Spring was coming to Six Feet Mine, corpses were defrosting out of the iced over mud that passes as the Underdogs' pitch, the preserved viscera, entrails and associated gibbets adding a lively splash of colour to the scene. The tranquil cawing of the overfed scavenging birds feasting on the dead is periodically punctuated by the screams of trainee goblins being fired from the salvaged man-mangler catapult positioned on the quarry edge, usually followed by the sort of crunching thud that indicates a sporting career cut short, all in the name of TTM training. One particularly squelshy thud, followed by laughter and jeers from the more experiences green skins manning the catapult, is the result of an unfortunate rookie splattering himself over the gable end of the old tumbled down mine owner’s house that serves as the team’s headquarters.

Inside Gerald barely flinches as several large stones topple through the club house ceiling, having been dislodged by the impact. With him are the two surviving senior skaven of the team – Ba’rat and Xar’anx – planning their next match.

“We need to mark this auspicious occasion with some sort of exhibition game” declared Gerald “it is, after all, our 200th game.”

“BRAINS!” agreed Xar’anx enthusiastically.

“We should do something really BIG – in memory of those who have willingly given their trivial little lives fighting gloriously for me” Gerald starts to solemnly intone the names “Green-goo, once the greatest living Underworld goblin … little Spiriu …”

Lem the rotter-dog mascot of the team whimpers sadly at the mention of his beloved Spiriu, a diminutive runt that the hound treated like a pup.

“Err… I don’ think y’ can say Spiriu died willingly boss” ventures the older of the two Ba’rat heads “I mean you did eat ‘im.”

“An’ we wun’t ‘ave known if it wern’t fer ‘is boot getting’ stuck ‘tween yer teeth” adds the younger.

A momentary look of shame skimmed over the Marquis’s face. “Well I didn’t know I’d eaten him – he was so small, hardly touched the sides, plus it was his fault – he had some breakfast bacon in his pockets, you know how I get when I smell bacon, and it was almost time for the half time snacks. But that is not the point” he rallied “we must celebrate their help in achieving the goal I set you all in the summer, do you remember Ba’rat?”

“’Ow could we forget boss, you in that swimmin’ cozzie, I wanna claw me own eyes out jus’ thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

“Brains” adds Xar’anx nodding agreement, perhaps a little too vigorously as his lower jaw part detaches from his decaying face.

“Ah – but do you recall the nature of the commitment we undertook – to have won or drawn more games than we had lost by the time we reach 200 matches. Something we have achieved wonderfully well. This is truly something we should mark with a particularly memorable event… but what to do?”

“’Ow ‘bout usin’ sum ov tha’ old dynamite stuff to mine the pitch? Should giv’ th’ game a bang” suggests the younger Ba’rat.

“Nah did that for new year – remember ‘ow them stupid orcs got turned into pretty green and red fireworks?” counters the older of the brothers “what about playin’ in one of them tournies for a change?”

“Alas we cannot commit to the extended schedule of matches, you know how stressed the night goblins get if we are away from the caves for more than a day” sighs Gerald, who would secretly like to take the U-dogs into a major tournament but knows in his oversized and distended gut that the team would end up missing matches due to the problems of finding transport willing to carry his rag-tag band of freaks.

“What about…” starts Ba’rat when the door to the senior team room bursts open as T-man and Tooth-pic, two goblins on the team who show an iota of skill, burst through without knocking.

“..rainz!” exclaims Xar’anx in surprise, his mandible still partially disarticulated.

“Boss” shouts the breathless T-man “therz someone commin’ up th’ road, I thinkz iz Mh…. Mh…”

“Iz MOhhh… MOhhh” adds Tooth-pic unhelpfully

“Iz MORG!” finish the overexcited goblins in unison



A few minutes later, after wading through a throng of fan-boy goblins clambering over each other for his autograph, Morg ‘n’ Thorg is sat in pride of place on Gerald’s chaise-lounge sipping tea from the least cracked cup in the house, as Gerald himself bustles around fruitlessly attempting to make the room look presentable. Lem is curled around Morg’s feet, Xar’anx has been dispatched with the team’s apothecary and a sewing kit to attend to his jaw and Ba’rat is herding the goblins back with a large pointy stick usually used for squig wrangling.

“I saw one of your games once on cabalvision, by accident, the magic mirror in my room was stuck on one channel” explains the quietly spoken ogre “you lost, but I was impressed by the way you played; tossing goblins about, eviscerating opponent players, you know, making sure the fans enjoyed themselves. I’ve been following your team off and on ever since. I know that you have a big landmark game coming up and thought I would offer my services to mark the occasion.”

This suggestion stops Gerald in his tracks – he sits down heavily on Ba’rat’s chair, crushing it to kindling. “That would be an honour, truly an honour my dear Morg” he exclaims “tonight I will send out to the Boggart Bottom Bakers for their finest food hamper, we will feast together and tomorrow we will play!”

And so it was that Gerald and the Underdogs stepped out onto the pitch buoyed with the smells of the Halfling Baker’s pie and a stadium resounding to chants of “MORG! MORG! MORG!” and “Ge-rald Ge-rald”. Appropriately they didn’t lose.


Thanks to Kondor and his Archers of Avalon for agreeing to play against the U-dogs with a lot of inducements on my side. We are honoured to be the founding members of their fan-club. Congratulations to the U-dog players who have now not-lost more games than they have ever lost and the push for greatness continues with Gerald aiming for 45% win rate by game 250 and vaguely hoping for 50% by game 300.

