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Winning Ugly, Chapter IV
April 15, 2012
“Rebekah, my dear!” Ebenezer tipped his cane and doffed his hat as if greeting an old friend rather than a complete stranger. “Marley and I have been looking everywhere for you. Are you well?”
“Y-yes, she stammered,” uncertain how he knew her or where she could run. Ebenezer, in Murdoch’s employ, had seen him with the Enemy. All was lost, surely.
Scrooge turned to De Nazarene and affected a sweeping bow. “M’Lord,” he intoned.
“Ebenezer,” De Nazarene acknowledged, seemingly unperturbed. “Are you enjoying your new position?”
“It has its benefits, M’ Lord. May we join the party?” Without waiting for an answer, he took a chair and gestured at a reluctant Marley to sit in the other. Then, as though that wasn’t enough cheek, he waved the waitress over and ordered tea for everyone.
“Does Moggi know that you’re here, darling?” Ebbie asked.
“Moggi?”
“Of course, how silly of me,” Ebbie chuckled. “I meant Murdoch, sweetheart. Is he aware that you’re in this neck of the woods?”
“I believe it was Abbadon himself who sent her,” De Nazarene interjected.
“Really?” Ebenezer raised an eyebrow quizzically. “How interesting. Perhaps we should have a chat.”
It was De Nazarene’s turn to arch his brow.
“I took this ‘position’,” the Victorian began bluntly, ” to prove that there is more to the realm of Good and Evil than just Heaven and Hell. Those of us neither purely wholesome nor malevolent have a place, as well. Now, before you warn me about my choice of friends, I know my employer well enough and have kept an eye” — here Marley stirred uncomfortably — “to see that his machinations don’t interfere with my plans. But you should know that just as I won’t brook any hindrances from the Prince of Lies, I’ll take none from Yourself.”
His eyes met De Nazarene’s and held them before continuing. “I am going to end your reign, sir.”
De Nazarene merely smiled, Marley let out a moan of despair, and Rebekah wondered how her situation could get any worse. From down the street, in the shadows, Vlad watched the goings-on impassively. He didn’t know too much about the woman, beyond the fact that Abbadon was using her to some end. Seeing De Nazarene in her company was problematic. He didn’t know his Master’s business with her, and, if he went to Abbadon with this information, it could as easily be taken for meddling as concern. Centuries of experience told him that it wasn’t worth risking Abbadon’s wrath to speak up. Ebbie’s presence concerned him most, however. He had followed the Victorian until he met up with his lackey, Marley, a few blocks away. The ghost had led them both here. The gaffer had done well for the club and, incredibly, had them on the brink of greatness. Was this betrayal, then, or something else?
As he tried to decide the best course of action, the entire party rose to leave. Ebbie, shook hands with De Nazarene, a grave countenance on his face, and left with the woman and the ghost in tow. The chairman of Club Paradiso watched them leave.
Vlad’s mind raced as he considered the possibilities, then abruptly stalled as he tried to arrive at an appropriate course of action. He knew that above all else, he desperately wanted to win the Championship. Somehow, he believed, it would be a rock to which he could cling through the rest of his miserable existence. Was Ebbie threatening that dream? And how to deal with the Nazarene? If there was one person he wished to come up against less than the Master…
As that thought ran through his head, the King of Kings turned his head in Vlad’s direction. A piercing gaze reached through the shadows, locking on the vampire. As Vlad considered fighting or fleeing, De Nazarene smiled benignly, turned and crossed the plaza into the offices of Club Paradiso.
Abbadon sat in the spacious Visitor’s Box, looking down onto the empty pitch at Heaven’s Gate, his anger plainly evident. Sammael and Anteus, both now surplus to Stygian’s requirements, stood behind him, dressed in matching suits, their existence reduced to ‘protecting’ a being who could wipe them from existence with a single, whimsical thought.
It still rankled Sammael that he had been supplanted by that disfigured little human and even more so that Dracul had sided against him. Anteus, for his part, was regretting accompanying his brother when he had gone to complain to the Master. Now, he too was off the team, his place taken by some gangly little whelp with multiple personality issues, on loan from Shakhtar Mordor. The piteous wretch constantly muttered about something quite dear to him, but more annoying was that Stygian fans appreciated that his ability to get behind unsuspecting defenders made him the perfect partner for Marley on the left flank. They had not missed Anteus one bit.
His bodyguard’s concerns were the furthest thoughts from the Master’s mind, however. What had begun as the most promising chance to upend Paradiso in an age had taken a turn for the worse somewhere along the way, and half-time of the final match of the season, the return leg of El Celestio saw Stygian, still with hope, but in desperate straits.
Matters had begun to unravel shortly after Rebekah had come to him, claiming that her mission to infiltrate and expose Paradiso was “more hopeless than Labour winning an election.”. He had exploded in fury at her whinging, making it clear that failure was not an option. She had fled in tears.
Before he could formulate an alternative plan if she proved truly incapable, Stygian inexplicably hit a rough patch. They actually lost to minnows Grimm 1812. He had been furious and called Scrooge onto the carpet. The Victorian had faced him down, said there was a trust issue in the squad and that it would take time to sort. Abbadon had already begun looking for a new manager when the two mooks now standing behind him had come crying about their lot in the team.
That explained the trust issue, he thought. Ebbie had evidently been too wise to cry about his minions getting out of line. The problem was solved quickly enough, bringing Gollum in as a replacement for Anteus and letting the hunchback take over on the other side. The resolution didn’t have the desired effect, however. Rather than victories, the loss was followed by two late draws against Albion and Asgard.
Then Wendi came to him after the third poor result, with the news that Dorian Gray had run up some gambling debts and was possibly throwing matches to get out from under.
Enraged, Abbadon got on the horn immediately and every one of his papers ran a pull-out insert of a gnarled, decrepit old man under the headline ‘Portrait of Dorian Gray’. The following morning, Vlad came into the clubhouse early and observed an attendant sweeping up a sizable pile of dust from in front of Dorian’s locker. His nameplate was already in the waiting bin. He wouldn’t be coming back, after all.
Meanwhile, Paradiso had rolled right along and Stygian had gone from being top to six points down. Prospects had looked bleak to Murdoch for a time, and then Rebekah had burst into his office, cautiously excited. She announced that she might have an insider with dirt on Paradiso, waved a manila folder under his nose, but admitted that she wasn’t sure he was legitimate. He snatched the material from her hand and immediately sent Wendi to check it out.
In the morning, his dailies ran another cover, this one depicting David en flagrante delicto with a satyr and two nymphs. There was the expected hue and cry that Abbadon was up to his usual slander and libel, but this time he had proof. De Nazarene was forced to admit publicly that his Father’s Golden Boy had strayed again. Abbadon, delighted, still had a clipping of the quotation in his breast pocket.
