Satire: Revenge is a dish best served.... German?
Aaaaah the holidays, one can’t help but love them…But often they tend to be like Jaeger-bombs, take one too many and you’ll be in trouble… But let us put our worries aside. Now most of you have probably have seen this:
A snapshot of a list of penalties that the players are liable to incur, something Arsene Wenger had snapped up on the soft board of the Arsenal dressing room…
Much hilarity ensued when fans came to notice the designated “Fine Enforcer” (or so says Arsene Wenger) was none other than Arsenal’s real life striker-eviscerating-winger-smashing-midfielder-hating ‘little’ Centre-back Per Mertesacker. It’s not hard imagining him as loan shark, is it? After all the man’s been rather stingy at the Arsenal back line.
With all this floating around in my skull and a night of much intoxicant fueled revelry later I spewed out a little sketch…..
Its lights out at Villa Park, the gates are shut most of the staff are heading out… A solitary office is aglow with the dim light of a single bulb. The golden lettering on plaque adorning the door reads “Lambert”.
“F**king fantastic session wasn’t it, Scotty? Christian [Benteke] actually managed a shot on target and no one keeled over in the showers with a sprained back.” rumbles Lambert, reclined on his chair, his feet on the table with a glass of scotch in his hand.
“Can’t complain Paul, Think we might actually have a shot on Monday.?”
It was neither a statement nor a question; the manager wordlessly stares into the depths of his scotch as though the dregs of the clear amber fluid held the panacea to his woes.
The pregnant silence grates on for a few more seconds as Scott Marshall, the defensive coach attempts a change of subject.
“Where the hell is Ian [Culverhouse]? He was supposed to be in by now.” he mutters uncomfortably.
As if on cue, the door crashes and in stumbles ‘Ian’ clad in a ragged coat with the dazed look of a alcoholic who has just realized that he’d pissed on his own shoes.
“Holy mother of….” exclaims Paul startled out of his chair. The scotch spills. Scott gapes.
“Ian you alright? What the hell happened?”
“He’s coming… He’s bloody COMING” he replies in a frantic whisper.
“Who the fu….?”
“It’s him. Damnit. Him. The collector.”
“Explain yourself, man.” Paul utters gruffly as he hauls his assistant manager up to eye level.
“The German. They say he collects…. He gives nothing. But…but.. He takes….everything”
“Ian, are you ….drunk?” ventures Scott unhelpfully.
“No you fools, listen to me, there’s time to run yet… save ourselves… Get away from him..”
“We owe THIS German nothing. What the hell does he want with us? Even if he does exist….” exclaims Paul.
“Of course he fucking exists, who do think pummelled those Lilly white fools in London??? We stole from him… from them… ” mutters the agitated man glancing nervously at the door.
“The German and his crew. Back in August we stole from them… We were fools, No-one steals from them… Not them… No-one steals from them and makes it out. Why the fuck Paul? Why?? Why the f*** did we go their mansion and try that?”
“They say he collects in cash… No one owes the man… No one wants to… They are all terrified of him. Him and crew, they’re crazy… They slaughtered those Geordy blokes up at Newcastle a few weeks ago like it was nothing…”
Ian gulps and wipes a tear.
“They have a boss, a French bloke. They say he can’t be killed. He’s just keeps rising. Like a damn zombie or something…F****.. They are going to kills us… kill us all… in our own house. They’ll leave us for the world to see… They’ll…..”
Ian collapses into sobs uncontrollably as Paul stands aghast.
Days pass… Many miles away in London, the rain dibbles through downcast skies as folks walked faster, hoping to avoid the chilly zephyrs whistling through Hornsey road.
Deep in the heart of the Grove, behind closed doors and away from prying eyes a few men sit around a table. A mellifluous tone flows out of the piano in the corner of the room, as the tall man caresses the keys with a slow and practiced precision of a man who makes a living with his hands.
The cards hit the table as a Frenchman eagerly pipes up, “Zree twos.”
“Lay off the damn wine Mathieu… You’ve had enough” intones the irate Englishman.
“AHA! Zree eh? I call!!” cries a triumphant voice with a distinctly German slur.
“When the hell will you chaps stop playing this silly card game?!!! It’s time to ruuuuumble!!!!!” howls Rosicky as he sets of on a furious riff on his obnoxiously orange coloured electric guitar.
The piano quietens as Wojciech turns to watch the Czech midfielder finish off with a lick from Iron Maiden’s Wasted Years.
“Gods Tomash!!! Will you stop with bloody infernal guitar?” hollers another irate English voice, one with a peculiar lilt that only comes from living your life in London.
“Maiden bloody rule!!!” agrees Ox from across the room. “Far better than that dross techno rubbish that you lot listen to.”
“So Per, you heard what zey bin calling you on ze…how you say?… streets now?” exclaims an mildly amused Spaniard with half an eye on the cards on the table.
“No?” rumbles the lanky centre-back.
“Guys!!! Guys!! I don’t understand zis game… Lukas…Was ist passiert???! What you doing with cards??!!” bursts a thoroughly flustered Mesut Ozil.
“Forget the cards Mesut. just relax!” says Bacary with his hands up, in an attempt to placate the bewildered German.
“Some player of the year…. The man can’t bluff to save his life” laughs Aaron. “Well.. I guess the game is up” he says tossing his cards on the table and stretching. “I’m going to catch a snooze… We lost a hatchet-man last week so we’ll have to be on our toes.”
“He’ll be fine… he was fine enough to taunts those white clown, was’t he?” sniggers Jack.
“Reckon ‘t might get a little messy” utters Ox.
“We’ll manage just fine. Those c***s won’t know what hit ‘em”
“Jack!!! Must you curse with every sentence??!!” exclaims Rosicky setting down his instrument and shooting an annoyed glance across the room. Wilshere rolls his eyes.
“Vee start ze shooting early and it vil be over quickly… Aha.” Interjects an excited Poldi as he pulls out his mobile and starts snapping thumbs-up selfies.
“We must stick to plan… Per! Sagen Sie ihnen!!! ” chips in Ozil sounding even more worried than before.
“Take them down. They won’t know what killed zem!!!” mutters Flamini as he shadow boxes with imaginary spectres.
“One – Two – three” he huffs, punctuating each number with a violent chopping gesture.
“We follow plan of ze bozz. Eet will go well. He is never wrong.” grins Olivier Giroud from the ground now balancing two glasses of red bull on his perfectly carved pecs.
“Oh it is more zan zat. Zey took from us. We don’t give stuff avay.” Says Santi, his fingers are laced under his nose, his eyes seemed glazed as he recollects a memory from the long past.
The Teutonic giant sits, impassive as a statue carved from alabaster. The crew look to him. He lets the memories wash over him, horrific, infuriating memories of the defeat. He stands up quietly, looming over the others.
“Prepare yourselves. Tomorrow we leave. Laurent you know what to do.”
“Oui” nods Koscienly “Everyzzing iz in place. It will be quick and painless…….. But no one vill forget zis.”
The jovial atmosphere in the room has faded as a determined silence settles on those assembled.
“Heeeeey guys… Guys? Dids I miss anything?” exclaims Nickalas Bendtner as he staggers in smelling of beer, clutching a half eaten slice of pizza in one hand and a stuffed pink bunny in the other.