 by the Nails. The Ogres stumbled into a tie for 3rd with Bosstown after dropping three of four to the Madmen of Clevehand. Their only win this week was a 12-4, 16 hit trampling of the Insanes on 5/13.

[Celtic Forever]

Eowebririand Watersnake - wow, how do you come up with a given name like that? You must pray his name doesn't come up too often in the news, cuz it must be a doozy remembering how to spell it!

Let's crank it up, bud - I'm getting suspicious that you're letting petty things like Real Life get in your way!

Bill

[hawaiiansky]

Originally Posted by Celtic Forever

Eowebririand Watersnake - wow, how do you come up with a given name like that? You must pray his name doesn't come up too often in the news, cuz it must be a doozy remembering how to spell it!

Let's crank it up, bud - I'm getting suspicious that you're letting petty things like Real Life get in your way!

Bill

Yeah, the name generators come up with some real tongue twisters!

Recently switched to Mac but OOTP 11 is on my PC and it has a troublesome monitor.. I won't bore you with all the details ... makes it a hassle. Plus my imagination needs a tuneup. Summer doldrums I guess.

Thanks for following along. I'll post when I'm more inspired and creative.

Mike

[hawaiiansky]

A Bloody-eyed View of Reek Park

As everyone knows, Clevehand was an Imperial fortress in the past war, but few bloodball fans may realize that Reek Park was used as a prisoner of war camp during those tumultuous years. The human occupiers had no idea what the original natives of Hysterika had used Reek Park for, so when imperial forces captured scores of Orks, Goblins and the like in the ongoing conflict they were housed in that rectangular building on the corner of Hexslinging and 666 Avenues. The cost of capture was a cleaved hand (or a leg), so may of the former one-armed inhabitants of Hysterika can attest to that Imperial custom. That expression “an arm and a leg” probably became a popular saying at the time.

Many of the prisoners of Reek Park either went crazy inside the cramped grasslands or died of exposure in its cold confines. It was more like an asylum than a prison for most. Some bloodball historians claim that the mager league team Clevehand Insanes derive its name from its former mad “guests.”

When the bloodball diamond was discovered in its grounds after the wars, Reek Park was converted into the bloodball field it originally was designed for. But it seemed that the ancients had just dropped the Park in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. It was strangely designed. It was only 290 feet to the wight field fowl pole but 460' to dead centaur and 385’ to elfield. A mammoth 60 foot high fence towered from the wight field fowl pole to meet the shorter elfield fence in centaur. Perhaps its real purpose was to keep the POWs inside rather than slugged bloodballs. Two tiers of grandstands curved towards each fowl pole.

Originally it was known as Dunce Field to commemorate the crazed prisoners, but was changed to Reek Park due to the pervasive odor of decomposing bodies buried inside.

[hawaiiansky]

Sportscribe Thrill Gallows wrapped up his game report at Jackass Steakhouse, tucked his pencils away, rambled over to the pukebox and shoved in a few greenskins. He glanced quickly over the song titles of the ancients and chose a bloodball favorite, “Centaurfield” by some yokel named Yawn Fog-earthy. Settling back on his stool at the bar, he sipped another Sudsgyser and sucked in the eelectrix twangs and notes of this bloodball anthem:

Well, beat the scum and crush their bones

The sun glared out today 


We're born again, there's new thrash on da field

Just a-roundin' hurt and headed for home, 

it's a red-eyed angry man 

Any Orc can understand, the way I squeel 



Oh, put me in Coach, 
I'm ready to slay, today

Put me in Coach, 
I'm ready to slay, today

Look at me, 
I can be 
Centaurfield 



Well, I spent some time with the Bloodvile Nine,

watchin' it from the bench 

You know I took some dumps when the Mighty Mace struck out

Sow hay silly, tell Ticob 
and Jo The Magic O 

Don't say “It ain't so,” 
you know the time is now



Oh, put me in Coach, 

I'm ready to slay, today 

Put me in Coach,

I'm ready to slay, today 

Look at me, 
I gotta be 
Centaurfield 



Got a chewed-up glove, a gnome-made club, 

and a grand new pair of balls 

You know it’s stinkin’ time 
to give this game a ride 

Just to club the ball and stomp 'em all, a moment in the sun 

It's gone and you can smell that one goodbye 



Put me in Coach, 
I'm ready to slay, today 

Put me in Coach, 
I'm ready to slay, today

Look at me, 
I can be 
Centaurfield

[Corona]