“Club Paradiso regrets that attacking midfielder David has had to take a sabbatical due to personal issues. He will seek counseling and hopefully return to the club in the near future.” Paradiso subsequently struggled through their next two matches, but squeaked out wins in both cases.
Then, Rebekah’s source came back with another tip. This one was dynamite, but it had the potential to blow up in Stygian’s face. He called Ebenezer and the Gorgon into his office at the club. The conservative-minded Victorian had immediately wanted him to sit on the story, threatening to resign if he published it. The Gorgon had surprised them both by giving her permission to run with it, even offering a statement.
Abbadon had almost ripped the phone out of the wall, shouting into it to hold the presses. The morning editions were filled with revelations of the affair between Perseus and the Gorgon. The old axiom that opposites attract had never been proven truer. This time, every paper, including the Celestial Guardian, Heaven’s official news source, picked up the story immediately. The public lapped it up.
Abbadon was somewhat disappointed that the couple were celebrated rather than condemned. It had taken Perseus another three days to finally stop denying the rumours, even after Medusa had given ‘exclusive’ interviews to every publication and program which asked. Yet, there was no doubt the Greek was in love with his ancient enemy, even if he had difficulty coming to terms with the fact. Thus, his fans, and the public in general, forgave him. Sometimes, Abbadon reflected, he really hated this place.
Happily though, the paparazzi, constantly on the couple’s heels now that they had gone public, were apparently a distraction to the Paradiso hitman. While his popularity reached new heights, his form dipped to new lows, and his club, wholly impotent in attack with one of their best out and the other lost in a fog, stumbled to a defeat and a draw.
Medusa, on the other hand, had never played better. It was disgusting to see her so happy, especially when Khali went all maternal, organising her shower. Worse, the bloody Guardian scooped Abbadon to news of the couple’s nuptials. Still, he was willing to take the good with the bad, now that Stygian were just a point back with the game at Heaven’s Gate set to decide the title. Forty-five minutes into the match, however, it was all coming apart and he was ready to explode.
David, the randy bastard, had made a surprise return for the derby final, announcing in a pre-match interview (with another network) that he would be the best man at his attack partner’s wedding and that he couldn’t wait for the bachelor party.
Then the pair had come out and scored a goal apiece in the opening ten minutes, making Khali look like she had all six of her hands tied behind her back. Medusa had been yellow carded after Perseus’ goal and was lucky not to be sent off when she clattered into him on two other occasions along the edge of the box. She was all flustered, her confidence missing and timing completely off. One could only assume that she was still in the match because the official was a romantic at heart.
Abbadon wasn’t sympathetic to pre-wedding jitters, however. Luckily, Stygian regrouped and pushed their opponents hard for the remainder of the half. They hadn’t been able to peg one back, though. It was taking every ounce of his legendary patience not to go down to the changing room and lay into the squad. If Paradiso held on to take the title, heads would roll and the wedding would be going ahead without the blushing bride! He swore as blasphemous an oath as he ever had at the thought of another defeat.
A moment later, he got to his feet. Who was he kidding about legendary patience? Wendi, standing near the back of the suite, running her delicate fingers through a nervous Rebekah’s fiery strands, shook her head. Stifling the will to scream, he sat back down. Ebbie had bloody well better have a handle on things.
The pall in the Stygian clubhouse was, as one would expect, deathly. The players were all slumped in front of their lockers, with heads variously bowed, held in hands, or thrown back against the wall with eyes shut tight. The gaffer was locked in his office, the dimmest of lights visible through the drawn blinds.
Abruptly, Marley’s sat up attentively, and then faded from view. There was a momentary murmur from behind the closed office door, then it creaked open. No one came through, but Marley materialised back in his place, looked towards Vlad and melodramatically raised a pointing finger in the direction of the open door. Vlad rolled his eyes at the theatrics, and getting to his feet, walked into the inner sanctum. Just to make a point, he telepathically closed the door behind him. Surprisingly, it prompted a short wave of laughter on the other side.
Ebenezer smiled and gestured to a chair.
Vlad shook his head. “I’ll stand, if it’s all the same.”
“Up to you,” Ebbie shrugged noncommittally. “I haven’t had much to say to you since I arrived. At first, I wasn’t sure that words would accomplish anything. Then I realised that it wasn’t necessary. We’ve been on the same page from the beginning. Even when you followed us that night.”
That surprised Vlad. “You spotted me?”
“Neither hide nor hair, but Marley told me afterwards.”
“I just want to win,” Vlad explained, “as much on my own terms as possible.”
“Same here,” the Victorian replied, “but it’s you that’s going to have to carry this team over the final hurdle, mate. It’s your team, after all. You’re the one from this place. Not me. Not Cy. No-one else. The other Hellions look to you, as do the outsiders. The reaction to that little trick with the door proves that.”
Vlad shook his head. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just lead them. It’ll be enough — or it won’t.”
Vlad nodded again. “Any changes?”
“Should there be?”
“No, she’ll do the job and pick up the pieces after.”
Ebbie nodded in turn, then got up and extended his hand over the desk. Vlad took it. Amazing where you found friends. He turned and, operating manually, opened the door and went outside. He only spared a glance for the Gorgon. Her look was pleading but determined.
“Any more foolish notions about chivalry in your head?”
She flushed deeply and murmured, “No, Vlad.”
“Good. If he’s worth it, he’ll be there afterwards. Let’s go restore the balance.”
He waited for her to rise and then went out into the tunnel with her half a step behind. The others quietly slipped in behind, grim intent etched on their faces.
How quickly the first goal came — and then the equaliser — mattered little. That the winner came at the death was only suitable irony for a side from Hell. That Medusa made her future husband look the fool more than once was barely more significant, or that she held him in her arms to comfort him afterwards. That the vampire’s bending, twisting free kick from thirty metres, around the Paradiso wall and into the upper ninety sent a legion of traveling support into raptures was immaterial. That the Stygian Eleven lived the full forty-five minutes — and the excruciatingly long five added on — for each other and no one else was the thing.
They stood on the podium in Heaven’s Gate with quiet pride, basking in a standing ovation from supporters on both sides. They had played that well. Vlad was the last to accept his medal, just behind Smeagol, who looked at his with an eye askance, tested it with his teeth, smiled with glee, and wailed, “Preciooussssss!”
After the medals were presented, the cheering abruptly stopped, thunder rumbled and darkness threatened. Abbadon stood on the stage now, awaiting the Celestial League Trophy. It was handed over, not without trepidation. Smiling hideously from ear to ear, he hoisted it above his head. The banks of lights snapped out and the boos rained down from all side. The Stygian support was drowned out by the wave of disapproval for their Chairman.
In disbelief, he shouted, “I have won! What more do you want? Come to me!”
The derision only intensified. He looked to the squad. They had stepped down from the podium. Only Vlad still faced him and when their eyes locked, the vampire shook his head and turned his back also. Abbadon screamed in fury and fire sprang up on all sides.
