Sobriquet

I just finished watching the DVD sold by the UIL of the West Orange-Stark vs. Sweetwater Class 4A Division II State Championship football game. I watched the entire thing from beginning to end so as to be completely informed before I commented on it. Here is my impression. I concluded that this product is an impressive tribute to the power of money. It’s not just that the DVD is overpriced and that the exorbitant shipping and handling costs kick the price up even higher. I think we who live in this modern world are accustomed to that by now. It’s rather that the abysmal lack of quality in the editing and production does more than merely highlight the old adage that “you get what you pay for.” It forcefully demonstrates that you can save a lot of money by not hiring professionals who know what they’re doing. It’s so much cheaper to turn the job over to amateurs who absolutely pale in comparison to, let’s say the competence of a mom and pop operation that stores e-mail servers in a bathroom closet. So what was wrong? To start at the beginning, the first section opened with an extended view of the football field as seen from high up in the stands from the corner of one of the end zones. No close up shots of fans in the stands, or of preliminary activities on the field, which appeared as nothing more than blue and red smears on the screen. At the top of the screen two sides of the large stadium monitor could be seen. Only it provided any kind of close up action. And during this interval the audio consisted of private conversations by some members of the broadcasting staff, clearly not intended for consumption by the public. We really don’t need to be told that if “I’d have dropped my phone we’d have been screwed.” After several minutes of this drivel the original Fox Sports pregame telecast was presented, although there tended to be intervals of blank screens to edit out commercials. Or sometimes instead of blankness the shot reverted back to the stadium view from high up in the corner of the end zone. This pattern prevailed during the coverage of the actual game which again was simply a copy of the live broadcast. Then came halftime and the amateurish incompetency realty hit its stride. The viewers were treated to that same old view of the football field. We could tell by the blue smear that the WOS band was on the field. We could even see a sliver of individual members in that glimpse of the stadium monitor at the top of the shot. After their performance the Sweetwater band took the field. We could tell by the red smear. That was the video of halftime. For the audio we didn’t hear a single note played by either band. Instead we were again regaled by private conversations, this time from technicians who were struggling to get their, to use their own words, their sh*tty microphones working. Apparently they were finally successful because one of them finished with a cheerful but stupid joke about whether his pants were zipped up. Well, I guess you get the idea. So why would UIL put out a product like this? Oh, why ask? As we all know Money Is King.

It appears the Louisiana runoff election for the remaining Senate race to be decided has been called for Republican candidate J. Kennedy. At present with 68.1 percent of precincts reported Kennedy is leading Democrat F. Campbell 394,821 votes to 221,965 or 64.0 percent of total to 36.0.

Was 38-7 now Wos 45-7

“So what happened?” Sarjaent asked, savoring the moment. “How could you mess up on something as simple as a field goal?” Ghoulman hung his head. “I didn’t think I had to do anything,” he finally confessed. “All that power on offense. All that power on defense. Special teams. All season long I was fighting, fighting hard I tell you, to stop them. It just wore me out. “But a field goal! From that far out. That guy can’t even kick extra points. Who would have thought you’d have to do anything to him. You wouldn’t have thought it. Slink wouldn’t have. It was that hundred and twelve percent thing that got me.” Sarjaent and Slinky Vampy just smiled at each other and then grinned at Ghoulman. “I warned you about biting off more than you can chew,” Sarjaent announced. “You realize you’ll have to go before the host infernal over this.” Ghoulman hung his head again. “And they’ll have something truly fiendish in store for you, I can tell you that.” Ghoulman nodded in dejected submission. After he left the room Sarjaent looked at Slinky Vampy and said, “I told you he’d blow it.” And so the host infernal once again assembled in the grand hall at Thirteen Thirteen Brimstone Drive. Again they filled their goblets in mocking salute. Slinky Vampy raised her goblet high. Sarjaent offered a goblet to Ghoulman. “Take it,” he commanded. Ghoulman took the goblet. “Now hold it up so everyone can see.” Then Sarjaent turned to face the host infernal. “Ghoulman has failed. There remains an empty spot on the Nether Board where he had thought to place his name. I told him we would mark his failure with something truly fiendish.” The host infernal roared in eager anticipation. “And we have,” Sarjaent continued. “As expert as we are we’ve outdone ourselves this time. What we have for Ghoulman here is so utterly fiendish it…it…it just beggars description. “Ghoulman. You failed. You failed miserably. But you did try. Look at your goblet. That’s your reward. That’s your trophy.” And holding up his own goblet. “We all get a trophy. For participation!” The host infernal fell silent in awe. That truly was fiendish beyond fiendish. And so what was the outcome of the Sell Your Soul To Stop West Orange-Stark gambit. West Orange-Stark came away with another title. Sarjaent came away with the satisfaction of putting an upstart protégé in his place. Slinky Vampy came away with the pleasure of holding on to Rookie First Place position. Ghoulman came away with his participation goblet. And Jackie Bextone came away with a sore arm and the nastiest head cold of his life.

