Mage League Bloodball

[hawaiiansky]

Originally Posted by joefromchicago

Your wit and constant inventiveness are truly astonishing.

Heh joefromchicago
(or as we say in Hysterika - Quikargo)

I'm glad that you find MLB amusing. I never know what effect any of my posts will have on readers. I do enjoy telling this tongue-in-cheek tale, but not everyone has the same sense of humor, so I appreciate your remarks.

Actually the longer I delve into this weird world, the more details I uncover, and the weirder it gets. That's the advantage of having a fantasy world. I've got to create nearly everything from scratch. There's a lot of freedom in that.

Thanks for your comments; they are always welcome.

mikefromoahu

[Celtic Forever]

You keep on rollin', man. Great stuff!

[craftdr]

Excellent storytelling. Thanks for sharing.

[hawaiiansky]

Heavenly Hopes – Bruthe At Bat

Being a god wasn’t all that it was cracked out to be. The myriad voices of the faithful came to Bruthe in faerydise as whispers accompanied by smoky traces of burnt cardboard, the residue of FOPP bloodball cards that the godly had torched as offerings to him in the temples of bloodball.

In Ballhalla, Bruthe kneeled at the on deck circle surrounded by a carefully-mowed, grassy field, his personally-created setting to “hear” the prayers in the form of threats, entreaties, blasphemies, and pleadings of bloodball fans, bloodballers, managers, bookies and everyone else concerned about a team, a game, and even an individual swing of the club. Handling all these calls for blessings wasn’t as much fun for him as endlessly signing signatures on baseballs (as they were then called) for idolizing youngsters on earthe. But Bruthe had to answer some of the requests of his terran followers to their satisfaction – be they human or malformed creatures, such as the despicable Orks and Ogres;otherwise, he would lose their worship, and worse, his standing among the god-archy.

Bruthe was already in trouble with the “Front Office” because of recent indiscretions with the Ballkyries, those heavenly-bodied aides of the Gods.

Bruthe had always been a god-man of action – drinking to excess, gorging himself on food and women, and swatting and ripping the cover off that sacred sphere. He is/was/will be nicknamed the Sultan of Splat, the Slambino, the Boob! Or something like that. Thinking to extremes was something else.

Nonetheless Bruthe found a way to cope. The pinstriped-clad God of Clout strode to the plate that suddenly materialized before him and concentrated. Answering prayers, he convinced himself, was like looking for that fat pitch that some rookie had tried to slip past him at the plate.

Bruthe swung his bat menacingly, but he let the first few prayers or “pitches” go by –wheelhouse curves that trailed outside the strike zone. The curveballs, oaths actually that these Hysterikans sputtered out in idle conversation, were not meant to get Bruthe’s intervention. “By Bruthe’s balls!” and “What a Boob!” were typical outbursts. Safely ignored and forgotten.

Sincere pleadings by the holy for Bruthe’s aid assumed the shapes of fastballs, some right down the middle; these Bruthe hammered over fences and into the upper decks that shimmered into view, or were blasted completely out of this mirage of a stadium. The Slambino’s uppercuts sliced through the heavens of Ballhalla resulting in celestial booms that ricocheted off the clouds (to the everlasting annoyance of other gods especially Ticob and Jo the Magic O, both of whom it must be said, didn’t have much tolerance or sense of humor for that matter anyway Here, or on earthe).

For the mere mortals on earthe, however, the thunderous noise coincided with a clubber’s sudden contact with the bloodball, a monster hit that sealed the doom of a bloodball team that had relied on Cyungg for heavenly help. (Foolish that!) Or a miner would suddenly get his ticket up to the magers. Or a little tyke would discover a special image of Bruthe smiling back at him in his newly-purchased pack of bloodball cards.

Somehow –there are things even mysterious to a god – Bruthe was able to project the answering of prayers sufficiently to satsify most of the pious. Those who weren’t pleased with his lack of response were fickle about religion anyway.

Sweating after his transcendent labors, Bruthe ran the bases one more time in his odd familiar manner and entered the dugout. Conjuring up a cold brew, he sat back on the bench and guzzled it down in a single gulp.

[hawaiiansky]

Ringo Laffnear, the God of Letters, was an insider-outsider in Ballhalla - the thinking god amongst mostly non-intellectuals (after all, the gods were not all created equal), a writer amongst ballplayers, a mental giant amongst manly hulks, meatheads and he had to admit, skilled sportsmen.

Because of his literary and sports writing skills on earthe then, sense of humor, and insights into both the minds and machinations of his fellow gods and the races of Hysterika, Ringo was Ballhalla’s official chronicler. He kept notes on the gods and their long-winded discussions and reported on and disseminated a fascinating scrawl on the games of Bloodball leagues “below” (or was it “beyond”?) for the celestial beings Here.