Just as quickly, however, it was snuffed out and Abbadon was no longer alone on the dais.
“Calm yourself, cousin,” De Nazarene advised.
“You? You have been beaten! Do you come to grovel?”
Jesus laughed. “No, cousin. Only to shake your hand in congratulations and to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“Yes, thank you. It was past time that my players learnt some humility. I was at a loss as to just how to teach them until you sent me Rebekah. I am sincerely grateful.”
Jesus clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head.
“Sent you Rebekah?”
“Yes, cousin,” came the answer, and, at his nod, Rebekah gratefully slipped away from Wendi and came to De Nazarene’s side, albeit not without a look of fear for her former employer. De Nazarene put a comforting arm around her.
“You needn’t be afraid, child.”
“She had best be afraid!” Abbadon roared. “She broke her contract with me and I am due compensation. You will hand the traitorous bitch over to me!” The Devil raised his hand in anger.
“I will not, cousin,” Jesus answered, repelling his relative’s anger with the mildest of waves.
“You know the rules as well as I. She looked into her heart and acknowledged the truth of matters.”
“The truth of matters?” sneered the Prince of Lies. “What care I for that? She entered into a binding contract with me of her own free will. She invited me in.”
“Yes, Cousin, that is true. She did,” Jesus remained placid.
“Then give her to me!” Abbadon raged.
“No, cousin. As I said, you know the rules, and they apply to each of us equally. She acknowledged the truth of matters and invited me in, as well.”
Abbadon roared in frustration, then, his quicksilver mood changing again, suddenly laughed.
“Take her then,” he chuckled. There are six billion more where she came from who are less concerned about the truth of the matter, so long as someone other than themselves is made to pay. They are so easily led astray, Cousin. Besides, she must go back to live among them. Let us see if they accept her repentance. Let us watch as they forgive her. Let us see if she still invites you in when they don’t.”
Abbadon hoisted the trophy one last time, and disappeared in a blinding flash of light.
Rebekah Brooks uncovered her eyes and blinked in the glare of repeated flashes. She looked around, trying to comprehend the gallery of photographers and the panel of MPs staring down at her with murder in their eyes. Something wasn’t right. A hand was placed on top of hers, and she turned to see her attorney, concern etched on his face. Just beyond him, Rupert Murdoch gave her a smile. A fleeting thought evaded her grasp. It seemed urgent, but then it was gone.
Shaking her head, she turned to face the panel. A man was glaring at her impatiently. She read the nameplate in front of him.
“I’m sorry, Mr Collins, can you repeat the question?”
Winning Ugly, Chapter IV by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
(An earlier version of this story appeared in Man And Ball Digital Magazine, in two parts, shortly after the News Of The World scandal reached its peak. Recently, further investigation has brought the issue back into the news, and, with El Clasico on tap next weekend, we thought it would be the perfect time to republish the story, with a few small changes, and divided into four smaller, more reader-friendly segments.)
Winning Ugly, Chapter III
April 14, 2012
Vlad stood at the door to his locker, soaking up the atmosphere. It was incredible. The buzz in the room was still difficult to come to terms with, despite it having become a regular occurrence over the course of the season. Other than one significant instance, results on the pitch had been business as usual; Stygian was rolling over everyone. What was surprising was that they were reveling in each and every encounter.
In the past, the squad had treated the campaign as just so much work — until it was time to play Paradiso, of course. Previously, the side had been stocked with some of Abbadon’s most talented agents, but, as the Boss held his place by pitting his own against one another, the clubhouse had always been quieter than death, with most of the players eager to accomplish the task at hand and get back to their own existence. That lack of trust, despite a common purpose, was what had held the side back against Paradiso, the vampire realised in hindsight.
Then Scrooge had been brought in from Victorian, and had overhauled the roster.
His first piece of business had been to sign a new goalkeeper and, misleadingly, the choice had Abbadon’s fingerprints all over it. Khali, the Hindu Goddess of Death, or The Destroyer, as she was commonly known, had a fearsome reputation. Certainly, she brooked no opposition in marshaling her defenders, but in the clubhouse, she was respectful to everyone. Despite being renowned as a loose cannon, you couldn’t ask for a better, more level-headed teammate, and six arms were an added bonus for a netminder, to be sure. There were no longer any concerns at the back.
But if observers believed that Ebbie was merely a figurehead and business would proceed as usual at Stygian, with Abbadon, or, in his latest skin, Moggi, pulling the strings, the manager’s remaining signings dispelled the notion.
Jacob Marley had been brought in, ostensibly to be the gaffer’s man in the clubhouse. He wasn’t very personable, staring at you with those dead eyes if you spoke to him, only occasionally mumbling an unintelligible response. He wasn’t there to make friends, though. Unless Vlad very much missed his guess., he was the counterspy to Abbadon’s minders. Still, Marley was a decent player in the bargain, so the vampire had no complaint. You had to play the game or it played you.
The hunchback, Quasimodo, was recruited as a reserve full back. He was another quiet soul at first, but would open up to those who took the time to get to know him. On Stygian, that was just the one man at first.
De Bergerac had been the surprise coup in the Celestial League transfer window. No one could believe that the pleasantly engaging gentleman-footballer had agreed to sign with the Inferno. However, Paradiso had spurned innumerable opportunities to take him on, and Cy had the desire to win. On the pitch, he was a midfield magician, cutting through defences like the renowned swordsman he had been in another life. In the clubhouse, and on the training ground, he had become fast friends with ‘Quasi’, and was forever pestering Ebbie to bench either Sammael or Anteus, the demonic full back duo, and give his friend a ‘deserved’ chance.
Needless to say, the two Hellions were visibly displeased at such suggestions and quickly moved to discourage the new man from sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. Cy didn’t back down an inch, prepared to fight whatever the odds. Sammael and Anteus seemed only too happy to oblige, until Vlad, his smile exposing razor-sharp incisors, appeared at Cy’s right shoulder and a grim-faced Dorian Gray, a rather sharp looking nail file running over one set of fingers, at his left. When someone provided you the quality service that Cy rendered, you made sure no harm came to him.
From his office, Ebenezer had watched the demons shamble off, a grin on his face. He might just have a squad, after all. The early season match against their nemesis, held at the Judecca, had been a revelation. Ebbie’s squad had played fluidly and selflessly, jumping out to an early lead. With Cy in the midfield, both Vlad and Dorian had flourished. In his first El Celestio, De Bergerac had gifted both of them an early goal.
Yet, as usual, Paradiso had come roaring back, scoring one on each side of the break and then another on the hour. Perseus repeatedly crept behind Medusa, with the Gorgon unusually red-faced and furious in her inability to contain him. The American, Paul Revere, had been racing down Stygian’s left flank, delivering sublime service into the box. On the other end of it, the Greek had burnt the Gorgon for a brace and David had snuck in at the rear post for the third.