Just read it all, great stuff

[hawaiiansky]

Originally Posted by Corona

Just read it all, great stuff

Read it all? You deserve a drink. Thanks for following bloodball...the irrational game!
Mike

[hawaiiansky]

(Drink and sing along bloodball fans.)

“Gory Days”

The final notes of “Centuarfield” dwindled away on the pukebox, and Thrill Gallows was about to depart when the tavern keeper slid a new stein of beer in front of him. “Compliments of that mug over there,” he grunted pointing to a beefy Ork in the corner. Tegdush Gravelshard star centaur for the Brokenlymb Daggers raised his own stein, and the Gnome signaled his appreciation in response and resumed his “dinner.”

Meanwhile, who should approach that magical music machine but the one and only Redush Bladeshaman of the Yanknecks. Still recovering from an injury in Spring Braining, the acehole flinger chose a tune by the Elf balladeer Spruce Springstain. “Gory Days” was popular if somewhat a downer. Gallows wondered if Redush was thinking his own gory days of the last season were over. They certainly seemed so for his Yankneck teammates who’ve sunk to 8th after winning last year’s Weird Series.

I knew a fiend was a big bloodball flinger
back in miner league
He could fling that slimeball by you
Make you look like a fool ghoul
Saw him the other night at this sleazy bar
I was sneaking in, he was weaving out
We slunk back inside sat down had a few brews
but all he kept yapping about was

Gory days well they'll pass you by
Gory days in the snap of a young Ogre’s fang
Gory days, gory days

Well there's a jeerleader lives up the block
back in New Ork she could turn all the heads
Sometimes on a Friesday I'll barge in
and have a few flings after she put her brats to bed
Her and her Goblin husband well they split up
I guess it's two years gone by now
We just sit around yearning about the bloody times,
she says when she feels like moaning
she starts barfing thinking about

Gory days well they'll speed you by
Gory days in the crack of a drunken fan’s bottle
Gory days, gory days

Now I think I'm shuffling down to the bar tonight
and I'm going to guzzle till I get my fill
And I hope when I’m let go, I don't sit around dwelling about it
but I probably will
Yeah, just slipping back trying to regain
a little of the gore, well time slips away
and leaves you with nothing critter but
boring stories of bloody days

Gory days well the blood runs dry
Gory days in the blink of a savaged eye
Gory days, gory days

[hawaiiansky]

“Go All the Way Down”

Iggy Bedwetter’s “Go All the Way Down” was an obvious pukebox choice for a trio of diehard Quikargo Klubs fans; the Klubs landed last in the Irrational League last season and have poked their ugly heads into 6th this season so far. But these knowing Klub fans fear the worst and expect that their beloved Klubs will not disappoint them.

The three Ogre visitors to the Rotten Apple belted out their out-of-tune voices to these rousing lyrics:

Don't let any Ogre say that it's just a game
For I've seen other teams and they seldom have shame
When you're born in Quikargo you're screwed and you're sealed
The first time you walk into Wiggley Field
Our losers scare pinworms
Losers in blue
Gives us the chance to squeal like whiners too
Forever we'll lose and if we should win
We know for sure we'll go all the way
Down
Someday we'll fall all the way

We are stuck with the Klubs
With the Klubs we're in deep
Yeah, hold our noses high as the crap flows by
We are not fairy-weather but foul-weather fiends
We're like brooders in arms in the alleys and the stands
There's poison in the ivy and the moldy scoreboard
The same one I bled at as a kid seeping gore
In a world full of need, I could always bleed more
Than someday we'll go all the way
Down
Someday we'll go all the way
Someday we'll fall all the way
Down
Someday we'll drop all the way
Someday we'll flop all the way