Draining a mug of beer, Ringo was also working on a fictional account of a failed, Halfling flinger from the mager leagues sent down to the miners.

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 1

Dear Fiend Allwise,

Well, you musta herd da news on the helle yesterday. Piggsplurgh has sent down der best flinger to the miners – ME! And yuh know what a great acehole I uv been o’er the years fer dis team, right?

Ken’t blame me that lately my teammates ken’t ketch a bloodball dat’s ten feet o’er der heads, or dat my grabber is always givin’ me da the wrong hex signs and they’re blasting my flings all o’er the ballpark. Not dat dey give me any support either. Why, in my last start, dey couldn’t ketch up after I gave up 8 runs! Ken yah believe it? Dat doesn’t give yuh much confidence out dere on the burial mound, let me tell yah!

In the grubhouse, dey told me to pack up all me things’n report to the Grasstoes, our Hotsun miner league club. I told ‘em there wasn’t anything to pack cause dey haven’t paid me enough greenskins to buy squat all dese years.

I’m sure dey woulda paid for a first-class grailroad drain to Hotsun, but I still got some pride and decided to hoof it there instead.

I’m sittin’ in some fleabag holetel room writing this note to yah. Don’t want to waste any of da club’s greenskins dey gave me. To tell yah the truth, Allwise, this place is better than the ones on the road with my ole Pieplate teammates. All the roaches and rats you ken eat! Can you believe dat?

I should be in Hexes on Satyrday. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, I’ll impress em so much after seeing me fling, dey’ll bust der guts thinking' how lucky dey are havin me! Before yah know it, I’ll be outta the miners and back in the Big Bam.

Fer sure, dey don’t know me, Allwise!

By the way, I wouldn’t go throwing away dese letters I’m sending yah…they’ll be worth plenty someday!

Yer ghoul,
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Having penned a second chapter, Ringo Laffnear tucked the scroll into his jacket pocket and strolled over to watch some gods playing a pickup baseball game on the jade-colored grasses of Ballhalla.

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 2

Dear Fiend Allwise,

Yah know I’m sure lucky to be here in Hexes. It’s like a natural sauna outside, and I’ll be trimmin’ my paunch and droppin’ down to my ideal weight in no time at all! It’s fairly flat here, and I ken see miles of nuthin’. Good thing! That way there’ll be no distractions so I can concentrate on me quick return to Piggsplurgh and der starting rotation.

The measley pay der givin’ me will be trimmin’ me typical high lifestyle too! I know dey’re just makin’ sure I don’t get a big head being a pro bloodballer unlike the others – newbloods all. Dey don’t know me, Allwise!

When I first met the Dark Elf Manager Darkthief of my new team, the Grasstoes, he spat on the ground. I took it as a big compliment since working up a spit here is really hard in dis mighty hot and dry country. I told him I could teach his young flingers a thing or two. “No doubt, but your arrival will be a lesson to all of them!” Darkthief agreed. “I won’t be here long,” I assured him. “Promise?” he said as he smiled and walked away. Now dat’s a manager who gives a bloodballer confidence. I sure lucked out.

Yah won’t believe dis, Allwise. When I stepped into the Hotsun grubhouse, the team was throwing a party. Dey didn’t mention it was for me by name, but it was kinduva obvious coincidence though, and I figured it out all by meself. A few of da guys even slapped me on da back and told me dey were glad I came down and joined dem. One newblood flinger seemed particularly glad to see me -being famous and all - before he left the club for Piggsplurgh on the evening drain. For personal reasons I imagine.

I stowed me gear in the locker dat poor newblood had emptied and felt sorry for his loss.

Yer ghoul,
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

One of the infinite and tiring conversations in Ballhalla was deciding who had been the best in any position on earthe then and there. This time: “Who was the best center fielder ever?” During the latest pickup baseball game Here, two gods argued good naturedly – Wily Maze and Slickey Mangle. A third entered the fray uninvited. Jo the Magic O holding a hot cup of coffee said, “I am.” There was not an ounce of good humor in his voice. Sitting nearby but not wishing to bruise egos and vote for Gravelshard of the Daggers, the bloodballer playing now, Ringo Laffnear took out the manuscript from his jacket and scribbled down another fictional chapter.

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 3

Dear Fiend Allwise,

I rented meself a hovel to live in not too far from the ballpark. I didn’t want to put on airs.

Next morning I was warming up in the bullpen. Darkthief the manager and our Minotaur bullpen coach named Longtail were leaning over the fence and were admiring my flinging. Shaking his head, the manager said of yers truly, “I haven’t seen anything like this before.” “Unbelievable” Longtail added. I swear der eyes were poppin’ right outta der heads!

Darkthief asked me when I was gonna throw some speedballs. I replied, “Dat’s what I’ve been flingin.’ ”

“No kidding,” Darkthief smiled back, “That’s some lightning fling alright. I would’ve sworn I could have left homely plate for a snack and returned to swing at it ten minutes later.” I really surprised em both.