Ebenezer had seen enough with that. Sammael was summarily yanked in favour of the hunchback, the demon taking a moment to deliver some choice words to the gaffer on his way into the clubhouse, breath reeking of sulfur and salt peter. Honestly, Vlad thought,what did he expect? If an ancient and powerful demon couldn’t contain a mere mortal, what use was he?
Quasimodo’s entrance had met with jeers and catcalls from the Stygian support. He certainly cut a strange, cumbersome figure, and the supporters obviously did not rate his chances of making a difference. Yet, Revere suddenly found every avenue cut off and the ball lightly nicked from his feet each time he dared overlap into the final third. Soon enough, he was relegated to defending his own end, as his ungainly opponent began making the runs, sending tantalising deliveries into the box and letting loose with the occasional booming volley from distance. Worse, he was laughing and singing as he went about it.
When Gabriel shifted Paradiso’s formation to compensate, Stygian was ready. There was the slightest rattle of chains to alert Simon Peter, in the Paradiso goal, but it was already too late. Jacob Marley ghosted in the back door and buried Cy’s flicked-on header. How De Bergerac’s exceedingly prominent nose didn’t interfere with his ability in the air was a mystery — you certainly had to be wary, remembering to step back when tapping him on the shoulder in a crowded pub — but the stunner for both sides was that Stygian had leveled.
Everyone stood in utter silence after the ball hit the back of the net. Vlad looked to the referee and linesman but the flags were down and, apparently, no phantom call was going to snuff out this goal. Even the fans needed a moment to confirm what they had seen, before breaking into thunderous applause.
Tradition had long dictated that Paradiso would overcome an early deficit and Stygian would meekly capitulate. It had always been so. This was completely new territory and the home side quickly warmed to the change. As the Stygian fans watched with increasing delight, their squad stormed the goal with abandon and before it was all said and done, three more strikes had found the twine.
When the whistle blew for full time, the stadium lights exploded like fireworks as the delirious support channeled their ecstasy. Fire rained down on the pitch again, as it had at the end of the previous season, but this time it was offered in praise rather than derision. A chant of appreciation, a hundred thousand voices strong, replaced the traditional barrage of insults. The players, standing in one close circle, raised their hands in triumph and greeted the chaotic serenade with smiling faces.
The celebration in the clubhouse lasted well into the night. For the most part, the bond that had been formed that evening only grew stronger. Every match since had been a pleasure and yielded maximum points. Vlad found that he was actually enjoying himself. He had doubted Abbadon’s scheme to bring in Scrooge and, in turn, the talent that Paradiso had so easily rejected out of hand, but it was proving an inspired plan. He kept one eye on the table, however.
As he had anticipated, Paradiso responded to the defeat with a fierceness that didn’t bode well for the final weekend of the season. They had routed every opponent and remained just a point behind Stygian. Heaven’s Gate was in for an epic encounter to conclude this campaign. Both sides would leave everything on the pitch; no quarter asked, none given. The vampire licked his lips at the thought and turned to dress.
Looking in the mirror, he saw Cy come out of the shower and remove his towel to crack it like a whip at the exposed buttock of an unsuspecting Quasi. The hunchback let loose with a thundering ‘Merde!” and clambered recklessly across benches, bouncing off lockers and teammates as he chased Cy about the clubhouse, the midfielder screeching in mock terror. Eventually, he allowed Quasi to corner him and playfully pretend to pound him into a pulp.
Vlad laughed along with everyone else and yelled encouragement. Well, not everyone else. Dorian stood at this locker, ignoring the tumult as he groomed himself, making certain that not a hair was out of place. He wouldn’t be coming out with the lads tonight.
At first, he had joined Vlad, Cy and Quasi on post-match pub crawls, but he’d soon been put off. With the obvious physical abnormalities of the other two, one would have thought that he and Vlad would have the pick of the women. Not so, it turned out. Cy and the hunchback, one with a suave confidence and the other with a humble courtesy, seemed to charm the ladies off their feet and out of their undergarments without any noticeable effort. Stuck with the left-overs, the narcissistic Dorian had soon gone his own way. There was something else in it, too. Whereas Dorian’s manner had once held an air of superiority, there was now a reluctant reticence. He’d come back to the team eventually, the vampire believed. He enjoyed the game too much.
Meanwhile, Vlad took it as a challenge to see if he could outdo Cy and Quasi each week. It rarely occurred but that didn’t make the competition any less enjoyable.
As the commotion settled into good-natured banter, he took a mental inventory of the clubhouse and, not seeing Marley, also made note of the manager’s darkened office. Inseparable, the duo might just be off enjoying a private drink to celebrate another win, but some instinct warned him otherwise.
Half dressed and disheveled, Cy sidled up to him and winked. “Coming out tonight, Vlad?” he asked with an easy smile.
Dracula sighed, “Not tonight, my friend. Sadly, something has come up.”
De Bergerac looked genuinely disappointed at missing the pleasure of Vlad’s company and a strange feeling pulled at the vampire’s heart. Friendship was unfamiliar territory to him.
“Quasi will be sorry to hear that,” Cy murmured. “He wanted to introduce you to someone.”
The feeling grew worse. “There will be another night, my friend. That I can promise. Please offer my apologies?”
Cy nodded and wandered off. Vlad felt no better, but there was no getting around it. Work came before play.
Rebekah sat in the sidewalk café across from the Paradiso offices. The evening breeze was cool and people walked by, bathed in the soft street light, their auras — to which she was now becoming attuned — glowing brightly as they chattered gaily to each other. Rebekah still wasn’t accustomed to the lack of cell phones and music players. People here seemed to value better the company of those they were with.
She ran a finger down her cheek, subconsciously. Though it still troubled her, the cut had healed into a barely visible gossamer thread, running from the corner of her eye down to her jawline. Strangers had to be attentive to notice it, and truth be told, it was only evident then due to the prominence of her freckles.
She looked at the gleaming building across the plaza in frustration. She had tried everything she could imagine to crack the Heavenly club’s security, but it was simply unbreakable. None of Murdoch’s hackers could find a way in and none of his thieves or cutthroats would venture near the place. Getting dirt on the Paradiso players seemed impossible. She had searched high and low for an insider with an axe to grind. On Earth, such people were readily available. The wealthy and prominent, no matter their nature, attracted the bitter and envious. It was human nature to sidle up to and praise your betters, then, when you had their trust, rip them apart like a pack of wolves bringing down a deer. Here, the aura of such scavengers marked them out, and, as a result, the curs remained in their own Circles.
