Armageddon Bowl
Armageddon Bowl
No one remembers what it was all about, really. The arguments and the arguers are all gone along with the blood and tears. Maybe it was all some kind of a mistake or just too complex for anyone to understand. Who knows, all of the “alpha assholes” that made things happen, died on the battlefields or in their bunkers. Now the rest of us are just waiting for the final curtain, except that none of the ladies eat well enough to qualify for singing that song.
Peaches Brown was a strong-willed African-American from a little town in Georgia. She worked for the last vestige of government in the U.S. She had the official capacity of secretary to George Phallis, the Special Assistant to the President and Director of the White House Office of Faith-Based and Community Initiatives, except that the President and the rest of the government were in the White House when they got blasted into dog food. After that, a lot of people naturally reported to the Director, before they ran out of new things to report. Miss Brown thinks that the Director is a really fine white man who prays a lot in the rubble where the church was. He misses his wife and family. She can understand that. He misses American football, too. That brings us to the part that no one understood.
“Miss Brown, I’ve got it!” Director Phallis exclaimed as he ran into the office.
“Super! I was down to my last tampon. Where did you find some?” Peaches asked.
The Director shook his head violently as he replied, “No, no, I’ve found something more important than tampons.”
Peaches frowned and said, “I guess that feminine hygiene is a little more important to some of us than others. Dude, when I agreed that foraging for things was ‘man stuff’ you agreed to a list of priority items, remember?”
The Director blushed as he recalled the list and then added, “Yes I know, but please, sit down and hear me out.”
Peaches reluctantly took a seat in what was left of a once plush executive chair. The Director strode over to a stained projector screen and proudly spoke as though he were addressing dozens of dignitaries, “Miss Brown, lend me your ears. We’ve come to bury the United States, not to praise her. The good is oft interred with their bones. We all did love our mother land once, not without cause...”
The woman’s eyes lit up and she remarked, “I get it. You found a copy of Shakespeare’s plays?”
“No Peaches, please hear me out.” The Director fell to his knees in front of her and implored her to listen. “The world is waiting for a shoe to drop. I realize that. Somebody has to do something to turn things around. The people need hope. They need to see that simple human beings can work together as a team to overcome incredible adversity in horrible environmental conditions and strive against pain and suffering to persevere and still, against all hope, win through! That is when I got this idea. What we all need is a great world football match!”
Peaches caressed George’s hair compassionately and asked, “The last time that you went into the ruins…
George interrupted, “You mean the church?”
Miss Brown examined his head more closely as she continued, “…whatever, did any of the loose framework maybe fall down and scramble your eggs?”
“No, why do you ask?” George replied and then outlined his plan. “We’ll get with the acting Director of Homeland Security…”
Peaches interjected, “You mean that janitor over in the bunker?”
“Yes, I believe that Jose Rodriguez is his name. He can use the shortwave to broadcast the schedule. Everyone in the world can form teams. We’ll have leagues and conferences, a post season playoff and then…a bowl game where the winner will be presented the George H. Phallis trophy!”
So it was that all over the globe, more and more people huddled together to watch their best men play a children’s game. They sat in the rain under cloudy skies or on snow covered fields. Simple marching bands were organized and young girls danced on the sidelines. Meager meals of road kill were barbequed on the tailgates of crude, burned out pick-ups as almost mythical heroes struggled to prove something utterly intangible. Mysteriously, around the world people found something in common.
The leader of the terror group pondered once again how well his plans had worked. So well that his own family and friends had been destroyed along with the paradise he had foreseen for his countrymen. Then one of his lieutenants brought a message. The Americans and their allies were organizing a series of sporting events. The fire in his eyes rekindled and he summoned a large group of men to his side. He stood before them and exclaimed, “My brothers, we have been given one last chance to destroy the Evil Ones. We will learn this decadent American sport and by the will of our Lord, overcome them!”
“Jorge, I got some more scores.” the Director of Homeland Security reported.
Director Phallis replied, “It’s pronounced George, Director Rodriguez, George.”
Jose nodded and answered, “Si, Jorge. I don’t think that you are going to like this.”
George looked at the latest standings, as Jose explained, “It seems that the European teams are being clobbered by a team that calls themselves “Eat crap and die, Imperialist Yankee Dogs”.
Peaches thought out loud, “They must have really big jerseys.”
“How are they managing to do that?” George pondered.
Jose replied, “Jorge, they allow mutants on their team. They have a four hundred pound Center and a Running Back with four legs! How can you tackle a mother with four legs?”
Peaches stood up and exclaimed, “Then we need to let our mutants play, too. It’s the only right thing to do. Besides, isn’t it guaranteed by our Constitution as brought forth by the founding fathers? Every single citizen, regardless of his race, color, creed or altered genome should be allowed to play football for the United States of America!”
George was overcome by the pride that had developed in his heart for Miss Brown. He fell to his knees and wiped a tear from his eye as he asked, “Peaches, will you marry me?”
Finally the playoffs ended and only two teams remained. The “Eat crap and die, Imperialist Yankee Dogs” were playing the U.S. team, the “Survivors” in the first post apocalypse football bowl. Everyone from around the world had migrated to one spot, the Superdome in New Orleans. All the great cities of the old world had been destroyed, but by some strange quirk of fate, New Orleans had been spared.
Director George Phallis was on hand as his wife, Peaches Brown Phallis, administered the coin toss. Tens of thousands filled the stadium and many thousands more listened to radio in the parking lot outside.