I really mistified em too when I flung my sloth-like stuff. Dey were both snoozin’ on da bullpen bench by then. If dey’d been clubbin,’ dey’d made easy strikeouts fer sure.

I overheard dem asking each other, “Where in the Ballhella are we going to use him?” Allwise, I was thinkin to meself, “I ken’t do everything fellas. I’m only one superb flinger. Either start me, or bring me in to save yer games. Make up yer minds!”

I even tired out our lazy bullpen grabber. He was complainin’ I couldn’t hit the side of a barn with my flings. But I sure proved him wrong cause the paint on da wall behind him was chipped from all the flings he didn’t even try to grab.

After dis workout I was kinda bushed and soaking from the Hexes heat. I was glad to get back to my sweat, sweat home.

Yer ghoul.
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 4

Dear Fiend Allwise,

Got into my first game two nites ago against the visiting Slambangisto Sporty Diners. We was a losing’ 5 nuthin’ in the top of the fifth, no outs, the bases loaded with furry feet, when our starter, Butterbucket, got da silver hook from Darkthief. The manager gave the finger and our Bullpen coach Longtail told me I was to come in and do my worse to put out the fire.

Now Dimwit Maiden Park don’t have no palanquin to carry the reliever to the burial mound like in the Magers so I hadta ride that old pony of ours by me lonesome across to the diamond.

Have I told ya, Allwise, how big the mosquitos are in Hexes? Well dey’re somewhat honery and tonight dey were a feastin’ on all of us. As I was a trottin’ towards sockem base on dat mini-steed, she suddenly bolted from a sting on her butt, I’m a guessin’, and plum run over da Diner’s racer on sockem. Lucky for us cause that racer was der best clubber too. We didn’t have to face him fer the rest of the games with the Diners as later he sat in the dugout nursing a twisted leg from trying to avoid the “beast.” I hung on to dat ragin’ pony and made it safely to the mound.

Darkthief was a smilin’ at the mayhem at sockem and shoved the bloodball into my stomach and said “Good going.” The Grasstoes’ grabber was a youngin’ named Pudgebottom and I and him went o’er the hex signs together.

The first sign I got was a shape change. Now I’ve been havin’ trouble with that fling fer awhile now. I haven’t been keepin’ up with my fees to the Sorcerer’ s Guild, so our team sorcerer had said to me earlier he couldn’t guarantee how effective dey would be.

Well I let dat afaidaway loose on da first clubber I faced and by the look on his puss I knew something was amiss. Instead of the horror and fright I usually see, dis guy was a flinchin’ from laughter. He was a shakin’ with laughs and dat bloodball sailed o’er for a called strike. I knew I had good (but strange) stuff goin’ so I flung two more of the same. I never seen a clubber who had struck out be so happy. He was doubling over in a laugh fit.

Pudgebottom ran over to me to warn me dat the next clubber didn’t have the same sense of humor so we decided to keep me flings low and outta the strike zone.

I pride meself on my grasshugger. It starts high but ken trim the tops of weeds as it nears the plate. Der clubber tried to golf it outta Dimwit Maiden but hooked it fowl. Strike one. I sent another grasshugger on the next fling but I musta put too much on it cause it slammed into the dirt two feet in front of the plate and bounced over Pudgebottom’s outstretched glove. I watched in horror as da ball headed to the right side of the backstop. The racers were movin’ and I just stood stunned.

But dat crazy bloodball struck and broke the park’s main water switch and suddenly the whole sprinkler system in da park went beserk. Water sprayed everywhere. Gushes of water deluged the diamond and outfield grasses. The groundscreepers rushed out but dey were too late in controlling the flood. Before you knew it, we were sloshing in two inches of water. Another racer scored, but in da end it didn’t matter as the grumpires hitched up der pants legs and declared a “rain out.” Da game was cancelled.

Hearing the news, the rest of the Grasstoes rushed out of the dugout and celebrated a victory of sorts (or at least a defeat escaped) and a mob swamped me in da middle of the diamond. Dey nearly drowned me but it was worth it. Longtail mentioned afterwards that I really knew how to put out a fire.

It was me first save as far as I see it. But ya know it won’t be in any official record book, but I notched a save on my belt with me shiv to recognize it anyway.

The Sporty Diners were so demoralized after dat we swept the next three games handily from den, and I never even had to make another fling the whole time.

Yer ghoul.
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 5

Dear Fiend Allwise,

I’m jotting down dis note to ya on me first roadkill trip. We’re traveling by grailroad to Phantasm City for a series with da Broils. Da team broke into song about food! What else des Halfling bloodballers think about? It went sorta like dis...

I’ll be eating in Phantasm City, Phantasm City here I come
I'll be chomping in Phantasm City, Phantasm City where I’m from
They got a crazy way of eating there
And I'm gonna eat me some.