As kick off time approached the announcers tried to whip up some enthusiasm for the game. “Of course West Orange-Stark is no stranger to the championship game but this is the first time for Humble Pie High to be in the playoffs. How did they get such an unusual nickname?” “Well, when the school was created a couple of years ago by the merger of two smaller schools the community wasn’t expecting much from them. So they decided to deemphasize athletics by choosing this very unmacho nickname. Who would have thought that just two years later their football team would be in the finals.” “It’s certainly a surprise. In fact it was a surprise all season long the way they kept on winning. And now they’re just one victory away from a state title.” “Now the teams are taking the field. We’re about to get underway with this state championship game between the West Orange-Stark Mustangs and the Humble Pie High Pansies.” “Let’s go! Bring home another trophy!” shouted the fan seated next to Jackie Bextone. There was something familiar about him but Jackie couldn’t quite place it. What mainly occupied his thoughts was how miserable he was. His head ached, his nose was stopped up, his throat was sore and every little irritant triggered a succession of coughs and sneezes. The opening kickoff. West Orange-Stark took the ball and quickly made a first down. The fans shouted their support and the cheerleaders yelled and shook their pom poms. A light curtain of dust floated in the air, unnoticed by everyone else, except Jackie Bextone. “Ah-Choo!” “Gesundheit!” shouted the fan next to him. And to punctuate the point. Ka-Pow! And with that punch came recognition to Jackie Bextone’s dulled senses. “Oh no! Not him! Not again.” To further add to Jackie’s misery West Orange-Stark seemed to be in control of the game. Although the two teams traded punts throughout the First Quarter the Mustangs had better field position and usually made a couple of first downs before having to kick. By contrast the Pansies weren’t able to move the ball. Hopes were high for the Mustang faithful and the shouts, cheers and pom pom dust filled the air. “Ah-Choo!” “Gesundheit!” Ka-Pow! Mid way through the Second Quarter West Orange-Stark finally mounted a sustained drive for a touchdown. The point after attempt failed and the Mustangs took a six to nothing lead to the locker room at halftime. “Ah-Ah-Choo!” “Gesundheit!” Ka-Pow! “Can’t you do something about this guy punching me?” Jackie Bextone appealed to Grifter. “Ix-nay,” Grifter replied cheerfully. “Not in the contract.” In the Third Quarter the Mustangs scored again to take a twelve to nothing lead. The fans went wild. And of course… “Ah-Choo!” “Gesundheit!” Ka-Pow! With only one quarter remaining the victory seemed secure. But then as in so many games before disaster struck. Humble Pie High scored two touchdowns and took a fourteen to twelve lead. Grifter smiled knowingly at Jackie Bextone. “Ah-Choo!” “Gesundheit!” Ka-Pow! On the ensuing possession West Orange-Stark was forced to punt and the Pansies looked to run out the clock. But suddenly Irish Ogre with supreme one hundred and twelve percent effort forced a fumble and with time running out the Mustangs returned the ball to the twenty yard line. In three plays they advanced to the seventeen and with a couple of seconds on the clock they sent in Mister Zero. The rest was history. “He always misses,” Grifter attempted to plant hope in Jackie Bextone. “I know. Ah-Choo!” “Gesundheit!” Ka-Pow! The snap was down. The kick was up. And a deep moan of disappointment came from the Mustang crowd. The ball slowly, weakly fluttered toward the goal post. It had so little lift that they wondered how it even cleared the line of scrimmage. But still it climbed at the most ridiculously shallow angle possible, and the moans of the crowd slowly morphed into faint gasps of incredulous wonder. “It’s going to hit the crossbar,” Grifter was now trying to plant hope in himself. “It’ll bounce off.” The ball closed in on the crossbar and at the point of intersection there wasn’t any daylight to be seen between the two. But then the ball passed on by, its movement undisturbed by any contact. A dead silence engulfed the stadium crowd. Jackie Bexton didn’t even sneeze. The two officials positioned to make the call just stood there, mouths open, eyes staring first at the goal post and then at each other. After a few paralyzed moments their arms slowly came up although their hands hung limply at their wrists. The kick was good. Time had expired. At least the clock had been started when the ball was snapped. But the dumbfounded official in charge of the scoreboard didn’t even think to work his controls and so the score displayed on the board remained fourteen to twelve. Nobody rushed out on the field to celebrate. Nobody in the stands stood or even moved. They were all too stunned. It only remained for Jackie Bextone to rub his sore arm and sneeze. And for Grifter to ponder how it had all gone so wrong. ***