And here's to the Gods and the legends they've grown
Teaching us hate and having us cope
Hated we stand and inebriated we'll fall
Down on our knees the day we lose it all

Wormy Stanks said "Oh, let's drink two"
Or did he mean 200 beers
In the same park seats
Our chapel, our pew
The home of our Klubs and our fears
Failing traditions and wishes came few
A place where our grandfathers, fathers they stew
A pitiful feeling if I ever knew
And if you ain't been it is lucky for you
And when the day comes with that last losing run
And I'm raving and drenched in fright
I'll nod to the heavens and know I was right
To know someday we'll go all the way
Down
Someday we'll go all the way
Someday we'll fall all the way
Down
Someday we'll drop all the way
Someday we'll flop all the way
Down
Someday we'll drip all the way
Someday we'll slip all the way
Down
Someday we'll go all the way
Someday we'll end up in THE PIT

[hawaiiansky]

The Pale Prince’s Day: Mourning

New Ork, New Ork
Munchday, Melee 10, 2602

His day had just begun. Trouble already. The Mage League Bloodball Commissioner stood looking out his Manfatten Island office window with a hellegram concerning the fledgling Bloodballer Slayers Guild crumbled in his hands. The message from his informer was a detailed report of the organization’s “secret” gathering that had taken place in a Scarlimb tenement basement uptown over the weekend.

Initially its meeting agenda seemed to comprise the typical gripes; miner leaguers complained about their lengthy time being worked in the “mines’ before they were dug up and turned into gems in the mager league. Stenchwarmers insisted on a minimal playing time in a game instead of polishing the dugout benches with their rear ends each day. More serious were the nefarious suggestions by fringe and regular bloodballers that they should have the right to play on any team that they desired. Treasonous! This was just the type of spitfire talk that could inflame bloodballers throughout the two leagues and send a tremor shaking the luxurious mansions of every bloodball club owner.

At present, bloodballers of a particular race were traded at will at the whim of owners and only between teams composed of ‘ballers from the same race. The previous warring races had been separated by race– Orc, Dwarf, etc. – to avoid the eruption of purely racial bloodshed and hate on the rough diamonds. Sport-inspired bloodshed in the heat of bloodball, on the other hand, regardless of race was tolerated and even promoted. But what would transpire if bloodballers of every race were mixed on the same team indiscriminately? It would cause dissension among the teams and outright feuds and possibly a new outbreak of warfare across Hysterika. Or so, the MLB Commissioner reasoned and feared.

Worse than that was the realization that the owners’ power and his would be compromised (plus fewer greenskins in our coffers). “We tell those bloodball buffoons what to do!” he roared aloud.

MLB Comm. Kenisee-mountain Landlost touched the tail of his miniature metal dragon lighter on his desk and a reddish-orange flame spouted forth from the dragon’s mouth and turned the hellegram into ashes. Hopefully the demise of the Slayers Guild would be as quick.

A Dark Elf of action, the Pale Prince of the Irrational Pastime Landlost decided to order a contingent of blue-licemen to make a surprise raid on the conspiring Bloodballer Slayers Guild the next time they met. Clean the rats out! Then ban some of their firebrand instigators from Bloodball! It was a start.

[hawaiiansky]

The Pale Prince’s Day: Mid-Mourning

New Ork, New Ork
Munchday, Melee 10, 2602

MLB Comm. Landlost was religious at times – more likely he would call it being superstitious. Sure he burned FOPP bloodball cards as offerings to the Gods of Ballhella like any devotee and dipped his fingers into the blood dish and struck his body three times – head, stomach and chest (which represented Striking Out on high, low and “right down the middle” flings) as he entered a Bloodball temple. And he beseeched Jimper Soul the Trickster God for assistance in fooling his many foes, be they bloodballers or tycoon team owners, and he cursed Bruthe when his bloodball team didn’t pound the team he had bet against.