Rebekah could see no way of carrying out Murdoch’s wishes, which, had the consequences of failure not been so personal, would have pleased her no end. A single journey through a personal hell was sufficient for her. One time, she had tried to explain the futility of the task and her reluctance to carry it out, only to be met with Murdoch’s full fury. She couldn’t understand it. The new manager whom Murdoch had recruited had done wonders with Stygian. They had come from behind and thrashed Paradiso. Every media outlet in this place was on about it, playing up the rematch at Heaven’s Gate in the season’s final week, as an epic confrontation, with the title at stake. By all accounts, Stygian was going to finally end Paradiso’s reign at the top.
Murdoch didn’t need her, but had still become enraged at the suggestion that he release her. Winning a championship wasn’t enough. He wanted to bring Paradiso down forever, and she was the key to that. He had smiled coldly and promised her endlessly exquisite pain if she let him down. God help her, though, she could not see how to succeed.
Resigned to her fate, Rebekah glanced hopelessly at the impenetrable edifice and reached for her purse to leave a tip for the waitress. She would go back over her tracks one more time and pray that she had overlooked some detail. She knew she hadn’t, though. As she rummaged for loose change, a voice interrupted her gloomy thoughts.
“May I join you?”
Looking up, she was startled to see a tall, handsome man with an incredibly intense aura. Dressed in a white linen suit, he was tanned, with flowing brown hair drawn back into a pony tail and an immaculately trimmed beard and mustache. His smile revealed perfect white teeth, but she was captivated by his soft brown eyes. Then she realised who He was.
“Oh, Christ!” she blurted out. Immediately, she flushed a deep purple and attempted to splutter out an apology. What was wrong with her?
He laughed gently for a moment, before reassuring her. “There’s no need to apologise. If I took offence, as people imagine I do every time they invoke my name in vain, I’d have a truly miserable existence. So, don’t trouble yourself.”
Her face flushed even deeper, if that was possible. She murmured another apology, then, after searching unsuccessfully for a proper appellation, added, “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to address you.”
He laughed easily, again. “Yes, once I’m standing right in front of them, people suddenly don’t know what to call me. My name is Jesus” — he made a placating gesture at the mortification which sprang to her face — “but very few people feel comfortable calling me that and I have no need for honourifics. De Nazarene is fine, if you like.”
“De Nazarene,” she murmured, respectfully bowing her head. Then she looked up and offered her hand. “I’m Rebekah.”
“Yes, Rebekah. It’s wonderful to at last make your acquaintance.”
As she stood goggling up at him, the King of Kings and Chairman of Club Paradiso gazed down upon her with a patient smile. When it finally became evident that she was at a loss for how to proceed, he spoke again.
“Well?”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“May I join you?”
Finally, she laughed at her complete lack of grace.
“Yes, yes, of course, please do!” she giggled nervously before her mirth faded into fear. “Although I have no idea why you would wish my company.”
Sliding into a chair and waving away the expectant waitress, De Nazarene favoured her with another beatific smile. “I always enjoy making new friends.”
Another long silence gave Rebekah time to collect her thoughts. Gathering her courage, she asked Him a question, the answer to which she was certain would condemn her for eternity. “You know, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. That is why I came,” He nodded, His expression finally serious. “I thought it might be a good time to explain the rules of this place to you.”
Rebekah swallowed back the bile that was rising in her throat. Her heart pounded mercilessly. She was truly trapped between Heaven and Hell. God help me, she thought to herself for the last time. De Nazarene smiled as if she had spoken aloud and reached across the table.
The unwelcome sound of a leg iron clanking against concrete caused his smile to fade. He pulled his hand back and looked beyond her. Rebekah turned and followed his gaze. A pale apparition in chains, wearing a somber expression, approached their table, half a step behind a craggy-faced gentleman walking with the aid of a stick. The latter wore a shiny top hat that matched his long black coat, which, bundled against the breeze, covered him to below the knee. His boots were polished to a bright sheen and a large diamond glittered on the end of his stick. As he strode up, Rebekah recognised the bushy sideburns and thick eyebrows of the Stygian manager.
This was not good.
End of Chapter Three.
Check Back Tomorrow — 15.04.12 — for the Fourth, and Final, Chapter of Winning Ugly.
Winning Ugly, Chapter III by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Illustration courtesy of strange bOUnce image imp Gant Powell.
(An earlier version of this story appeared in Man And Ball Digital Magazine, in two parts, shortly after the News Of The World scandal reached its peak. Recently, further investigation has brought the issue back into the news, and, with El Clasico on tap next weekend, we thought it would be the perfect time to republish the story, with a few small changes, and divided into four smaller, more reader-friendly segments.)
Winning Ugly – Chapter II
April 13, 2012
Ebenezer limped around the pitch of the Judecca, propping himself up on his walking stick. He was watching his new squad go through its paces, albeit only half-focused on the task at hand. The odd, flickering half-light of Hell took some getting used, especially in the way it cast strange shadows against the bleached and pitted stone of the ancient stadium, but it was personal matters which were distracting him. It was still difficult to pin down exactly why he had taken this job.
Victorian had been a solid club with good players. As well, he liked to think they played the game the right way. They weren’t as flamboyant as Paradiso but, unlike the ‘Heavenly Host’ — a bloody stupid name, he thought to himself, not for the first time — his lads felt no need to make hay from every opportunity offered by those who tested the boundaries of fair play. If a Brownie took a knock, he picked himself up and dusted himself off. If he went down too easy, he raised a hand to let the official know.
Playing that way, Vic were never going to win anything. They had neither the talent or depth of Paradiso, nor their luck with officials. And that, he supposed, was what had made him listen to Moggi. Just once, he’d like to taste victory and the ‘Italian’ had come to him with an offer that was difficult to refuse. He knew that ‘Moggi’ was just an affectation. The Stygian chairman had a flair for the theatrical, intrinsic to his true nature, but the Victorian knew with whom he was really dealing. Yet, even when one saw through the disguise, Moggi could be quite persuasive.
Stygian was the only club, other than Paradiso, which had ever won the Celestial League. Well, there was Asgard’s one fleeting triumph, playing with such incredible vigor in the aftermath of Ragnarök. However, that campaign had been reduced to the answer to a pub bet after all this time. The reality was that Stygian and Paradiso were the two biggest sides, as such able to take their pick from the strongest spirits and reap the rewards of having the largest followings. Working for either of them offered opportunities that employment with any other club could not. He had been surprised, though, that one of them would want him. Even more so, when the approach had come from the Inferno.
Until now, both clubs had stuck exclusively to their own kind; Paradiso recruited from the heroes and the wise, Stygian from the monsters and villains. Yet, the Stygian chairman had contacted him to propose a new project. Moggi had reached the conclusion, he said, that the club’s prospects were severely limited by recruiting only from the “strictly Evil”. Ebbie wasn’t fooled. The club’s prospects and Moggi’s were one and the same, pure and simple. Moreover, the chairman was as “strictly Evil” as you could get. As good and sensible as the offer sounded, Ebbie wasn’t ever going to forget with whom he had involved himself.