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The knocking on the door of the Six Feet Underdogs club house finally got the attention of one of the patrons. A night goblin answered the door. In the doorway stood a gnome with a medical bag.

“I’m here to see yer blitzer Xar’anx.” He said.

The goblin shrugged and pointed to the banquet table. The legendary troll who was also the team owner chatted with an elegant ogre whose mug seemed very familiar. Corbis could not quite put his finger on why he should recognize the ogre and it nagged at him. Still he was here on a job so he set himself to the task.

“You must be Xar’anx.” He said to the blitzer. “The Widow and Orphan Guardians have received a donation on the behalf of the deceased Saren of the Senile Salamanders. Due to your unique talents, you have been awarded a complimentary manicure and pedicure. Please sit here and we will get started.”

“Braaains?” queried the zombie rat.

“Indeed, and they have pitched in a helping of barbecued brains.” replied the gnome settling the rat into a recliner a few meters behind his boss. The seat was out of sight but within earshot of the conversation. “You can pick up the brains in the stand outside the locker room before tomorrow’s game. Now just place your feet and claws in these buckets of acid mix to get a good soak. Yer nails will be the envy of the team when I am done.”

The buckets sizzled and popped as they soaked, but as zombies are braindead Xar’anx felt no pain. Meanwhile Corbis pulled a hand grinder and pink polish from the doctor’s bag and listened to the conversation at the table.

Gerald was already in mid conversation. “I’ve already sent a spiked ball to the referee and hired a halfling chef. What else do you recommend?”

The ogre looked pained as he thought about it. “Make sure you pay that ref well. Hopefully he will ignore a couple of fouls, and don’t forget a couple of kegs of Bloodweiser Ale. Ahh, and don’t forget to give a custard pie to Ba’rat. You never know when it will come in handy.”

After twenty minutes in the acid bath, the rats nails had fallen off of both feet and the left hand. The right hand was tricky. This was the mutated claw Corbis had been sent specifically to deal with. First he started with a hammer and pounded the talons until they broke in half. Then he went to work with the grinder. As smoke billowed from the he worried that someone may notice the smell then remembered the stench of death in the air when he walked in the room initially. Fifteen minutes later, the claws had been ground down to the nubs.”

Looking at his mangled claw, Xar’anx almost sobbed “Brainsssss…”
“Ah don’t worry big fella” said Corbis taking pity on the blitzer. “I’ll fixe em up and they’ll regenerate in about a week.”

With that, Corbis opened the can of pink polish and quickly slapped a coat covering all ten toes then the five fingers of the left hand. Then he took the time to apply a nice coat to the manicured stubs on the right hand.
“There you go.” He said with pride.

The beast looked at his digits and smiled in glee “BRAIIINS!!!”

With the work done he gathered his tools and made for the exit glancing back only to see Xar’anx hold his hands in front of Gerald for inspection. Now sprinting out the door Corbis chuckled as he heard the cursing from Gerald and full throated belly laughs from the visiting ogre.

It was a job well done. But to be on the safe side he would be sure that the concession stand offered free brains to all players before the match tomorrow.

When the players took the field the next day, Corbis figured out who the ogre at the club house had been. The announcer holding the megaphone shouted through the cone.

“Now playing in this historic match for the Six Feet Underdogs, wearing number 90, none other than the great MORRRRG ‘N Thorg.”

Some of the rookie elves looked worried. Kondor was impressed. It was the team captain Revwe who kept her composure and rallied the team.

“He is big.” She said looking at Joelena. “So what. Treat him like any other big menace. Stay away. If he can’t reach you, he can’t hit you. The rat would have been the real problem but I paid Corbis well to take care of that. He will hit you as hard as an ogre, but I doubt he will get through your armor. Honestly, if we can get Ba’rat off the field, we will win this match.”

The game itself went exactly as Revwe had predicted. Morg was frustrated and only threw three blocks the entire match. Yet Xar’anx was easily the most infuriated. Sure he was able to temporarily put a few elves on the sideline for a breather but he was unable to do any damage. After each block he looked at his former claw with mixed emotions frowning at his ineptitude the bouncing in glee at the pretty pink fingers.

Unfortunately, the other half of the prediction was equally true. Despite several shots on Ba’rat, the Archers could not bring him down. His efforts single handedly earned the Underdogs a draw.

With the game in the books, the Archers of Avelon were not happy with the results but it could have been worse. Once Corbis calculated that the Underdogs had spent at least a million gold on the game their frustration turned to pride. If it had not been for that lucky rat, this would have been a glorious upset. In actuality, the draw would be talked about in Avelon until Avelon ceased to exist. This was the day that Morg joined the game and all of the Archers lived to tell about it.

While the Archers celebrated, Kondor made his way to the office outside the Underdog locker room and found Gerald.

“Hello Gerald” greeted Kondor. “Or should I call you Coach Squiglet?” ("Ah uncovered my secret identity" thought the Maquis)

Gerald scowled “I have not been called that in a lifetime or two. What do you want Kondor?”

“Not much. Just a rematch sometime. And I will make sure your star player is not wearing pink to the match.”

Now Gerald smirked. “You’ve got yerself a deal Runt.”

(Thanks to Kondor for this extra instalment!)