In Which I Do Bad Things To Myself

Breaking News

During the A.M. hours a crack team of Polish F.A. investigators unearthed alleged misconduct at the top levels of the Fantasyship Premier.  The Dictatorial Duo, Pole and Prissy, are under intensifying pressure for changing the outcome of Dorning FC’s match three weeks past.  Dorning’s manager—known as the “Ingenious One” throughout the footballing world—first shed light on the scandal during a recent press conference.  Protestors throughout the world responded by filling their respective city centers in what is now being called, the “99% Campaign.”  The Point Reduction Scandal, or Point Gate, is heating up however, as last night Prissy Slutton’s Father was arrested by Polish Authorities on charges of illegal betting.  The arrest has pundits speculating that the Dictatorial Duo point changed key games to bolster the illicit gambling ring of Prissy’s Father.  While authorities continue to look into these horrendous allegations, the Ingenious One is still M.I.A. from Dorning FC’s locker room.  Will he turn up for this week’s game?  Will he return the MLS’ game ball in time for the MLS Playoffs?  Will Prissy’s Father face dire consequences for his misconduct in prison?  Venture down to your local pub this weekend to find out.

Woodburn Burns Fantasyship

It was dark and stormy.  The informant—tall, smelling of beer, and wearing black rimmed glasses—handed the investigator, Inspector General Peters, a manila envelope.  The pair wordlessly parted ways.  The Inspector General drove his ‘46 Cadillac through the pelting rain, contemplating his next step, that is, until he felt the cold-hard edge of steel pushed against his throat.  “Drive,” the man in the back seat barked, “be forward looking.”  The Inspector didn’t question the man (or his strange syntax), only continued winding through the wind-swept streets of Denver. “An envelope you received, no?” the dark figure asked. “Is it you?” “Don’t question, answer only.  Serrated blades are a pleasure, yes?” “It is you.  Where the hell’ve you been?” “You have neither seen me, nor heard me.  Now, answer!” “Yes, yes,” the Inspector choked, “I have the envelope.” “And?” “It indicts Woodburn.” “Knowing this!” “Easy with the blade, huh?” The Cadillac swerved, careening down a dank Colfax. “So, this Woodburn, he is an evil fellow, no?” “He’s been siphoning money from some local college (b!#^!#$s didn’t even know it was coming from their own Director of Financial Aid) to stimulate his gambling ring.  Thing is, he was in so deep, he was dead for sure.  Serbs play for keeps.  Woodburn called in the Duo for help, and Prissy obliged.  They’ve been fixing matches for years,” the Inspector pointed to the envelope, “it’s all in there.” “Your informant?” “Some gangly sh#!bird—a crack addict, six-ways gone.  Goes by the name of Grayhound.” “So, two people know?  You and him?” “Yeah.” The car abruptly jerked to the left, crossed lanes, and slammed into a crackling telephone pole.  “Goodnight my friend,” the man in the backseat said, as he wiped his blade clean.  “Grayhound?  Yes, the Grayhound.  I know this man.”  Opening the door and stepping out into the rain, the man shoved the manila envelope into his black pea coat before stalking off into a dark ally, a silver soccer ball tucked beneath his arm.          

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