I'll be sitting in the diner
On the corner of Elf Street and Dine
I'm gonna be gnawing on the wieners
On the corner of Elf Street and Dine
With my Phantasm City gravy
And a bottle of Phantasm City wine.

Well I might take a drain
I might fly by whaleskin, but if I have to crawl
I'm gonna eat there just the same
I'm going to Phantasm City, Phantasm City, where da crumbs?
They got a crazy way of shoving it in
And I'm gonna cram me some.

I'm gonna pack my cheeks
Eat till the breaking point
I'm gonna pack my belly
Everybody will be groaning
Nobody will know what I've eatin'
Cause if I shove it down
I know I'm gonna burst.
Gotta find a feeding city
And that's the reason first,
I'm going to Phantasm City
Phantasm City here I come
They got a crazy way of eating there
And I'm gonna stuff me some.

I was roped into playing a few hands of Hexes Holdem poker with some of da boys to kill time. Allwise, I'm not dat good at cards. Sure enough after losing my weekly pay, I was da one they were holdin’ me ankles outside da drain window with der hands. Someone yelled out, “Let him drop!” It sounded like Darkthief da manager, but if it was, I know he was just a jokin.’

Yer ghoul.
Jack Alltrades

[tylertoo]

Awesome.

One day, when you're done, you should compile all this into an e-book. It'll be the second OOTP novel.

[hawaiiansky]

(Thanks for your compliments and suggestion. Right now I’m just enjoying the ride.)

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 6

Dear Fiend Allwise,

It may be da miner leagues in Phantasm City, but des Broils gotta great ballpark! My jaw was a droppin’ the first time I seen it. Dey don’t know me, Allwise, but my mouth’s usually full of food and shut chewin’ so ya know I hadta be impressed. Haffman Stadium has dis huge tower in da middle of centaur field with a giant broiler on top. If one of da Broils hits a homer, flames are supposed to shoot right up to da heavens.

Even more so dey got some goodlookin’ jeerleader squad – da Broilerinas! Boy, you should see dem during the pre-eats ceremony in der short dresses. Dey strut around yellin’ swear words at us while throwing cow turd into our dugout, and den dey douse some cooking oil on der skirts, light a fire, and prance around fer the hometown fans with flames and smoke arisn.’ Dey sure were cookin.’

My reputation musta arrived here before me. Cause I saw dey protected da stadium’s water switches really good.

Darkthief grabbed me by da neck before the game and said he was puttin’ me in da bullpen again. He said he hoped he wouldn’t need to bring me in. He doesn’t have much confidence in Spewbelly our starter dis evening. Can’t blame him. He’s kinda wild unlike me.

Darkthief said, “Just in case, get ready fast if we do.” One more thing he said to me, “Don’t throw your thunderbolts in the bullpen. We can’t afford to pay for any paint damage to the walls of this stadium.”

The manager needn’t have worried about me. I just cooled my heels all through da game.

The first three Broils got on base with free passes to the theater. My guess is Spewbelly was lookin’ at da Broilerinas in what was left of der burnt-out skirts instead of the grabber’s hex signs. Dey were parading themselves behind home plate and performing high leg kicks 'n gyrations to distract our starter. Just shows how des Broils are devious halfmen! Then we were blasted outta da game in dat first inning on a grandslam by der clean-off-the bases-clubber, and I witnessed up close dat broiler on da tower flashin’ in da nite skies. It was spectacular, but I’m guessin’ Darkthief wasn’t watchin’ with da same interest as me.

Spewbelly settled down after dat, and he flung the rest of the game. But we lost 4 zipperoo.

Yer ghoul.
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 7

Dear Fiend Allwise,

I went for a stroll in Phantasm City after da game last nite along der famous wide boulevards. Why, dey could pack ten Spudsgeyser Beer wagons side-by-side across der width. But I wouldn’t wanna clean up da horse droppings if dey did! Dey call dis city, The City of Boulevards, but I got a new name for it.

And the city folk pride themselves in der cuisine and in der nickname, The Heart of Hysterika, as Phantasm City is da geographic center. Or so some know-it-all academics claim. But I got a new name fer dat too. I’ll explain.

You see, Allwise, while I was minding me own business gorging myself at those roadside eateries along those wide roads, I felt da mix of queasine didn’t settle too well. I was stuffed to the gills (if I had any I could have sure used dem later). I ended up crouching on da roadway, holding me stomach in agony. Along comes a threesome of drunken Ogres. Dey mistook me fer a Gnome and decided to have me join dem in the national sport of “Gnome Tossing.”

Well dey had der fun fer awhile as I was thrown from one to da other. Dat is till dey got bored and flung me into the Miseri River! Luckily for me a mermaid fished me out - just jokin’ – it was a bargeman who dragged me outta those muddy waters pronto.