That was the main reason that Marley was in the squad. It paid to have someone whom you could trust, not just to keep an eye on the lads, but to mind your back with the higher-ups. Marley was good at that — very good — and, if he could keep Moggi’s crew from meddling too much, Ebbie might just pull this off. Plus, old Jake was a first-rate left-back.
“The one thing the Celestial League lacks, Ebbie,” Moggi had said, putting his arm around his prospective new boss in the quiet pub chosen for their first meeting “is a bit of free agency. The Celestial doesn’t have a Bosman Rule. No one wants it, do they? Everyone stays with their own and, truth be told, it is making the league stagnant. What is needed is to mix things up a little. Now, I would love to have one or two of the Pure in my squad but none of them would ever come. Nor would the supporters ever permit it, in any event. But there is plenty of talent, very good talent, mind, at which Paradiso too readily thumbs its nose.”
Ebbie had arched a quizzical brow at that bit of pot, kettle, black, and Moggi’s eyes had twinkled in response. Raising his hands in mock surrender, he had laughed heartily.
“True, true. Stygian has been no different, but that is going to change — beginning with you. You, my friend, are not Evil, not by half. But no matter what you have done in the interim, you just cannot shake that reputation for being uncharitable, can you? No, that lot talk a good game but when it comes right down to it, they are not as quick to forgive and forget as they would like you to believe.”
Ebbie merely shrugged. You played the cards life dealt you. Moggi continued his pitch.
“So, what I want you to do, if you take on the job, is shake up the roster. The Horseman is out for the year, so the club will need a ‘keeper right off, and Vlad could benefit from a midfielder with a bit of an imagination. Find some good players, cast in a similar light to yourself, and offer them whatever it takes. Then whip them into shape!”
Moggi’s eyes sparkled again and his laugh was twice as loud as he slapped an unprepared Ebbie on the back with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Well, do not whip them literally. Leave some of the fun for me!”
Rebekah sat in the office Murdoch had supplied, poring over the dossiers Wendi had delivered. Before she left, the voluptuous satyr had run her hand, with its long dark fingernails, down Rebekah’s cheek.
“Don’t spend too much time on this,” she purred. “All work and no play makes Becki a dull girl.”
Putting one finger into her mouth and sucking on it seductively, she clomped out, tail swishing again. Rebekah felt an odd mixture of fear, repulsion and anticipation that she didn’t know quite how to resolve. It wasn’t nearly as vexing a problem as how she was going to hack into Heaven’s mainframe, however.
Murdoch was certain that there was damaging information contained there, and he had provided detailed backgrounds on the entire Paradiso squad and staff. The only one that he thought was beyond reproach was Gandhi. He had left handwritten notes in the margin of all the rest.
David would be the easiest, Murdoch, thought. A dyed in the wool womaniser, Murdoch was certain that his old habits lived on; it was just a matter of catching him out. Perseus, he opined was more of the same. No man put so much oil in his hair or that much work into his tan, if he wasn’t chasing some tail. And wasn’t a winged horse the perfect vehicle when one suddenly had to leave through a second-story window?
Gabriel, the Archangel, and manager of the club, was almost certainly gay. No-one this side of Lady Gaga had any other reason to dress so androgynously, and how many men did she know who plucked their eyebrows daily?
It was his assessment of the Paradiso chairman which really shocked her, though. To accuse Jesus of Nazareth of paedophilia! — “Suffer the children, indeed!” was scrawled in the margin. She shook her head, but, somehow, thinking back on the issues at home with Rome, a seed of doubt took root. She shook her head again. Murdoch was insidious.
A drop of blood fell on the page.
She looked at it, puzzled.
Another drop splattered lightly near the first.
Rebekah put a hand to her face, where Wendi had caressed her. Three fingers came away bathed in crimson. She scrambled in her purse for a compact and thought to herself frantically that there had to be a way out.
“Jesus, help me!” she whispered as she dabbed at the thin line running from just under her eye to her jawline.
A sultry voice outside the door let loose a sinister laugh.
End of Chapter Two.
Check Back Tomorrow — 14.04.12 — for the Third Chapter of Winning Ugly.
Winning Ugly, Chapter II by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
(An earlier version of this story appeared in Man And Ball Digital Magazine, in two parts, shortly after the News Of The World scandal reached its peak. Recently, further investigation has brought the issue back into the news, and, with El Clasico on tap next weekend, we thought it would be the perfect time to republish the story, with a few small changes, and divided into four smaller, more reader-friendly segments.)
Winning Ugly
April 12, 2012
Fire rained down on them. Shards of floating ash from torn programs helicoptering to the ground, their edges aflame, were a strange contrast to the steady shower of electric sparks bouncing off the increasingly crisp turf. The banks of stadium lighting had long since blinked out, the power drawn off by a hundred thousand angry supporters. These were angry spirits, indeed. Stygian, less than one half of football away from the elusive Celestial League title, had been frustrated by Paradiso. Once more, they had capitulated in El Celestio.
Vlad stood in a small circle, free of the storm, as did each of the others. They were not warding themselves, although they were all capable. Two or three, at least, had the ability to end the tirade with a single glance. It wasn’t necessary, however. Their supporters would make their displeasure known but never cross the line. The players, having failed them, would stand and accept the shame. There was an honour to be upheld, even here, and all would.
The vampire glanced to the touchline. Moriarty had gone. Well, not all, then.
“Brooks!”
“Sir?”
“Ah, there you are. I have a task for you, my dear.”
Uncertainty crossed the woman’s freckled face. The hum of the busy outer office was cut off as the heavy door clicked shut behind her. The inner sanctum was both familiar and not. It was done in marble tile and mahogany furniture. The walls were a light earth tone, and the incandescent lighting was business bright. She recognised the figure behind the desk. Yet, the setting just wasn’t right.
“Is there a problem, dear?” Tenting his fingers, he smiled inwardly at her confusion, waiting patiently as she tried to put her disorientation into words. Let her take her time; he had no end of patience.
Another moment, a sigh, and then, “Out with it, child!”
Well, he was also a creature of contradiction, was he not?
Insulted, the woman’s feminist sensibilities were ignited, the fire suddenly burning inside her a match for her bright red tresses, but a well-honed sense of self-preservation caused her to hesitate. Something was definitely not right. She was almost, but not quite, entirely sure that she shouldn’t be here. She tried to synchronise her memory with the moment.
“Forgive me, sir, but I was certain that you’d accepted my resignation.”
“I did, my dear. But that was in London, where you were no longer of use. Here, however, you might be of service”
“Here, sir? Where is here?”
He chuckled dryly. “Where do you think here might be, Rebekah?”
Here brow furrowed as she tried to work it out. A horrible possibility came suddenly to mind and her eyes widened in fear.
“Am I….?”