But he could not stand the bickerings of the clerics from two different sects – Luvartus and Marcove - who made a point of petitioning him and disturbing his Munchday Mourning Tea every week.

This mourning’s heated theological debate between the two blood-red clothed clerics centered around the central notion whether or not the Gods of Ballhella had been mere mortals before godhood or whether they had already had been Gods who descended upon Hysterika predisposed to become the heroes that we all prayed to.

His Hexcellency Luvartus of the Bretheren of the Blood was convinced that the Gods had been in fact humans who earned godhood through their playing prowess on the playing fields throughout Hysterika. He mainly based his argument on the testimony of necromancers who have always claimed to have the ability to converse with former baseball players like Bruthe, Ticob and Cyungg - the Gods themselves!

Minister Marcove of the Friends of the Bloodgods scoffed at these outrageous claims especially since the necromancers could not provide any direct evidence only their word that this was in fact true. "Who completely trusts necromancy anyway? " Marcove wondered.

Instead Marcove argued that Bruthe, for example, was born of the Gods and he dropped onto Hysterika from the heavens both as a master clubber and flinger. (Here His Hexcellency Luvartus snickered loudly at that impossibility while the MLB Commissioner nearly choked on a macaroon.)

In fact, Marcove pointed out that one historical scrap of a document mentioned Bruthe was an orphan in Beltemore, parents unknown; it was obvious the parentage was godly. No mere mortal could perform the feats he was supposed to have accomplished in his brief lifetime on earthe as a ballplayer.

To the Pale Prince of the Irrational Pastime, the argument was similar to the query, “What came first - the chicken or the egg?” Feigning interest in this gabfest, however, Landlost mentioned that it was well-known that the Necromancers Union had revealed the sacred numbers 60, 56, 714 and others although it was merely speculation as to what these figures meant as no extant record book had yet been discovered that explained them. He added that there were only bits and pieces of written baseball lore and legend here and there that had emerged alluding to spectacular performances by the Gods of Ballhella.

The holy blabber continued betwixt the two theologians and a sleepy-eyed Landlost at last fell directly into his teacup spilling its contents, thus signaling the end of today’s theological debate. Luvartus and Marcove gave the MLB Commissioner a departing Bloodball blessing. Both thrust their arms towards him above their heads and in tandem spoke the Holy Slide Prayer, “May your speed on the race paths in your life be swiftly and your base steals made nifty!”

Landlost ushered the still quarreling holy men out of his office, but not before he promised to bend his ears to another seething topic next week – whether the god Ticob really had been transformed into a peach.

[hawaiiansky]

(Faithful readers of these bloodball chronicles may want to refresh their memories about the 2601 Weird Series by re-reading threads 175-186.]

The Pale Prince’s Day: High Noone

New Ork, New Ork
Munchday, Melee 10, 2602

Lunch at The Tavern of the Mean Green in Sinthrill Park should normally have been a delight for MLB Commissioner Kenisee-mountain Landlost. Unfortunately today his high noone respite was scheduled with that pompous Gnome bloodcaster Blowhard Coldspell of the Academic Bloodball Collegium.

He had reached the Tavern by steam cab and while he was paying the crabby the cantankerous machine belched forth a cloud of exhaust that managed to wash over Landlost on the curb. It seemed that metal contraption had shown its distain for the miniscule tip that the Commissioner had just dropped into the crabby’s outstretched palm.

As he approached Blowhard Coldspell, Landlost heard his deep voice make an announcement to the consternation of diners, “It’s HIGH noone in the ROTTEN Apple and that esteemed Dark ELF, … the BOSS of bloodballers, … the TAMER of team tycoon owners, and …. the LEADER of legions of bloodball lovers, Kenisee-mountain Landlost has graced us with his presence!”

The stunty Gnome stood up and thrust his hand upwards to shake the MLB Commissioners hand. “You’re a bit bombastic as usual, Blowhard…” said an exasperated Landlost “…unnecessary compliments.”