“So what’s the problem,” Sarjaent asked with his best I Told You So smirk. Ghoulman was unnaturally subdued as he answered. “It’s that hundred and twelve percent pride. It’s stronger than I figured.” Slinky Vampy gave a derisive chortle and drew a glare from Ghoulman. “What are you going to do now?” Sarjaent probed. “If you don’t mind my holding your feet to the fire. So to speak,” he added with a grin as Slinky Vampy laughed. “You’re down to the last game. The big one. State championship. All the marbles. And you can’t pull off another rain dance. That big, beautiful stadium’s got a roof on it.” It was true. West Orange-Stark had survived five playoff games. Just barely survived against Grifter’s interference, but survive they did. And now they were back at the big dance. “And then there’s this so called team they’ll be playing. Where did those bums come from? Did you have anything to do with them making it all the way to the finals?” “You know I did,” Ghoulman protested. “It’s in the contract. West Orange-Stark doesn’t just lose. They get humiliated by who wins. “Look. I’ve been holding back these last few weeks. Building up my reserves. I won’t need rain to pull this off. I got it.” But when crunch time came, when all was said and done, he didn’t got it. Grifter and Jackie Bextone sat together in dejected silence. It was over. The game was over. A field goal. A thirty-five yard field goal on the final play of the game had secured the come from behind victory and the championship for West Orange-Stark. Two times in the game Mister Zero had as usual missed the extra point, but then on the final play of the game, on the very last play before he hung up his cleats for good, he had kicked a thirty-five yard field goal. Grifter stared for a moment at the contract and then tore it up and tossed the pieces in the air. Jackie Bextone just rubbed his sore arm and sneezed. Grifter bestowed an irritated glance in his direction and then began to ponder how it had all gone so wrong. ***

