“The Gargants were playing a charity match over at some stinking suburb. I was made to write a report for the match, who knows why. Hell, I wouldn't read my report if I were me. So I checked out three sacks of gold from the expense account, as I was heading to Ulthuan, that's what I told them. By the time they would find out, I'd be already stoned and doing my job. What were they going to do, fire me?

So I headed north, and arrived to a village two hours later on my way to a blissful drunken state. My grandma had seen better days than the shack I was going to live in, but would I complain? A reporter has to do what he's paid for, and I surely wasn't. Doing, or paid for. All and all, I still checked in, and ordered a steak to go, with three kegs of beer, two bottles of booze, and strawberries - I was craving for strawberries.

My room was covered in green slime and I couldn't stay there. I threw my luggage and steak in, stuffed the booze to my trousers and gulped down as many strawberries as I could. Maybe they would nullify the vicious shrooms that were already getting on me. I'd met the slime and all. I just hoped I wouldn't bump into a snake farm on my way to the stadium, again.

When I finally arrived, I couldn't remember how I was supposed to get in. Or was I? I showed off my press id, and when it didn't work, I came up with a cunning plan. I jumped over the fence and ran into the stadium as fast as I could. I lost my other shoe while I was at it, but I outran the hellhounds they had guarding the premises, exhaling smoke and sulphur when they weren't chasing poor reporters. I sure was lucky.

So I sat down next to a goblin in lederhosen and took a sip of Scorpion's Sting. I felt the effect almost instantly and relaxed. By the looks of it, the Gargants were playing against a team of .. well-endowed amazons with pompoms? The goblin was trying to explain that it was the half-time show, crazy little maggot. He kept rambling on about a norse team and how they were leading 0-1 at the start of the match, but the scoreboard clearly stated 2-1. I did what I had to, and kicked the guy down the stairs. I hope he didn't hurt himself, it was only a 20 feet drop.

Soon the Gargants were back on the field, even though I don't know at which point did they leave it at the first place, and were playing against some norse this time. And I started shaking, as it was 36 hours from my last fix on mescaline. If some one at the stadium could find me some decent mescaline, it was Gargants' apothecary. So I staggered down the stairs, and made sure I didn't step on any of those green hedgehogs with mighty tentacles. They had to be here from some previous match, but I couldn't figure out why the hedgehogs were still here, nor how could I get to the Gargants' dug-out. So I decided to punch the greasy looking peanut clerk in the mouth. I remember it making me feel better. What happened after that is a bit unclear.

At some point of the afternoon, or the next day, I'm not sure, I woke up outside the stadium shivering like mad. I really was down on the dumps, but I've made it, I had been at the match. Three more happy meal pills down the throat and I was crawling back to my inn. I had not the slightest idea what I would write, when the purple haze cleared, and it hit me. I had a story.”