Preseason Football, Post Apocalypse

The hate is naked and the motorcycles are revving up for the big game. We first get a glimpse at a wide receiver with an uzi on one of those wayfaring machines with the side saddles built into the bike itself. Soon we see a quarterback, a man gnarled and misshapen by the game he loves. This man played football before the fall of the United States of America and kept on even after the merge with motocross and unconventional warfare. We cheer for he is our champion.

It’s really actually quite hard to follow. In fact in the domed venues they have to turn off the lights and use night vision to keep score. Luckily we no longer have a dome here. It was destroyed in the last skirmish with the French/New Mexican alliance. Between them and the Manitoban Empire, I’m not sure we in the Midwest and Yankee Confederacy will survive. How I’ll miss the stars and sevens if it is replaced by a flag consisting of a maple leaf with vampire fangs. I sit back and try to enjoy the game.

The first quarter opens with the traditional lobbing of rocks at the visiting team. No one is injured, despite the fact that I could had sworn I hit a wide receiver dead center. In fact throughout the first quarter, only two people are injured and one of them is a referee and hardly consider a person except by the leanest of standards. Still, we make lip service to wishing them well despite the fact that we wish them pain and death.

The second quarter starts and the quarterback have their customary sword fight. The home team wins by decapitation and the ball is kicked to them by the pneumatic cannon. There are five murders in total in the second quarter and the crowd is as pleased as it has ever been. We always feel better after first blood is spilled, it relieves tension immensely. Halftime rolls around and the parade the dissidents down the arena’s stairs before the execution. They actually learned their choreography really well. We appreciate those who are about to die’s entertainment value but as a mass we are hungry and do not wish to miss the second half of the game.

As always the hork is excellent but the long pork and nachos is what most of the crowd gets. I come back to my seat just in time to see our brand new running back explode by the hands of a rocket propelled grenade. It’s such a tragedy because we traded five good goats to get him. Actually, the powers that be traded the goats, my family was actually rather keen on keeping our only supply of milk. Still, it’s sad because it’s now very unlikely to win the game. The third quarter ends and we’re cheering as an offensive tackle from the visiting team has just tripped a land mine.

The fourth quarter is a real barn burner and I say this as a person who’s witnessed a few in my day. Hell, I can almost hear the horses panicking. The ball switches hands about twenty times. Each side comes close to a touchdown but neither can make it in with both wheels or two feet. Then our quarterback drives the whole of our field and is thrown from his Harley into the goal post, ball in hand. Any other man would be dead but Roethlisberger just holds the ball aloft proving that he still has it. We bless his dense head and begin the celebratory looting.

6-0, it was the highest scoring game in years. I wonder who among us will be drafted for the next game. I hope it’s me, I really don’t want to live anymore.

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