I suffered most of dis mornin’ with stomach cramps and bruises all over me body. So I got new names fer dis lovely city. Thanks to those thugs fer shaking me insides, I’ll remember dis place as The Heartburn of Hysterika and The City of Bully-vards!

I’m not makin’ excuses, mind you, but I’m not fit fer any flingin’ in der game dis afternoon. And I’m not afraid to tell dat to Darkthief either. Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise.

Yer ghoul.
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 8

Good Fiend Allwise,

Darkthief told me to get me duds on, and I suited up in da grubhouse. I coulda stood up to him, but I didn’t wanna embarrass him in front of the rest of the team.

I was feeling might stiff-legged from last nite’s excursion, so I dragged myself into the dugout. One of the boys yelled, “ By Ticob’s spikes! We’ve got a new zombie on the club.” Another smart aleck fist baseman said, “Nah, Jack’s been dead a long time. I’d recognize his shuffle anywhere.”

I settled between a couple of stenchwarmers hoping Darkthief would forget about me in dis game. It wasn’t meant to be. Those Broils had der clubs a swingin’ and ours were too. It was 10-9 after we’d squeezed a run in at the top of the 13th sinning. Both teams were using up der firestarters like a box of wet matches. When the Broils loaded the bases in der ups with no outs, Longtail was besides himself, snortin,’ swattin’ flies with his tail, and rammin’ those sharp horns of his into the walls. I was just glad he hadn’t gored me to death instead!

Dey don’t know me, Allwise, like you do. I’m usually cool as a snow giant, but I was jumpy as a lobster in a pot of boilin’ water when Longtail picked up da hellphone, looked in my direction, said somethin’ about using da brat boy in relief – he’s such a joker! – and told me Darkthief was callin’ for the southclaw, and dat was me. I looked around… but I was da only hoser left.

Now Phantasm City has a strange way of bringin’ in a team’s reliever to put out a fire at Haffman Stadium. Two Trolls run out to da bullpen with a pole. Then dey tie da flinger’s hands and feet together at each end of da pole and carry him slung like a captive awaiting to be barbecued. Dis appeals to da Broil fans and der weird sense of humor. Da first time you experience dis is frightening especially when the crowd is screaming, “Burn him! Burn the %&#@%^!”

After dat humiliating trip to cemetery hill, I thought how I was gonna fling. No speedballs. No shape change flings neither. Me arm was a killin me. It hadta be somethin’ easy … da skidder.

The Broils removed der slug racers on hurt and sockem bases and sent in der fleetest racerunners – Bramblefoot and Fuzzworth. Bramblefoot was wearing brand new Freekee-brand racing shoes. Fuzzworth did an swirling dance as he got loose at sockem. As I looked for da hex sign, both hotshots challenged me and made daring darts off der bases - da tying run at hurt and da winning run at sockem.

If dat wasn’t bad enough… at homely plate stood a hulk of a Halfling named Brownthicket. He whipped his club back-and-forth like lightning scattering da mosquitoes dat buzzed around him. Then he seemed to aim his club right at me heart.

I flung a skidder. It soared this away … and that away towards home. Eagle-eyed slugger Brownthicket wasn’t fooled though and swung his club with all his might … and slammed a crossbolt towards da mound on me right. Me glove hand was behind me back with no chance to stab it. I was falling’ in da same direction as dat blazin’ bloodball with me left leg lifted stiff in the breeze … Da racers on the bases were runnin’ at full speed… and Bramblefoot was half way home…

… and den dat bloodball slammed into da shoe of me raised leg … and stuck into da spikes there! The force knocked me to the ground, but the ball was still stickin’ on one muddy cleat.

Applebark at hurt yelled fer da ball. I plucked the bloodball off da spike and lobbed it to him … double slay on da bungling Bramblefoot! … and den dey caught dat fool Fuzzworth in a run down, tripped him good, and tagged him out between sockem and hurt … triple slay! Game over! I did it again!

While we Grasstoes celebrated, da Broils fumed dat I’d dropped da ball, but da hellevision reslay showed dat bloodball was perched on me foot da whole time. Da grumpires ruled against the Broils but hadta flee da stadium as angry fans cried out “Sorcery!” and “Cheats!”

After dis nite, Piggsplurgh hasta to call me back up.

Yours cruelly,
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 9

Good Fiend Allwise,

Darkthief had me in his office fer a grubhouse meeting. I was sittin’ smug knowin’ I’d been headin’ fer Piggsplurgh mighty quick. Den the roof of me mouth caved in.

An amused Darkthief read the message handed to him earlier by the Broils’ manager, “Phantasm City is lodging an official protest to the league commissioner. You’re accused of consorting with sorcerers and using a spell to win a bloodball game.“

I had me mouth open so wide you could see what I ate fer breakfast. I shook me head and blurted out dat sorcerous acts were common, ignored and accepted, and to prove it I glanced at our club sorcerer, a weasel-lookin’ Elf by da name of Thornside “Nothing to do with me,” the mage assured Darkthief. “Jack’s innocent anyway. He’s behind in his dues to the Guild, and no sorcerer would deal with a bloodballer in poor standing.”

