Bin To Earth by Matt Woods (best free e reader .txt) đ
- Author: Matt Woods
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FOOTBALL
âOuch! That really hurts!â says the head, as it rolls across the pitch towards the corner flag. It rests looking skywards, around a foot over the touchline. One of its teammates, a short little chap with hideously hairy feet, jogs over to check on his pal. He bends down and lifts the head by grabbing two clumps of its thick jet-black hair. He then places it in front of his face.
âWhat you doing over here?â enquires the hobgoblin.
The head stares straight back at him. It was quite good-looking by all accounts. It had a nicely chiseled jawline, deep-set crystal blue eyes, and a dumpy nose that conveyed a sort of cuteness. Its body, which presently was running in circles around the centre-spot, was chunky, yet muscular, the rewards of many hours of strenuous work outs, be it with or without its head!
The head, unsurprisingly, is a little annoyed.
âBloomin daft so and so has dropped me again hasnât heâ it says, staring straight at the hobgoblin. âOne of them blasted yetisâ then mistook me for the ball and walloped me straight over here. It hurt I can tell you!â
Stich the hobgoblin lowers the head and looks around the pitch. The headâs torso was now zig-zagging around the penalty box, looking more than a little disorientated. Without its head it was all over the place, narrowly missing a collision with a witch and an anxious looking wizard.
Over here!â yells Stich, still grasping onto several clumps of thick hair. The head becomes increasingly exasperated as it dangles perilously close to the hobgoblins âpopping to the toilet bits!â
A few derisory sniggers are heard as several players recognise the body was always bound to struggle hearing without any ears! With no attempt whatsoever to retrieve its head the body continues weaving around the pitch, finally smacking torso first into the oppositionâs goal post.
âBloomin idiot!â says the head, trying to shake itself but inevitably failing to do so.
Realising there was only way to reunite the head with its body, Stich trots across the pitch then places the head back into its rightful position, underneath itâs owners armpit!
The game continues and several voices yell out for the ball. One of the yetisâ gives it a big kick towards the penalty box, sending it sailing over several players heads. It is eventually picked up by the witch at centre-back. And when I say picked up, thatâs exactly what she did!
The witches name was Fizz, and most would have argued that the word unpleasant would have been a far too complimentary way to describe her. A more accurate way would have been to use words such as disrespectful, coarse, rude and hideous. Oh, and not forgetting flirtatious as-well! That was the thing; even though she could be an offensive old crone, she loved nothing more than trying it on with the opposite sex. She was quite simply a man eater, or, dependent on who was the current flavour of the month, a skeleton, wizard or goblin eater!
Currently she was hot on the heels of a creature named Freal. A lot of the locals couldnât work out why sheâd taken a shine for him, primarily because he was a ghost, and, like most apparitions, was transparent; a little tricky if you wanted to take the relationship to the next level! Also the fact that Freal once said he would rather throw himself into a huge pit of molten fire whilst jabbing himself repeatedly with a mega sharp fork than go on a date with Fizz led most to believe she wasnât quite his type!
What made her desire for the opposite sex all the more bizarre was that she really was a hideous looking crone! She couldnât have weighed more than six or seven stone, with a decent proportion of that weight coming from the revolting warts peppered all over her body. She had a gaunt face, a stereotypical pointy nose, a grotesquely scabby chin and a body that had only a little more flesh than her fellow team-mate, Skeleton Bob.
It didnât put her off though. If there was a handsome looking male on the loose, Fizz would always be first on the scene to try and ensnare him.
The ball held firmly in her bony hands, Fizz starts running towards the oppositionâs goal. Several onlookers start to get a little riled at the witchesâ lack of respect for the laws of football, and a few start to jeer. This annoys Fizz, as folk rarely showed her contempt, probably because they feared she would proposition them by inviting them back to hersâ for a coffee and afters! She stops, puts down the ball, bends over then proceeds to wiggle her bottom at a small group of bemused dwarfs whoâd, up until then, been contentedly watching the game.
Not missing the opportunity to seize the ball, the yeti in central midfield stomps across, intecepts the ball, takes two gigantic strides then smashes it into the top corner of the goal.
One-nil to the Yetiâs!
The small yeti fan base watching from behind the goal wave their huge fists in the air and celebrate by grunting an awful lot. Cheering just wasnât the done thing when you were an eleven foot ape like monster!
Progress to todayâs final had been relatively straight forward for the yetiâs. Theyâd cruised through the previous rounds with the minimum of fuss, generally either stomping on their opposition, or, as they did in the quarter finals, picking one or two of them up and throwing them behind the goal. They were a formidable team, and were proving to be tough opposition for todayâs other finalists, The Misfits.