“So that’s how you’re going to do it,” Sarjaent noted with a side glance at Slinky Vampy to indicate that in spite of himself he was impressed. “You make West Orange-Stark play in the rain.” “Right,” Ghouman preened. “Everything else being equal they’d still win but it makes things a little closer, and I can work with closer. I can get away with tipping the scales once it gets closer. “So they lose. They can’t win the championship if they lose. Bex gets to sit in the stands and watch them lose. And with all that rain…” Here Ghoulman erupted in bellows of evil laughter. “Will all that rain Bex catches his death and poof…one soul for the Nether Board.” “Clever,” Sarjaent agreed, with another glance at Slinky Vampy. And with a wry grimace on her face she conceded that Ghoulman had certainly bested her. “I’ll probably be Rookie First Place,” Ghoulman pointedly enthused. Up till then Slinky Vampy had held that position. He grinned at her as she snarled back. And so it went. The rains returned every Friday and West Orange-Stark continued to lose to their district opponents. Three games, three losses. One more loss in their final regular season game and they would be eliminated from playoff contention. “Just look at this,” Grifter handed the soggy newspaper to Jackie Bextone. “Great isn’t it?” The paper was folded to show a sports cartoon. The picture depicted a likeness of Irish Ogre sitting on the bench, a disgusted look on his face as the rain came down and his feet rested in puddles of water. “Yeah great,” Jackie Bextone responded without enthusiasm as he watched the wet ink rub off on his fingers. And this prompted him to ask, “How come you never get wet? You sit here next to me every game and it’s like the rain doesn’t even touch you. Like it evaporates first.” Grifter just smiled indulgently. “Welllll, let’s just say I keep the home fires burning. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.” And then the game started. This final game that would finish the season for West Orange-Stark. But by the Third Quarter clearly something was going wrong. The Mustangs had built up a three touchdown lead. “What’s going on?” Jackie Bextone cried. Then softly so only Grifter would hear, “They’re supposed to lose.” “Don’t worry,” Grifter replied. But he was worried himself. He was trying to tweak the game but his efforts were ineffective. He just barely helped the other team score on the last play of the quarter to cut the Mustang lead to eighteen to seven. With five minutes left in the game Grifter seemed to be back in control. An increase in the rain, another fluke touchdown and the score was now eighteen to thirteen. There was something foully comforting in that number. Then with two minutes left another fumble in the downpour and the other team was parked just inside the five yard line. Grifter and Jackie Bextone grinned at each other. But this time a different kind of disaster. Irish Ogre sacked the quarterback for a big lose, and then in spite of all Grifter’s efforts to tweak the ball into the end zone the Mustang defense held to preserve the victory. And with that the other team was instead eliminated and West Orange-Stark squeaked into the playoffs. “Oh well, we’ll get them next time,” Grifter sighed as he dumped some extra rain on Jackie Bextone. ***

“Look at him go,” the Mustang fan shouted, eyes on the wide receiver as West Orange-Stark threw another pass, and in his enthusiasm he once again punched Jackie Bextone’s arm. Ka-Pow! Jackie Bextone grimaced and tried to rub the circulation back into his arm. “Sixty-six points,” he protested. “They’re averaging sixty-six points a game. You call that losing.” “Just keep watching,” Grifter encouraged. “And there he goes again,” the fan shouted with another punch. Ka-Pow! “What speed. What moves. When they snap the ball and he takes off he just leaves them all in his dust. And when he goes up in the air, when he leaps like that and stretches those fingers…you don’t know if he’s going to haul down the pass or the Atlanta to Houston Express. Yuk, yuk, yuk.” Ka-Pow! “Owwww!” Jackie Bextone reacted to yet another punch. Grifter