Da smiling Darkthief crumbled up da note and fed it to his miniature pet dragon that eagerly blazed it into ashes but added, “They have no case. But Jack, you’re not off the hook yet.” Shakin’ his head, he looked me straight in da eye; his own fiery-red orbs bore into me brain. “I don’t know if it’s the work of the gods, your skills, or just dumb luck … I think the latter … but if something unexplainable like that happens here again, I won’t be able to protect you from the Broils’ fans or the lynch mobs.”

I left his office shaking’ like I had a dose of the Red Pox, and so I flung in today’s game like a true firestarter. Dis time I was muddle relief in the 6th as we were trailin’ 5-2 and dey had a man on fist base and one out.

Da Broils were clubbing me flings right to me teammates who couldn’t catch a bloodball thrown by two-year old urchins.

Applebark at hurt base let dat bloodball rip off his glove and dat bloodball carried on into da deep elf field corner fer a triple. Then our shirt stop Thistleby didn’t bother to lunge at a lance only ten feet away, a two-bagger. Even when I let me outfielders help me out with der fielding, dey let me down. Proudbelly and Widebarrel just watched as two bloodballs in a row landed over Haffman Stadium’s fences fer homers. When Darkthief gave me da silver hook, it was 10-2 Broils.

Allwise, even I ken’t strike dem out all da time.

Yours cruelly,
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 10

Good Fiend Allwise,

Next morning’ we took the hexpress drain out of Phantasm City happy to leave after losin’ 2 of 3. Our moods perked up when we crossed the Mightyslipperi River and headed southeast fer Snorelando, Furyday and a series with da Tragic.

I was sitting by meself staring out da window at da passing countryside of Henseed and Slambama when a young Gnome, a grub reporter fer da Piggspurgh Roast-Gazelle by his shiny press card, climbed up onto the seat next to mine. The sportscribe’s name was Frazzlebeard, and he told he had just been in Screwloose to cover a game between the Pieplates and da Frowns and now was headin’ back home fer a visit to Furyday.

“How da Pies doin’? I asked.

“Not well. They’ve lost three straight. They sure could use an old hand like you to turn things around,” the Gnome insisted. He had a weird kinda smirk on his face, but you know what Gnomes are like.

“You recognize me,” I smiled back.

“Sure. Everyone knows Jack Alltrades. You won a couple before they sent you down. How you doing with Hotsun?” he added apologetically.

And I told him we’d won 4 of 6 since I joined da club. “Saved two games – though one wasn’t official,” I gushed out.

“No kidding. You start any?”

“Huh, if our dumb manager Darkthief had let me, we’d be 6 and 0,” I rushed out.

“He’s a fool, right?” the ever-smilin’ Frazzlebeard looked at me so sincerely.

I hesitated me somewhat. “This is between you and me, right?”

Frazzlebeard leaned over towards me and whispered secretly, “Of course. We are “gnome” for our tight lips!” he chuckled.

“Well … Darkthief don’t know much when it comes to choosin’ starters …. and da bunglin’ bullpen coach Longtail might as well swat flies at a restaurant for a livin’ ‘cause he don’t know when a reliever is ready or not,” I spewed out. “Last nite, I got hammered in relief through no fault of me own. Me fielders couldn’t catch da pox from a floozie.”

“You don’t say. If you were managing, it’d be different!” he said sympathetically.

“It sure would be. I’d make a great player-manager.”

Frazzlebeard nodded excitedly in agreement. He knew I was right. Then he said he had to get ready quick to send a hellegram at da next drain station. He shook me hands like he’d just met one of the gods of Ballhalla, whistled, and ran off.

You know I’ve said some bad things about nasty sportscribers, bloodcasters … and devious Gnomes in the past, Allwise, but dis Gnome was special - da most nicest and most upfront one I’ve had da pleasure to meet.

Yer ghoul,
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 11

Dear Fiend Allwise,

We’re stuck in Squirmingham for a couple of hours cause there was a magical breakdown by one of da station apprentice mages on da Southbeastern Grailroad line. Dey had to drag da drained apprentice who was ravin’ like a lunatic right out of der station. Da railroad's sent a backup wizard from Moldbile, so we wait.

Trying to liven things up on da platform, one of the Grasstoes, our “songbird” wight fielder Topbarrow, broke into a traditional children’s diddy.

Swallow the yellow slick toad
Swallow the yellow slick toad
Swallow, swallow, swallow, swallow
Swallow the yellow slick toad

We’re off to slay the lizard
The Horrible Lizard of Shnoz
We fear he is a whiz of a liz
If ever a liz there was
If never, oh ever a liz, there was

We’re off to slay the lizard
The Horrible Lizard of Shnoz

Before you knew it, we we’re all chimin’ in at da top of our lungs.