“Dead? No, dear, you are still very much alive, although that life has become a Hell in itself over the past year. Arrested, resigning, arrested again, everyone with an agenda wanting a piece of you.”
He found the thought pleasant and another short laugh escaped his lips.
“Then, how… why…?”
“There are many planes of existence, darling. Some house the living, some the dead, others the merely imagined. This place accommodates them all… well their spirits, at least. It is a good environment for me to do business.”
There was a grain of hope in the explanation. “All of their spirits? The good and the bad?”
He nodded his head in affirmation.
Relief flooded her features and, letting go of her fear, she actually laughed. “Lord, you had me going, Rupert! I thought this was Hell and that you were –”
“In charge?”
Her laughter came out in a trill. Despite ignoring her instinct, she remained on the verge of hysteria. His face darkened and he leaned forward. Rebekah’s alarm returned in a rush.
“I am in charge, foolish woman, and this is place is exactly as you have guessed. It is Hell, Hades, Sheol, Gimokodan, Kalichi, whatever you wish to call it. I, too, am known by many names. But whatever you call me, I am not to be trifled with!”
His voice had transformed from its usual nasal twang to a deep tenor rumble. The pale, mottled skin of Rupert Murdoch began to take on a translucent glow. Beneath the surface a fire burned, casting a strange orange glow. Soft brown eyes became glittering black coals. The office lighting dimmed as his inner fire grew. The creature before her retained his shape, but was no longer the man that she thought she had known. He was something far more vibrant, powerful and ancient than the billionaire media tycoon. And infinitely more dangerous. Yet, Rupert was somehow still at the core of this being. Had she actually known him or just thought she had?
As her lips worked soundlessly, unable to form a cohesive sentence, he explained further.
“This is the Hell of this place and I rule here. I am not Rupert Murdoch, although Rupert Murdoch, after a fashion, is me. While it pleased me to let you think you had my ear in London, that is not the case here. So, if you must call me anything, Mr Murdoch will serve. Do we understand one another?”
Rebekah blanched. Her pallor was such a deathly white that her fear was now literally palpable. He let his mind taste it. Delicious. But there was business to see to. Leaning back in his chair, he let his anger go. The lighting returned to its normal level and his fire faded, though not entirely. Smoke trailed off his body in thin wisps. He decided to allow her some hope.
“You may find your way into my good graces again, woman, if you do not fail as monumentally in the task I set you here as you did in London.”
Rebekah clung to the one thought echoing frantically in her mind. “But I resigned!”
“Indeed,” he chuckled. “But the acts you performed in my employ while in London bound you to me in other planes and you know it. In your heart, you know it!”
The look of desperation on her face confirmed that she accepted his judgment, which was all the invitation he required. Satisfied, he continued.
“This portion of your spirit will reside here until I agree to release you.” He raised an admonishing finger. “That, however, I will only do if you aid me successfully in the task that I set you. Do you understand?”
She nodded a meek assent.
“Excellent.”
Murdoch gestured to a chair and she slumped into it, grateful on two accounts. First, sitting quelled the overwhelming urge to run, which she could not suppress even though she knew she wouldn’t get far. How could she when, second, she was trembling so badly that she could barely stand?
He gestured again and a door opened.
A dark, sultry woman, tall, with sharply beautiful Han features and flowing raven hair entered the room. She carried a steaming mug. She reminded Rebekah of Wendi, the London Murdoch’s wife. Yet, this woman was somehow both younger and older; beautiful but hardly innocent; in every way a fitting consort for the true Murdoch. She walked directly to Rebekah’s chair, not acknowledging her Master, her heels echoing on the marble tile. Arriving, she proffered a bow that was merely a slight nod of her head, and held out the brew for Rebekah to take. As this Wendi leant forward with her offering, Rebekah was afforded a glimpse of ample cleavage and the merest whiff of an erotically musky odour. She averted her eyes a moment too late, but accepted the drink gratefully, cupping it nervously in both hands and blowing away the steam. She needed something to calm her nerves.
Wendi laughed mockingly and, turning, sauntered out of the room. Fascinated, Rebekah watched her go. The swish of a barbed tail, briefly lifting her skirt, was startling. It was only then that Rebekah realised that the click-clack of Wendi’s steps was not, in fact, heels, but hooves. Rebekah peered at the still smoldering Mr Murdoch (it actually helped to still think of him as that comparatively harmless personage) and then, with a sudden surge of suspicion, into the cup.
“It is just Darjeeling, to soothe you, my dear,” he encouraged, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You have had a bit of a start.”
Rebekah nodded and sipped at the tea. She was finding it difficult to maintain any sense of rationality. Murdoch had said he had a task for her and he had just stopped short of literally erupting like a volcano. If he was going to kill her, he’d likely just wave his hand rather than going to the trouble of poisoning her tea. She tittered nervously, keeping the thinnest of veils over her hysteria.
Murdoch gestured to a large monitor on the wall and a series of images began to play out for her. Of all things, it appeared to be highlights of a football match. She gasped in surprise as a few close-ups revealed the identity of some familiar personalities: mythological deities, characters from classic novels, heroes and villains, even a figure or two from human history. They were all players? Here?
She recalled Murdoch’s brief description of this place. Suddenly intrigued, she watched further. The match, seemingly pitting good against evil, did not end well — if that is how you would describe a full on riot, with the entire pitch and stands set ablaze. The volume was muted, so she was not quite sure of the import of all this to her. As the video faded, she looked to Murdoch.
“Surprised that the likes of David, Perseus and Gandhi would play football?” he asked.
She nodded.
Murdoch continued, “Well, Gandhi makes an excellent attacking mid, I must admit. Has a unique vision on the pitch — you never know where he is going to go next. Not that he would sign for me. More is the pity.”
Rebekah had a blank look on her face.
“Do you even follow football, woman?”
“No,” came out in a tremulous squeak. “You know that I specialise in politics, Ru — Mr Murdoch.”
Murdoch sighed. “Tree of Knowledge, my ass,” he muttered, then tried to accommodate her. “The politics here are pretty much a one party system, if you take my meaning?”
She shook her head.
Murdoch grimaced as he pointed a finger in an upward trajectory, towards Someone not in the room.
“Oh, He allows opposition but somehow it never seems to amount to much, does it? There is no way to discredit Him directly, He is so squeaky clean these days. At least, He used to go in for a bit of slaughter every now and then. That was before he brought his Son into the business, however.” Murdoch shook his head in disgust. “Youngsters and their radical ideas. Peace and understanding. Please. Still, all that pacifism means it is difficult to make anything unpleasant stick. So, one needs to offer the populace something new. Football allows me that opportunity and I intend to take it.”
Rebekah was shaking her head. “I just don’t understand what’s so compelling about kicking a ball around, and I don’t think I ever will.”