grinned at him. “Just keep watching.” Jackie Bextone gave him a sour look as they left the stadium. “You said they would lose. Six games. I sit through six whole games and what happens? They score, what is it now? Three hundred ninety-six points. The other teams score no points. Nothing. Nada.” Grifter just smiled. “I said you would see them lose the championship. What’s this? Non-district games. They don’t count. Next week they start district. And that’s when I go to work.” “What are you going to do?” Jackie Bextone asked. “Well, I hate to get ahead of myself but since you insist. It’s going to rain. Every Friday, starting now it’s going to rain. Except for the week they have a bye. From now on West Orange-Stark is playing in the rain. Every week.” Although it did rain the next Friday just as Grifter promised at first it didn’t seem to make any difference. West Orange-Stark scored on their first play from scrimmage. Jackie Bextone hunched his shoulders against the wet misery and wished he had remembered to bring a pancho. The Mustangs lined up for a point after attempt. Jackie Bextone drew a quick breath in eager anticipation. Through all these wretched weeks of watching one Mustang victory follow another this had been the one and only sliver of delight. The snap was down, the kick was up and a somewhat pleasurable “Aw” rippled through the crowd. This was followed by a full throated roar as they called out their affectionate nickname for the West Orange-Stark kicker. “Mister Zero!” “Why don’t they use a different kicker?” Jackie Bextone grumbled. “You know what the Coach says,” Grifter replied smoothly. “He’s the best kicker they have.” “He’s never made an extra point in his life,” Jackie Bextone protested. “How could anybody be worse than that?” “Coach says it a matter of inches. At least Mister Zero just barely misses. The other kickers can’t even come close.” West Orange-Stark had jumped out to a six to nothing lead. But then to the astonishment of the crowd their offensive attack stalled. Their running backs slipped and slid on the wet grass and went down untouched by a single defender. Their normally sticky fingered receivers were dropping balls all over the field. Time and again they faced fourth and long and even then their punts hardly cleared the line of scrimmage. And through it all the rain came down in torrents. But still the Mustangs held to their six to nothing lead. With less than a minute to play the victory seemed secured even though they were looking at another fourth down punting situation. And that was when disaster struck. A bad snap and the ball sailed over the punter’s head. He raced back to retrieve the ball and probably could have turned the play into a nice gain, perhaps even a first down. But once again disaster struck. As he picked up the ball his feet skidded out from under him on the sodden turf and down he went with nary a defender within fifteen yards of him. The officials marked the ball about ten inches from the goal line and it was there that the other team took over with three seconds on the clock. Three consecutive offside penalties against West Orange-Stark before the ball was even snapped moved the line of scrimmage ever closer to the goal line. “One more penalty,” Grifter chuckled, “And they’ll have to use a micrometer to measure the distance.” He clapped Jackie Bextone jovially on the back, sending a stream of water gushing out his shirt. The ball was finally snapped. The clock ticked off the final seconds. The players on both sides slipped and slid incoherently. The quarterback tried to hand the ball to a running back but no one was there to take it. Desperately he twisted back toward the goal line and tripped over his own feet. But when he fell he fell forward through a gap that suddenly opened in the line and he came crashing down with the ball just barely in the end zone. A deathly hush descended over the stadium. What followed seemed more like a dream than reality. The extra point attempt. Good. No time on the clock. Game over. Seven to six final score. “See. I told you,” Grifter poked his drenched companion. ***