We had time to chew da fat in Squirmingham too. We jawed about Snorelando … not da bloodball team! There were lots of stories about Sorelando’s balmy breezes, bronzed Halfling hotties, and … a bonus… Dizzyland and Punyverse!

I don’t know if you’ve been there, but Dizzyland and Punyverse are supposed to be marvels of ancient times; formerly the playgrounds for rich native Hysterikans. The Dwarf mechanics and necromancers had figured out how to get all those contraptions working again. Some of us bloodballers will go on da rides there if we have da chance for thrills, chills, and shrills. Bloodballers are kids at heart, Allwise.

Gotta go, dey is loading up da drain. I’ll just have da chance to post these two letters I been writing you.

Yer ghoul,
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 12

Dear Fiend Allwise,

Da belching steam cabs dropped us off at our rundown, Snorelando hotel. A newsbrat was hawkin’ da local rag outside. He was yellin’ out, “The nitwit hits the fans!” “The nitwit hits the fans!” Curious I dropped a couple of crumbled greenskins into his sweaty palms ‘n opened da sports section. Da head-lions roared out da news.

ALLTRADES BLASTS GRASSTOES’ MANAGER AND TEAM
Written by me good bloody, Frazzlebeard, of the Piggsplurgh Roast-Gazelle!

Allwise, I was so shocked I coulda lit up da whole city with me own eelectricity.

There in black and fright, fer the whole bloodball world to see, was me suggestin’ sackin’ Darkthief as manager and me throwin’ da bag in da Frantic Ocean; me sellin’ our Minotaur bullpen coach to a steak restaurant, and he endin’ up on da menu as Longtail Steerloin; me publicly whippin’ all me fielders in da middle of Dimwit Maiden Stadium; and to top it off, a drawin’ of me as manager stickin’ da silver hook in da backs of all da Hotsun Grasstoes Bloodball fans!

What puzzles me most is where did dis Gnome, son of a beach bum, sportscribe get such nonsense stories in der first place?

Yer ghoul,
Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 13

Good Fiend Allwise,

Fer some reason, nobody woke me at da hotel next mornin’ and da Yellow Crabb Taxi team wagons had already left for da Tragic’s ballpark. So I had to make me way to Whacky Robinsong Smallpark by meself da old fashioned way by puttin’ one foot before da other. A long sweaty walk for a Halfling, but dey don’t me, Allwise, da kinda shape I’m in.

Puffin’ like I was agivin’ birth, I stumbled into da visiting team’s grubhouse. It was like a funeral pyre in there. “Someone die?” I gasped. “Not yet,” someone snickered from da shower. Applebark I think. Most Grasstoe bloodballers, including me assault and battery mate, Pudgebottom looked away suddenly very interested in da scurrying roaches on da floor, other Grasstoes slammed their lockers like dey were just struck out bad-lookin’ by a looney, and da rest were struck deaf ‘n dumb it seemed by da fists of da god of fury, Ticob.

Then it dawned on me, da weight of da sun crushin’ me skull. Dey’d read those lies about me in da newspaper story. Mighty sensitive if you ask me! What a bunch of soreheads.

There was a note stuck with some mystery goo to me locker door.

Jack,
The coaches and I have gone to Slaybone Beach for r & r.
It seems we all need to get our bloodball wits together.
You’re acting manager till we get our smarts back.
Good luck. Give the Tragic Ballhella for us.
Your mindless manager,
Darkthief

Well dis is a fine kettle of fish feces! I’ve got a team to run to da grounds of Snorelando. How hard ken it be?

(PS off to me. Finish dis letter after da game.)

[hawaiiansky]

Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise

A Washed-up Whiner’s Letters

CHAPTER 14

I’m not makin’ excuses, but… it should’ve been a lark to beat da Tragic, a good name fer them. Dey’ve dug such a deep hole in last place in da league that a crew of Dwarven miners would have difficulty diggin’ them out of it. Instead it was an albatross.

I couldn’t start da regulars cause dey all complained of stomach cramps. Meaning dey couldn’t stomach me! I played the stenchwarmers and da washed-up dregs of da team and would’ve snuck in a bratboy into da slimeup, or even a jeerleader if she had fit into da uniform. In Sandree Finehide’s case, she just had too many bulges showin’ in da wrong places … for a young buck, not a jeerleader!.

Da Grasstoes went down 1-2-3 (take a pee) in da top of da first. Some of our grubs hadn’t clubbed in so long, the bratboy had to clean off the cobwebs off der clubs.

I started an old-slimer named Underheap who hadn’t snot started in dark ages.