Blowhard bombarded Landlost with an outlandish query, and the Commissioner nearly choked on his appetizer of grilled, garlic-marinaded locusts.

“So did the dastardly Daggers dump the 2601 Weird Series to the Yanknecks?” spoke the boisterous Blowhard.

“And how did the Count of Conspiracy arrive at such a corny conclusion?” laughed Landlost.

“Well, why did the Brokenlymb manager stenchbench one of his supreme sluggers, Balir Flamefighter? By Bruthe’s balls! He was limited to three spinach at clubs the entire series!” insinuated Blowhard.

The MLB Commissioner quickly responded hoping to squash rumors of fixing in the bud. “Simple. The Dagger manager just didn’t trust Flamefighter, an ex-Yankneck in those critical games.” It was a reasonable explanation since Balir had been traded by New Ork to Brokenlymb prior to the season, a trade he hadn’t been entirely pleased with.

“ Why didn’t the Brokenlymb skipper give his starting flingers the silver hook earlier and use his best hoser, Propbronze who hadn’t lost all season in relief and sported a 0.32 ERA?” Coldspelll countered.

“You’re a back wagon driver, Coldspell. “… you’re pickin’ at bones here. As I recall the Dagger starters flung well and long except for Crystalcutter’s meltdown in the 9th in Game 5. Maybe you ought to quit the bloodcast booth and become a bloodball bench coach instead.” Landlost slapped Coldspell’s back in spirited camaraderie, actually wishing he could plunge a dagger into the wretched Gnome’s back. Too many witnesses.

As he chewed his roasted duck spleen, Landlost, in truth, had his own suspicions about the Weird Series outcome, but he figured that if the Daggers had wanted to throw the Series they would have gone seven games and racked up more winnings by betting against themselves. Then the Dagger management would have made a greater fortune as would the gamblers from Lost Wages out west. If Coldspell dug further perhaps he would uncover a plot – certainly one not good for the "integrity" of Bloodball or for the Commissioner’s Office for that matter.

Landlost decided to derail Coldspell in his potentially dangerous investigation by suggesting a more plausible threat to bloodball - the Slayers Union. Maybe this bloodcasting bloodhound would be able to uncover more than his minions did.

“Blowhard, did you hear the rumor about bloodballers organizing themselves?” whispered Landlost. “Just this mourning…”

[hawaiiansky]

The Pale Prince’s Day: Early Lafternoone

New Ork, New Ork
Munchday, Melee 10, 2602

Avoiding a steam cab and its obnoxious crabbies and exhaust on his trip back to the Office, the MLB titan Kenisee-mountain Landlost boarded an elfironmentally-friendly Yellow Pal-‘n-Kin, of the popular city palanquin company. Powered by two strapping Minotaurs, Landlost was propelled down the thoroughfares of New Ork City and its lafternoone crowds with Goblins and Orks predominant, one of the downsides of living and working in Manfatten.

Once seated on his “throne” back in the Office, Landlost read the reams of weekly Hysterikan and Irrational League Reports. Tedious! Tortuous! Time consuming! There was the usual concern by flingers that team clubbers were obviously taking steeroids to boost their slugging power and clubbing success against their array of flings.

Team sorcerer “coaches” were common in each mager league grubhouse. Before games, they could be seen brewing the steeroids in cauldrons stirring the potent ingredients – beef hearts, live chickens (momentarily anyway) and a myriad of unmentionables – could be observed bobbing and bubbling within a putrid stream of smoke that escaped via the grubhouse chimney. Clubbers insisted that the steeroids were a necessary component in their clubbing arsenal against that dastardly fling, the shape-changing bloodball known by other names – the scareball, the afraidaway, the mind-boggler and the shape-shifter. The shape-change fling had many aspects that relied on activating individual phobias; each clubber saw what he feared most.