Slinky Vampy stormed into Sarjaent’s office and slammed the charts on Irish down on his desk. “Yes?” he asked with a feigned mild interest. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my death!” Slinky Vampy practically shouted. “Don’t tell me. You lost out to the cheerleader,” Sarjaent smirked. “No! To a football!" “A football?” “It’s that hundred and twelve percent thing,” Slinky Vampy protested. “Give me the usual sort. The typical, hot blooded male. Give me one hundred percent resistance even. “But one hundred and twelve percent. Those guys aren’t human. A hundred and twelve percent for the football. How do you beat that?” “You say you’ve never been so humiliated. Not even by that singing cowboy?” Slinky Vampy wrinkled her nose in disgust at the memory. “The one who’d rather kiss his horse. Ugh, don’t remind me. Yes, the football was worse than even that.” “Come in,” Sarjaent called out. Ghoulman stepped confidently into the room. He took it all in with one sweeping glance. Sarjaent’s bland expression. Slinky Vampy’s tumultuous rage. The chart papers strewn over the desk. He grinned. “Having a problem, Slink.” Slinky Vampy could only sputter, “Think you can do better?” “Just watch me,” Ghoulman answered, never losing his grin. “All right, you’re on your own,” Sarjaent informed him. “Good,” Ghoulman. “And now I’ve got to meet with Bex.” ***