“Look, the long and short of it is that there is an elite league here, just as on Earth, and every bit as important in the public eye. Their passion is consumed by it. The team of the heavenly, Paradiso, has dominated this league for ages and they’re adored for it. Yet, that adoration can be redirected. Everyone loves a winner, don’t they? And hates a villain?”
The blank look was still there.
“It’s just another form of politics, you daft woman,” Murdoch snapped. “If you can’t unseat an opponent by taking him on directly, what do you do?”
“Get some dirt on him and deflect the issue?”
“There’s my girl! That is the idea, yes, although our Adversary is too clean. There is no dirt. Those in His employ, however… that is another matter, entirely. Were Stygian, my club, to win the league, my influence here would grow accordingly. All that I need, after all, is for people to welcome me into their hearts.
“Unfortunately, every time we put together a squad with the ability to win, Paradiso somehow manages to thwart us at the, if you’ll pardon the pun, death.”
It was evident that Rebekah was still trying to wrap her battered mind around the concept. Sighing, he nodded to the screen.
Footage labeled ‘Celestial League Final, Stygian v Paradiso’ was playing on a network apparently called Sky H. Rebekah thought that her boss, now that she knew him truly, might have been less repetitive in naming his networks. Shouldn’t the Prince of Lies have a bit more imagination?
Murdoch’s eyes narrowed and his skin began to take on a warmer glow again. Hurriedly, she looked away and focused on the screen.
The Paradiso player wearing a laurel, Perseus it had to be, broke in on goal and slotted past the Stygian goalkeeper, a darkly handsome man, Rebekah thought, until he opened his mouth to reveal two rows of gleaming yellow teeth, all sharpened to nasty points. Where had she seen that before?
The ‘keeper and two Stygian defenders, one a hairy, tusked half man/half beast and the other a woman with a frightening visage and a nest of vipers passing for hair, immediately surrounded the match official, who waved off their protests. In the background, an exultant Perseus walked by sucking his thumb while staring directly into the Gorgon’s eyes. That seemed… inconsistent.
“Why doesn’t he turn to stone?” Rebekah asked.
“Ah, you are starting to use that mind of yours, finally.” Murdoch smiled approvingly. “The rules have been augmented to counterbalance the powers of some of the participants. It’s football, after all. The name belies its nature. If players could ride flying horses or turn each other to stone, there would be no sense to the game. Without powers, the ball stays on the carpet, as it were.”
The blank look returned. Murdoch sighed. This was going to take some time.
“Level playing field?” He offered. “Fair for everyone?”
Comprehension dawned on Rebekah’s face for a brief moment, then another question formed.
“Why are they arguing?”
“Because he was only a mile offside, you bloody twit!” Murdoch screamed
The force of his frustrated rage blew Rebekah’s long red curls straight back, but for the briefest moment her own anger was rekindled. Men — males — were apparently the same everywhere. So taken up with a silly game. Chuckling, he held her gaze until she remembered that she could hide nothing here, then he gazed pointedly back to the screen.
“As I mentioned, the rules have been augmented, but all the officials, save the one who watches for use of powers, must always be human spirits. It is part of the balance, although it can be extremely frustrating. I will admit that humans have accomplished many things in their time: Babel, Alexandria, The Great Wall, Las Vegas… How they have managed it all when they can’t see what’s occurring right in front of them on a clear, sunny day is beyond even me, however. Yet, what is more puzzling is how Paradiso seem to get every single call. Their Chairman, the bloody Nazarene, loves to rub my nose in it. Says it is ‘the benefit of leading a good life’.”
Murdoch’s lecture trailed off into a series of frightening invectives. On the screen, the goalkeeper had become so outraged at the official’s blindness that he removed his head and hurled it at the man. That was where she had seen those horrible teeth. Sleepy Hollow’s Headless Horseman! She laughed and clapped her hands, drawing a dark look from Murdoch. Chastened, she returned her attention to the screen. Unphased by the morbid gesture, the official reached into his pocket and produced a red card. The act of presenting it, however, was problematic. The offender was actually in two places at once. That wasn’t covered in the CIFA manual, apparently. So, to account for all eventualities, he presented the card first to the torso standing in front of him and then, turning and genuflecting to offer better visibility, to the snarling head laying on the pitch. As he bent over, the torso gave him a swift kick in the hind quarters for his trouble. Knowing she was on thin ice already, Rebekah choked back her laughter.
Murdoch sighed again and waved at the monitor. It went dark and he turned to face her, ticking off a list of offenses with his long-nailed fingers. “The first act, that of removing his head, went against the special regulations and would likely have cost the Hessian a one game ban. Throwing objects at a match official is a serious offence wherever you go and probably would have earned him another three. Unfortunately, sticking his boot up the fellow’s arse landed him a yearlong ban and that means we need a new ‘keeper.
“As well, my manager, James Moriarty, you may have heard of him –?”
“No,” Rebekah replied. “I don’t believe I have.”
Murdoch shook his head in disgust at the tools with which he had to work. “Most people address him as Professor, luv.”
“Oh, oh! That Moriarty, from Sherlock Holmes, yes I’ve heard of him!”
“So quick-witted, aren’t we?”
Rebekah’s face flushed with embarrassment and her anger resurfaced. Murdoch ignored it, however.
“Moriarty has left, as well. He was very gifted tactically, but has always had a tendency to cut and run, rather than adapt, when his schemes unravel. It seems, then, that Stygian has been left without a coach or a goalkeeper. Well, when life makes you a gift of lemons, make lemonade, I always say.”
Rebekah thought she sensed where this was leading. “You want me to recruit new players for you?” she asked.
“You?” Murdoch burst out into an uncontrollable fit of mirth. “You? Are you serious?”
As he shook with peals of laughter, Rebeka’s face turned from red to purple. She clenched her fist as she fought to hold back a furious rage. Her imagination fed her visions of what a single rash word might bring, however, and she thus managed to keep her thoughts in check.
Finally, Murdoch’s fit of humour subsided sufficiently for him to continue. Looking up, he saw her state and it drew one more snigger out of him.
“Ah, me,” he said, taking a deep breath. “You do bring a smile to my face, dear one. No, I do not expect you to find me players. I am not that desperate, thankfully. I have another job for you, something to which you are well suited, I might add.
“Oh?”
“Yes, my dear. What I need you to do is expose the skeletons in the closets of the Paradiso players.”
End of Chapter One.
Check Back Tomorrow — 13.04.12 — for the Second Chapter of Winning Ugly.
Winning Ugly by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Illustration courtesy of strange bOUnce image imp Gant Powell.
(An earlier version of this story appeared in Man And Ball Digital Magazine, in two parts, shortly after the News Of The World scandal reached its peak. Recently, further investigation has brought the issue back into the news, and, with El Clasico on tap next weekend, we thought it would be the perfect time to republish the story, with a few small changes, and divided into four smaller, more reader-friendly segments.)