The Americans were favorites, but their despised opponents were absolute fanatics who had selflessly devoted themselves to mastering the sport. The limits of joy and despair were tested as never before when what remained of humanity literally united in one event. Men and women screamed and shouted in untold different languages as their champions struggled to move one misshapen ball down a striped field of fake grass.
The game was scoreless as the Survivors’ defense got an interception. The first half two minute warning sounded and their exhausted Quarterback took to the field. “Broadway Mute” as he was lovingly nicknamed, due to his progressing mutation, had faced disaster before. He rallied his team and the crowd went crazy as he moved ever closer to the goal. On fourth down with seconds remaining, he tossed a Hail Mary pass as the defense buried him. The stadium was ecstatic as his teammate caught the ball on the tips of his fingers, then reeled it in. Dodging one defender after another, he ran the ball into the end zone for the only score.
Then everyone went silent as Mute no longer moved and was taken off the field on a stretcher. Everyone knew that without their star Quarterback, the Survivors would be doomed in the second half. The team was stunned too, and perhaps for that reason, they fumbled the ball and failed to convert the point after.
George and Peaches went into the crowded locker room and the coach gave them the bad news. Due to the exertion of the game, Mute’s throwing arm had altered completely and the weight of the defenders had caused it to rupture. Peaches wept as George went over to Mute’s side.
Mute looked up through three misty eyes as he sobbed, “I’m sorry Mr. Director for letting you all down like this.”
George patted Mute on what was left of his right shoulder and then as he grit his teeth together he said, “Son, it’s only if you quit, that you would be sorry. I know that quitting is not part of your fabric. That’s what we have to show everyone watching and listening. That no matter what befalls us, there is something eternal that is watching over us, that brought us this far and will carry us past this moment into the future.”
Broadway exclaimed, “But Director, my throwing arm is a tentacle!”
“But Director, my throwing arm is a tentacle!” George mockingly repeated. “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that lame excuse, then I’d be a very wealthy man. People all over the parking lot are counting on you to show them just how a winner acts. Remember that the only real difference between a whiner and a winner is an ‘h’ and a second ‘n’.”
The terror leader stopped as his team ran out onto the filed. He turned to his lieutenant and commanded, “In the fourth quarter at the last two minute warning, I want you to explode the bomb. Our suicide attack will take out everyone left alive in this world and we will spend eternity in the arms of virgins!”
The lieutenant frowned and the leader asked, “What is wrong?”
The man looked up with determination and replied, “My brother, can I wait until the game ends? I am sure that we can beat these turkeys!”
The Survivors received the kick off and all the people of the world cheered in amazement as Broadway Mute ran back out onto the field. However, after only two short running plays, Mute was forced into third and long. He took the snap in the shotgun formation, but bobbled the ball with his still untested tentacle. He fumbled and the defense took possession.
Now the ‘Eat crap and die, Imperialist Yankee Dogs’ had a chance and they took it. Masterfully they drove down the field even though the crowd jeered their every accomplishment. Then, on a critical play, their four-legged running back split an ankle just short of the goal line. The sight of him limping on the field and falling to the turf, brought tears to everyone in the stadium. Members of both teams stopped the play and ran to his side. As one they lifted him up and carried him to the sidelines. He fought through the pain, but bravely begged to be put out of his misery. Grown men wept and Mute turned to his opponents, but could share no words of solace that they would understand. Then the referee came over and said something that everyone understood, “It’s first and goal, gentlemen. Let’s go!”
Many had felt that the Dogs were too arrogant, too aggressive, or just wanted to prove something that no one else wanted to hear. However, on that Sunday afternoon, on the moment when their Quarterback snuck the ball into the end zone for the touchdown, everyone in the world was a Dog and they all cheered their hearts out.
The Dogs made their point after conversion, so the Survivors were down by one slim point now. The two teams struggled against each other like two mighty wrestlers. However, the Dogs had lost their starting Running Back and the Survivors’ Quarterback was unable to pass. The defense of both teams took over as one scoreless possession after another ended. Finally, the last two minute warning was called in the fourth quarter.
The terror leader looked to his lieutenant and said, “We are winning. All right, wait until the game ends before you detonate the bomb. Our players deserve their victory.”
The Survivors banged out a running game that drove down the field, but once again fell short and on fourth and long Mute took the final time out. The men huddled around him and he looked into their exhausted faces as he spoke, “Look, I know that I can’t pass, but we still have one single chance to win this. I need the best from every one of you, because we are going for it. The play is Wildcat, on two, break!”
The Dogs were surprised as Mute lined up outside and the Running Back took the snap of the football, but the cheers from the new ‘Dog Pound’ drove them on as they blitzed from all sides. Then the ball shot out past their waving arms like a perfect, spinning bullet. Broadway Mute pulled it in with his left hand and ran down field. As time ran out, the safeties tackled him short of the goal line. However before his knee touched, against all the odds, Mute had a tight hold on the ball with his suckers and his tentacle stretched out and slammed the ball down just past the goal line for the winning score. Everyone in the world cheered at an impossible moment of delight.
The terror leader shrugged and admitted, “So we have lost everything.”
The lieutenant shook his head and replied, “No my brother, not at all. You heard the crowd. They love and respect us.”
The leader looked around at singular faces in the crowd that waved back or gave the thumbs up. Then he said, “But the Americans won. They have beaten us.”
The lieutenant disarmed the detonator and grinned as he said, “There is always next year.”
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Originally Posted by Dayve
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