Irish and Iris. It just seemed natural for them to go together. Football player and Cheerleader. And they were already the obvious candidates for Homecoming King and Queen for the coming season. You might even call them Beauty and the Beast. Even their names matched. This morning they had met at a local fast food place to have breakfast together. It was always a good time when they were together even though other patrons frequently intruded to request Irish’s autograph. And he was happy to oblige, asking first for the name of the requestor so he could personalize the message over his signature. For the rest he simply inserted a motto that was traditional at the school. George, Give 112 % --Irish Ogre “I’ve got to get to work,” Irish said as he finished his pancakes. “This is the last week of camp and we’ve got final proficiency testing coming up.” “I’m glad,” Iris replied. “That camp’s been taking up all your time.” It wasn’t required but oftentimes West Orange-Stark football players would seek out summer jobs. Especially jobs that in their very nature would tend to utilize and hone the particular skills that might be useful to the player at his position on the team. For his summer job Irish Ogre was running a training camp. For prison guards. They both went up to the counter to pay their tab and not surprisingly found it had already been paid for them. That sort of thing happened all the time. Irish gave a general smile and a cheery Thank You in the direction of the other patrons and then they stepped out into the morning sunshine. “Here’s my ride,” Iris announced as Irish pulled out the keys to his car. “Can we meet for lunch?” “Not today,” Irish shook his head. “I’m going to be way too busy at camp. And I’ll probably be late getting off.” “That old camp again,” Iris pouted. “Gotta go. I’ll see you,” Irish promised as he slid into the driver’s seat. Key inserted, key turned and nothing happened except the weakly straining sound of the engine trying to turn over. A sound that faintly resembled the hapless groaning of an opposing running back caught for a loss of yardage in his mighty grasp. “Ah no! Battery’s dead,” Irish grimaced. “Look, I’ve got to get to camp.” And with an appealing look at Iris’ ride, “Can you give me a lift?” “I can’t!” she exclaimed in consternation. “I’m already late myself.” “Need some help?” a silky voice intruded. Irish instantly whipped around. Iris turned more slowly. How they could have missed it neither one knew but suddenly as if out of nowhere a showroom beautiful Corvette Convertible had cruised into sight. The stunningly attractive woman behind the wheel smiled seductively. Irish shook his head as if to clear out the cobwebs and stuttered, “It’s my, uh, my battery and…” “Say no more,” the woman gushed. “Your car won’t start and you’ve got to get somewhere fast. Hop in.” Irish looked an apology at Iris who seemed slightly stunned by what was happening, and then he glanced back at the woman. “You don’t mind. Where I’m going. My camp. It’s way out from here.” “Oh I don’t mind and I’ve got the time,” she smiled. “It’s no trouble at all no matter how far. For you I’ll go all the way.” And then with a That Was Just A Joke beaming side look at Iris she assured the cheerleader, “You know what I mean.” Iris just stared back in open mouthed shock. ***

“I got him,” Ghoulman boasted as soon as Slinky Vampy joined him. “Oh you got him,” she replied mockingly. “What have you got? Nothing. That’s what you got.” “It took some negotiating,” Ghoulman insisted, “But here’s the contract. West Orange-Stark does not win the state championship. They get humiliated by who does and Bex gets to see it happen. And in return one soul signed, sealed and delivered.” “Yeah, right,” Slinky Vampy rolled her eyes. “West Orange-Stark does not win. And just how are you going to pull that off?” Before he could reply she spoke again in a calm, matter of fact tone. “I just posted two more souls on the Nether Board. Brings my total up to seventeen.” “Two more,” Ghoulman congratulated her. “Anything to shout about?” “Nope. They were just a couple of Sell Your Soul For a Nickle Bumpkins.” “Ha. No fun in that and no challenge either,” Ghoulman smirked. “They’re on the board all the same. In my name,” Slinky Vampy retorted. “And they keep adding up. Seventeen, Bucko.” They had reached the door to Sarjaent’s office. “Come in,” his voice thundered before they even knocked. “Close the door,” Sarjaent commanded as the two entered. And then he just looked sourly at Ghoulman. “You wanted to see me,” Ghoulman finally broke the silence with a snarky comment. “Couldn’t wait, could you,” Sarjaent reproved. “Had to take the bit in your mouth and go after your first soul again without the benefit of my advice and guidance. Aren’t you ever going to learn?” “I got the contract. See,” Ghoulman held it out proudly. “You got the contract,” Sarjaent mocked his words. “And what’s that worth if you can’t fulfill your part of the bargain. Start small, Ghoulie. Then work your way up. Grow with experience. Start with the easy stuff. Money, Power,” and with a side glance at Slinky Vampy, “Women.” Slinky Vampy snickered at the suggestion. “You might even try reviving the old Hessian Gold scam,” Sarjaent continued. “That used to be a real winner. The easy stuff, Ghoulie. The easy stuff. Easy to offer. Easy to give. And easy to cheat them out of when they think they’ve got it. But do you take the easy route. Noooo! You have to go for all the marbles. “West Orange-Stark!” Sarjaent shouted. “West Orange-Stark to lose the championship! Don’t you think you’ve bitten off more than you can chew?” “I can do it,” Ghoulman insisted. “I’ve already got a plan.” “Very well, Ghoulie, you want to handle this yourself. You can go. After Ghoulman left the room Sarjaent turned his attention to Slinky Vampy. “He’ll blow it,” he said. “Undoubtedly,” she agreed. “How many souls have you scored?” he asked. “Seventeen.” “You’re off to a foul start,” Sarjaent complimented her. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you. Ghoulman’s a fool for refusing your advice.” “He’s going to need help,” Sarjaent said. “Yes. I figured that was why you called me,” Slinky Vampy replied. Sarjaent pulled some paperwork out of a desk drawer, studied it for a moment and then handed it to her. “I don’t know if this will work out even with you helping. Making a deal for West Orange-Stark to lose. What an idiot! But try pulling your tricks on this Irish kid. Defensive tackle. That team’s strong everywhere, especially on defense but he’s clearly a key player.” Slinky Vampy read over the chart. “Started as a Freshman. All State as a Sophomore. All American as a Junior. Also Defensive Player of the Year and Most Valuable Player in the championship game. Team Captain for the coming season.” She glanced coyly at Sarjaent. “Nice assignment. The usual seduction routine, I assume. Or do you want me to throw in a few extra trimmings.” “Don’t get too confident,” Sarjaent cautioned, entirely unmoved by her sultry looks. “He may be more of a challenge than you think. He’s got a girlfriend. Iris Tripplie. She’s a cheerleader.” “Of course she’s a cheerleader,” Slinky Vampy replied. “I could have guessed that without being told. Oh well, let me go to work on him.” ***