From the re-start Stich the hobgoblin lays the ball to Ross the zombie. Although no-one on the team could profess to being a good footballer, they really didnât come any worse than Ross. He was more a hindrance than a help, mainly because he had a tendency to fall over whenever he tried to run. Anything more than a gentle stride and heâd plummet straight to the ground. On this occassion though Ross foregoes any attempt at a sprint, and just smacks the ball goal-wards. Well, that was the direction he was hoping for, the ball eventually ending up thirty or so feet away from its intended target.
â Sorryâ yells Ross, to anyone whoâd listen. âThat was a real bad shit!â
Ah yes, Ross did have slight problems with his speech! He regularly mispronounced words, much to the amusement at times of those around him. In all fairness to the zombie though he had recently enrolled himself onto a speech development course, which he hoped, as he put it, âwould holp make my speech bitterâ and âlut me to talk jist like the rust of you!â
From the resulting goal kick a yeti and wizard ready themselves to head the approaching ball. Before it reaches them the wizard starts to chant some form of strange mantra. Not taking his eyes of the ball, the blue-cloaked magician is heard spouting a stream of utter gibberish, mingled with one or two words that seemed to make sense. His final utterance as the ball reaches them is something along the lines of haroosha haroosha, carmy kick arse kendal mint cake, gara moona, gara moona, jashwan pass the dutchie on the left hand side, gaboosh, gaboosh.
Whatever the reason for his bizarre mutterings it did little to help his cause as the ball smacks the bearded wizard square in the face. As he reels back in pain the yeti, clearly in a mischievous mood, brings the ball under control, takes a step back, then kicks it right in the wizards not to be talked-abouts. The wizard falls flat on his back!
Keen to bring some control to proceedings, the referee runs over to try and prevent the situation from escalating. Ordinarily this type of incident would have been quickly resolved by a confident and forthright official. Problem was, todayâs referee was Jamba âThe Anxiousâ, a dwarf with a very nervous disposition. A resolution would therefore have to be sought by alternate means!
âSend him off!â says Freal, a ghost adorned in bright pink wellingtons âWe canât have that sort of behaviour going on.â
The referees puzzled look implies he really hasnât the foggiest what to do.
By now most of the players were crowding around the injured wizard. Aside from a few moans and groans he appears to be okay. In fact, he seems more bothered about stopping Fizz from looking up his cloak as he lays spread-eagled on the pitch than anything else! The witch barges several players out of the way so she can get a better look!
âIâm not sure heâs broken the rules.â contributes Skeleton Bob. Bob was a wise old chap, very knowledgeable and a most affable Skeleton. Most who lived on Elzac respected him a great deal. âWhat do you think Jamba?â continues Bob, turning to face the referee.
Well that caught Jamba off guard. âEr..wellâŠumâŠitâs erâŠitâsâŠum, well, itâs probably best you donât ask me really - IâmâŠerâŠer⊠not very good at these sort of thingsâ comes the jittery reply.
One of the yetiâs shakes his head. âWhyâs he the ref?â he grunts, his voice deep and also a little threatening.
âBecause heâs the only one who has received full training and got his referees accreditationâ replies Sue, a Banshee, as ever spruced up in a pretty flowery dress âAnd heâs got a whistle.â
âCould we not just carry on and pretend it didnât happen?â questions a goblin.
By now the wizard was back on his feet with Fizz looked more than a little disappointed. âEasy for you to say mateâ says the wizard, brushing blades of grass off his sparkly blue cloak. âIâd like to see you carry on after a ball has been belted into your delicates at close range.â
âWhy donât we just send him off?â suggests the headless man, his head now nestled comfortably under his arm.
âWhat with?â queries a dwarf.
âWhat do you mean what with?â says the headless man irritatingly âA bloody red card I would think!â
âHave we got any?â asks Skeleton Bob turning to the ref.
âAhhâŠUmâŠErrrâŠWellâŠUmâŠâ replies Jamba.
A few boos from the crowd are heard as several onlookers begin to get exasperated with the referees inability to sort out a minor rumpus. One particularly irate goblin suggests, very audibly so all could hear, that Kallbran Mackintosh, the blind one legged dwarf from Kaisers Dune, was free if Jamba wanted the afternoon off!
Todaysâ crowd wasnât particularly sizeable, with no more than around fifty or so in attendance. Football wasnât particularly popular in Elzac, most preferring to indulge in a spot of Slap The Duck or, when the mood took them, Kick The Goose.
The supporters who had made the effort came in all shapes and sizes though. Giants mingled with dwarves, witches with wizards, goblins with zombies, and so on. Although most had come to support The Misfits, around half a dozen yetiâs had made the effort to attend to give their team encouragement. Crowd segregation wasnât particularly required, as over the years it had become abundantly clear that a dividing piece of rope would never prevent a strong hairy ape from causing a bit of agro if they were hell-bent on doing so!
Eventually order is
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