Not surprisingly clubbers complained vehemently in the reports that the shape–change gave the flingers a completely unfair advantage in the ongoing warfare between flinger and clubber at homely plate. It was commonplace to see sorcerous flinging coaches scampering to the burial mound, “conferring” with the flingers, but actually performing a sorcerous act in which the shape-changing magic was transferred from sorcerer to flinger. The spell was completed by a sorcerer with the customary pat on the flinger’s back or fanny.

Landlost figured steeroids and the shape-changer cancelled each other out and maintained the delicate balance of flinging and clubbing in bloodball. But one new item he noticed could upset it: stare-roids.

Sorcerer clubbing coaches were fiddling with a new potion, that of stare-roids. Worst of all, the experimentation had been sanctioned by the Sorcerers Guild. According to one worry-some report, stare-roids mitigated the effects of the shape-change, enhancing the clubber’s ability to stare down the shape-change fling.

Landlost wrote out two responses to the teams. He dismissed the tirades of clubbers and flingers about steeroids and shape-change flings as neither clubber nor flinger dominated the sport because of their presence.

The Commissioner was much more careful dealing with the Sorcery Guild. Frankly he didn’t think it was wise to offend sorcerers as they could inflict swift and terrible retribution; they also provided his sole source of Tigerah, a re-invigorating potion he relied on to maintain his love life.

To the Sorcery Guild, the Dark Elf proposed a temporary suspension of the cooking of stare-roids at least until an enterprising wizard developed another magical edge for the flingers.

[hawaiiansky]

The Pale Prince’s Day: Mid- Lafternoone

New Ork, New Ork
Munchday, Melee 10, 2602

Taking a break from his dictatorial endeavors, the Pale Prince of the Irrational Pastime, MLB Comm. Landlost flipped idly through the pages of The New York Deadly Ghost to see what was playing on Broodway this coming weekend. There were the popular minstrel shows like Rats, The Lying King, The Book of Mermen, and Scare. What drivel!

Yet, it seemed one could never escape the allure of bloodball no matter how hard one tried. He spotted and scanned an article about the Whooperstown elders arguing about a proposed statue to be built on the moldy green of their quaint upstate New Ork village.

A rather heated argument had erupted in the mayor’s office there as to whether Bruthe, the God of Clout, should be sculpted in marble as a bloodballer swinging his mighty bloodball club on earthe, or as one of the gods of Ballhalla lounging in his pristine white robe surrounded by little cherubs who looked in rapture upon one of their greatest bloodball idols.

Landlost guffawed aloud. Instead he thought that Bruthe should be depicted holding to his open mouth an oversized loaf of bread filled with the carcass of a roasted hound dog, and in the other hand a bosomy blond. From what he knew from holy bloodball scriptures -as admitted by Luvartus, Marcove and other clerics - hot dogs and hot babes were Bruthe’s twin passions, ones he devoured in great numbers; the unholy sport of bloodball was of secondary concern. Landlost scribbled an anonymous and scathing editorial to the Deadly Ghost suggesting just that. That ought to muddle the elders’ high flung morals and frazzle the featherheads, he grunted.

[hawaiiansky]

The Pale Prince’s Day: Late- Lafternoone

New Ork, New Ork
Munchday, Melee 10, 2602

Moving shadows appeared on the wall of the skyscraper. A flurry of beating wings outside the windows of the Commissioner’s Office signaled the arrival of Kenisee-mountain Landlost’s personal spies - the brat boys! The expectant MLB Commissioner opened the nearest window and a flock of brat boys led by Vandebert (or Bert for short) flew into the room to report.

He had gotten the idea of using the brat boys for inside information from that group of young helpers, the Faker Street Irregulars, employed by the fictional detective Surecrock Harms.

On bloodball teams, the brat boys were the keepers of the clubs, rubbed nasty, illegal substances on the bloodballs for the flingers, inserted metal slivers into clubs to add power, and retrieved the discarded clubs of clubbers as they raced towards fist base.