“Hello Bex. Mind if I call you Bex?” Jackie Bextone whipped around at the sudden and completely unexpected intrusion. “Who are you?” he barked at the slightly built man who emerged from the shadows. “Just a friend. The kind of friend who likes to see people get what they want. You can call me, uh, Grifter.” “Well, Goodbye, uh Grifter! Bextone snapped coldly. “Now, now don’t be so abrupt. We’ve got things to talk about. Seriously.” “Like what?” Bextone retorted. “Like football,” Grifter practically oozed the words out of his mouth and he smiled at the startled look Bextone gave him. “Football,” Grifter repeated. “Everyone expects West Orange-Stark to win the championship again. Right?” He gave Bextone the chance to speak but the man just glared at him. “How would you like to see them lose?” “Lose?” Bextone snorted. “That’s impossible.” “Not if certain, ah, arrangements are made.” “Are you saying you can…” “All I’m saying is, Let’s Make a Deal.” ***

There was a different celebration taking place in the grand hall of the main office complex at Thirteen Thirteen Brimstone Drive. “Here’s foul luck to all Ghoulman’s ventures,” Sarjaent shouted. And the assembled host infernal snarled and jeered in congratulation. Young Ghoulman’s blushes went unnoticed on his flame baked cheeks. “Thank you. Thank you all,” he finally responded proudly when the jeering subsided. “I stand here with the same pride I know you all felt when you posted your first soul on the Nether Board. I look forward to posting many more.” The host infernal jeered with even greater vigor. Some even pelted Ghoulman with smoldering embers. “Thank you, thank you,” Ghoulman beamed at the host infernal for these tokens of their regard. In the euphoria of the moment he took no notice of the messenger who came up to Sarjaent tablet in hand even though the wicked grin on the fiend’s face should have given not fair warning, as the word fair had no relevance in these environs, but rather foul warning. Sarjaent chuckled as he read the message. “Hold it! Hold it!” he hollered as he interrupted the celebration. “This whole shebang is hereby called off. It seems Ghoulman here didn’t score his first soul after all.” “What do you mean I didn’t?” Ghoulman protested. “Look at the Nether Board. There it is right there. Who do you think put it there?” “Ah Ghoulie, Ghoulie, Ghoulie, didn’t I teach you to do your homework?” Sarjaent was firm as he silenced Ghoulman. “Yeah, you posted a soul on the board, but look at this record. Here, see for yourself.” And he handed the tablet to his young protégé. As Ghoulman silently read Sarjaent intoned the tally for the benefit of the host infernal. “Over two hundred times he cheated on business deals. More than four dozen times he cheated on his wives. And here’s the time he was married to three women at the same time. Stabbing people in the back when they trusted him, nearly a hundred times. Oh and here’s where he swindled his mother out of the family inheritance and left her destitute and homeless on the street. “And you cut a Sell Your Soul deal with him? Oh Ghoulie, you didn’t score one. You paid for a soul that already belonged to us.” The host infernal laughed and applauded in derision at this stupid error. Ghoulman just stared at Sarjaent in confusion. “I’m your mentor, Ghoulie,” Sarjaent assured him. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Not unless I thought I could get away with it. “Well, you’ve got to start all over. Get this place cleaned up and then come see me.” And then he yelled at no one in particular, “Take Ghoulman’s name off that soul score.” The host infernal roared with laughter. Now instead of throwing congratulatory smoldering embers at Ghoulman they tossed their drink filled goblets crashing to the floor, making a putrid mess, a giant mess, to be cleaned up. Their shouts of derision echoed through the hall as they pushed and shoved their way out the main doorway. When the din of their departure finally died away only Slinky Vampy remained. Even she smirked in a silent taunt as she moseyed up to Ghoulman’s side and ran her fingers teasingly up and down his arm. “You too, Slink?” Ghoulman spat out the words. “Don’t get me wrong, Ghoulie,” Slinky Vampy purred. “I’m your friend. See here’s my goblet. Didn’t throw it. Didn’t spill a drop.” Ghoulman took the proffered goblet and threw it violently to the floor. “Start all over,” he pouted. “Clean up this mess. Come see me. “Well I’ll show him. I’ll show them all.” And with a haughty glare at Slinky Vampy, “And I’ll especially show you.” “Oh Ghoulie cool down.” She laughed when she said it. It was a very old joke but still she laughed when she said it. As if anyone could “cool down” on Brimstone Drive. And she teased him some more with her fingers. “I’ll show you,” Ghoulman repeated. “Oh yes I will.” “How?” Slinky Vampy asked. “What can you do that would impress the whole host infernal?” “Score my first soul? I’ll score a soul. I’ll score a soul that no one will ever forget. I’ll rack up a score that’s so hard that…” Slinky Vampy interrupted him with her laughter. “Of course you will,” she smirked. “Little Ghoulie, right out of the gate. The hardest score we’ve ever seen.” “Laugh now, but I will. Let’s see. What did we just hear? Came from Jackie Bextone. Friends call him Bex. He said, ‘I’d give anything…’” This time Slinky Vampy dug her fingernails painfully into Ghoulman’s arm when she interrupted. “Are you out of your mind!” she screeched. ***

“And now they’re just ticking off the final seconds.” The announcer paused and let his microphone pick up the sounds of the fans chanting. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” The countdown concluded with a tremendous roar from the crowd. “And there it is,” the announcer resumed his commentary. “Once again the Mustangs are the state champions. For the fifth year in a row.” The cameras focused on the celebration. The players and coaches, the cheerleaders, the Fillies drill team, everyone who had access to the football field rushed out to joyously congratulate each other and simply revel in the excitement of winning another championship. Another silver trophy for the crowded display case. Another victory flag to hang from the rafters of the school gymnasium. And in the background the announcer droned on with his endless admiration of the mighty West Orange-Stark football Mustangs. In the stands the band struck up the school song. They played with gusto and it was a familiar tune. Although the words, of course, varied from campus to campus approximately half the high schools in the country had borrowed the same melody for their school song. As the band played there were as always some knowing wits in the audience who sang along not with the official school lyrics but instead with the words. “Far above Cayuga’s waters, With its waves of blue…” Jackie Bextone turned away in disgust. Would it never end? Bad enough to have to endure the Mustang glory during football season. But why now? Why in the midst of summer, in the middle of baseball season did they have to broadcast recaps of last season’s state championship game? Of course the answer was obvious. People in Texas were mad about football. Especially high school football. They couldn’t get enough of it. So between seasons, to prep them for the upcoming season they loved to watch films of championship games. Of championship teams. And no one said championship like West Orange-Stark. Jackie Bextone loved high school football. He simply had no love for West Orange-Stark. As he paid for his meal at the restaurant counter, the restaurant with television monitors in every corner, the one with television monitors that were always tuned to sports programing, he muttered sourly, “What does it take to beat these guys.” And with one final disgusted look at the celebration on the field he stepped out into the hot summer air. “I’d give anything to see them lose,” he muttered again. ***

I just had the same problem but it was a Toyota ad.