The Tragic came out blunting in the bottom of da first! You see, Allwise, da Tragic play Mini-ball. Dey blunt a lot, get on base anyway dey can – cook or crook, club sacrifice fles (clouds of ‘em), and push out runs like dey were constipated. The Tragic are marathon walkers. Dey take so many flings, dey can tell you the number of stitches on bloodballs!

I’m not complainin’ but … dey were using flat-clubs frowned on in da mager leagues, so dey could lay down their blunts perfectly. Me grub, hurt baseman Puddleby fell on his puss trying to one hand a lead off blunt. Then he threw the bloodball into wight field and the Tragic had a racer on hurt with none out. Underheap was so upset, he flung a wild turkey to da backstop, and it was 1-0 after one inning.

We were white sheeted again in da second.

The Tragic played dirty Mini-ball in der half. Der grabber, Hairyfoot was almost as wide as he were tall. When he thrust his belly over home plate, our flinger Underheap couldn’t help but plunk him, and a smug Hairyfoot waddled to fist. When da next clubber sent a grass trimmer right to Greenweed our fist baseman, dey played hit and race. Hairyfoot elbowed Greenweed in the ribs, and while he was bent over, dat bloodball sailed past him into da wight field corner. Dat slow cookin’ porker Hairyfoot managed to reach hurt, and the Tragic had racers on fist and hurt. Then dat mite Wigglebody blunted down the fist base line and our still hurtin’ Hairyfoot booted it fer an error. Another run scored. Dey tried a double-dare steal and da slung bloodball by our washed-up grabber Townwise bounced into centaur field. It was 4-0 by da time the inning was thankfully over. Those two innings set da tone fer da game … and it wasn’t music to our ears.

Da rest of da game was like a buckin’ nitemare. We managed a few hits but no runs and were drubbed 9-0. Snorelando taunted us after our last out, waving der white snot rags at us and callin’ us every name dey could think of (some I never even said to me mother, rest her bloodsoul). Worse dey didn’t invite us fer der victory barbecue afterwards… a real insult to us fellow ever-hungry Halflings.

I’m not braggin’ but … it coulda been worse.

Yours cruelly,
“Acting Mgr.“ Jack Alltrades

[hawaiiansky]

Bloodball fan, grab yourself a Sudsgeyser and open a box of Whacker Snack. Let’s chew the fat for awhile.

I’d like to thank you very much for your continued interest in reading and following this dynasty, Mage League Bloodball.

The dynasty has been chugging along for over a year and a half now fueled by your comments, interest and encouragement. Surprisingly to me, the number of views reached 10000 in October and 11000 this week. I think either it’s sorcery or some of you have had too many Sudsgeyser drafts or moonpoppy seeds and have been lulled into reading this word-avalanche of a saga. In total number of views, MLB is #3 in the 50 listed dynasties today and is #48 for all 5300+ dynasties since the beginning. Gimme five claws!

As the writer, I’m pleased that so many seem interested given it’s a non-historical dynasty about a league in a distorted universe inhabited by mostly non-humans.

I know some of you may have stuck with this dynasty since the beginning; others may have discovered it along the way or fairly recently; but some have probably stumbled upon it, glanced at its contents in horror and left in hurry never to return again! I thank you all for dropping in and giving it a look at least. Yet, there seems to be a fair number of regular readers here since 40 readers is an average per post now. I really appreciate your loyalty. I hope your sanity hasn’t suffered as a result.

I wonder how long this dynasty will last. I really don’t know. I continue to have a lot of fun writing it and will continue to do so as long as I can keep up the quality I’d like to have in it. It all depends if I can be inventive over the long haul. Now if only Markus would come out with 3D animation – Ogres swinging through blazing thunderballs, etc. Dream on.

As a newcomer to the MLB dynasty, you may feel that you have come into the middle of a very strange movie and are asking yourself, “What is this?” and “What’s going on?”

So for you newbloods to this thread, here’s sort of a table of contents in the OOTP dynasty forum to the story of Mage League Bloodball, a seemingly endless chronicle about fantasy creatures, such as orcs, goblins and other creatures, playing a form of baseball in a warped version of America circa 1956.

Posts 1- 50 Mage League Bloodball: the concept, the setup, and the background history
Posts 51-186 Season 1
Posts 187-198 The Post Season
Posts 199-215 The Pre Season
Posts 216-263 Season 2 (in progress)
Posts 264- 279 Ballhalla (boodball heaven): The Gods and Ringo Laffnear’s (The God of Letters) Dey Don’t Know Me Allwise, a fictional account of a
bloodballer in the miner leagues

And check out the latest Bloodball Glossary aid in Post 219 for a list of terms and special phrases used throughout the stories in this thread. I don’t doubt your intelligence to figure out most of the bloodball lingo; I just wonder about your patience.

This has been a rather long-winded interlude, but I just wanted to thank you again for reading bloodball. Now back to Hysterika…

Slay Ball!

Mike