“The Laureates, as the Dreadheim Poetic Society’s players had taken to calling themselves, lolled about in the locker room, trading wisecracks and reading their latest sonnets to one another. Elise Eorinn was pasting a poster of Lump from L.A.D.S. on her locker door. GiGi was yelling out the door, demanding ice and a thesaurus. From somewhere, loud snores could be heard. Just a normal post-game scene… until Professor Snoopler threw open the door and stomped in.

“What was THAT!? You call that a Blood Bowl game?” he screamed. “You just lost 3-0, what are you even doing?? You should be, I don’t know, doing pushups or something! Penance! You should be self-flagellating! Not laying around like… like Lumps!”

“But coach,” said Elise, slamming her locker closed, “I think we did a great job. Just look at how many blocks we threw! Twice as many as the other team!”

“First of all, 55 is not ‘twice as many’ as 38. But I know you’re a poet, not a mathematician so I’ll let it stand. It does sound better. Anyway, it doesn’t matter how MANY blocks you threw, it’s the quality of those blocks that is important. Even with all those extra blocks you only managed to knock your opponent down the same number of times they did to you. All your extra work was for nil! Not only that, they kept knocking you out and what did you do? A lousy stun at the most!” Spittle spattered on Snoopler’s goatee and sparkled there under the fluorescents.

“Well,” said Vanderbilt Verdandi Vi, poking his head out of the shower, followed by a huge cloud of scented fog that wafted into the locker room, “I’d say that’s more of a glass half empty view. You should praise them for their excellent blocking, not tear us down for our performance.”

“Oh VVV, I’m glad you chimed in. What on KHORNE’S BLASTED HEATH made you recite your free verse to the crowd before the match? You caused a bloody pitch invasion that flattened half our team! I told you that poem was unfinished! Oh, and what is that scent you are using, it’s divine.”

“Old World Blues, I borrowed it from Connor. Figured he wouldn’t mind, since he’s out for a few weeks with that rather smashed hip.” Vi disappeared back into the shower.

“Yo Assistant Coach, why’d you let Connor get all banged up like that anyway? You hired that apothecary and just let him sit on the bench all match. I think he just ate blocks of gouda the whole time, doing nothing, when he could have been saving Connor’s career,” said Kyler.

Snoopler turned a purplish red. “I’ll have you know that these kinds of injuries are very hard to fix. Half the time the patient ends up dead or worse! And I was saving his services in case one of our other players ended up dead or something. With the way you kept falling over I was certain there were far worse fates in store for all of you.”

“Oh, and let’s talk about your performance, Broadstroke. What the HELL was that blocking out there? Triple Skulls? Are you trying to start a band? I need you to put the hurt on the other team, not fall on your face!”

A huge snore broke Snoopler’s concentration and he turned around in a rage. “Was that you, Dead Peter? Where are you? I’ve got things to shout at you!”

Everyone shrugged. They hadn’t been able to find Dead Peter, even though they knew it was inconceivable for him to be hiding, as loud as the snores were. But the echoes in the locker room made it impossible to pinpoint where the snores were coming from.

“I can’t believe that my star catcher… well only catcher but that’s inconsequential… slept through almost the entire match. Four times we tried to wake you up, banging pots and pans and letting Broadstroke read his haikus but nothing. We needed you out there!”

“Well coach, you did make him wear a jersey that’s non-black. You know how much he hates that,” said Elise. “He’s probably sulking. He’ll get over it.”

“Well, jokes on him!” crowed Snoopler. “I hired a NEW catcher for the team! Had to pay him a pretty penny but I’m sure he’ll be worth it. Everyone, say hello to Titus Beaknose. I’ve read some of this verse and it’s… well, it’s definitely poetry.”

A skinny boy with a bright white shock of floppy hair and giant ears that made his head look way too small stepped out from behind the door. “Hey guys.”

“Hey, are you related to Mayor Beaknose?” asked Miriam. “Or do they just name everyone ‘Beaknose’ when they’re born if their nose looks like a beak?” Snickers could be heard from around the room.

Titus shrugged. “Yeah, that’s my dad. He’s totally lame but I guess his nose is pretty beaky, so that’s cool.”

Miriam stared hard, trying to figure out if Titus was joking or not, then, deciding he was, burst out into laughter. “All right, I think you’ll fit in just fine,” she said. “Hopefully you’re good at dodging because that’s basically all we did last match.”
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