The brat boys were go-fers for the bloodballers who assigned them errands too. The “flying kids” carried bribes to the grumpires and opposing players, passed on bets to gamblers in the stands, handed notes to bodacious ladies to arrange trysts, sharpened daggers for the racerunners to use on opposing injuryfielders, purchased or stole unusual ingredients for the team sorcerer, mooned the visitor’s dugout

From the start, Landlost had been astute in securing the loyalty of the brat boys throughout the League. Greenskins, favors and promises of future promotion to grumpire provided enough incentive.

The brat boys were Landlost’s eyes and ears. They were in a unique position to be everywhere on the bloodfield and in the grubhouse, to see everything –the sorcery, the dirty tricks, the dastardly plans, and to hear everything – the arranging of thrown games, the overheard blabber by bloodballers and the coaching staff, and the offhand, sarcastic remark against the honorable MLB Commissioner himself.

They were his fangs too. Sometimes bloodballers had to be disciplined. On Landlost’s orders, a brat boy could spike the team’s cooler to inflict a sudden outbreak of the Gnome Flu, ensure that a certain club would shatter on the next fling, or even arrange for a manager’s “accidental” spill on the steps of the dugouts,

And yet the brat boys were mostly invisible at the same time–barely noticed except when they were needed for a task.

The brat boys were spies in plain sight of the players, managers and coaches who were oblivious to them. Bert the brat boy divulged all he knew and the others filled-in the gaps as Landlost took copious notes on the most intriguing reports.

Deep in evil thought, the smug Dark Elf “puppet master” sat back in his dragon-leather chair stuffed with vulture and crow feathers and planned out revengeful acts, countermeasures and devious responses. Satisfied that he had thought of all possible actions, Kenisee-mountain Landlost dictated new orders to his minions.

Clutching greenskins as their reward, the brat boys swirled out the window and descended to the streets of Manfatten, a wild greenskin-fueled evening ahead.to the latest news. Tomorrow they would begin to implement the Commissioner’s dastardly commands with a vengeance.

[hawaiiansky]

The Pale Prince’s Day: Nite

New Ork, New Ork
Munchday, Melee 10, 2602

ESPN, the Elven SPorts Network, wanted to begin bloodcasting Monday Nite Bloodball and call its show the “The Shame of the Weak.” This game would feature the weakest teams of the Hysterikan and Irrational Leagues – the 8th place pit dwellers – currently the Yanknecks and the Philbellies (ir)respectively. Landlost nixed this idea. He responded to their plea by writing that this would dump even more abuse and scorn from bloodcasters, bloodscribes and bloodthirsty fans on struggling teams and demean the overall image of Mage League Bloodball. To be honest, the Commissioner being a Dark Elf himself just loathed his Elven cousins and did everything in his power to thwart their designs.

On the other hand, he applauded the warLOX hellevison provider for employing vivacious, scantily-clad bloodcasters on their nightly wrap-up (or was it wrap-off?) Bloodball programs. And he approved new hellevison contracts for ABC (the Academics Bloodball Collegium] which just happened to be Blowhard Coldspell’s employer. Doesn’t hurt to grease the right palms figured Landlost.

Having finished handling the necromancer hellevision inquiries, Landlost was ready to call it a day. The Dark Elf made a couple of sorcerous sentinel spells to guard the interior of his office and strode out his door. Two ogrerish Ogres stood watch all nite outside his office ready to clobber any intruder with their massive fists. They were dangerous–looking brutes whom Landlost called DHs or “Designated Hitters” to their faces, or “Dumb Heads” behind their backs.

After a leisurely stroll, Landlost slipped into Slickey Mangle’s for a drink. Avoiding the feminine concoctions like Bloody Faeries and Slum ‘n Chokes, he ordered a manly (er … dark elvenly) Riskey on the Rocks. As he sipped this foul mixture, he thought about the god or demi-god, Slickey Mangle. Supposedly a clubber of renown for the Yanknecks’ native predecessors, Mangle, or the Slick as he was affectionately called, had been a record scorer among the ladies, a feat Landlost aspired to. Well the evening was young.

[joefromchicago]

Your wit and constant inventiveness are truly astonishing.