It was a stark and dormy night, marred only by the excessively exuberant erudite lacrosse fans eructating erroneous errors at the erstwhile elderly athletes, elderly and expired.
This was the new/old team, the Zombies on Zoloft, as the advertising went, recently resurrected to breathe new life into a dying sport.
Alec, a mug of guiness in his left hand, took centre court and pitched the lacrosse ball at his teammate, Richard, who shot a mulligan towards the net just as a member of the opposing team ran up to him to body check him. Unfortunately, the poor guy keeled over from the smell of putrefying flesh and rotting bananas, which Richard could never manage to leave at home. Didn’t matter that he was dead – he couldn’t resist a nosh on an overripe banana.
The mascot of the day, John Belushi, twice as smelly as the rest, sporting oversized dried up dung as earrings – he never was one for knowing what was or was not fashionable as far as jewellery was concerned – as he ran onto the field to intercept the ball. He caught it, rolled over, and played dead, which isn’t that difficult when you have no heartbeat and don’t breathe – while clutching the ball to his chest. If he’d been alive and not an aardvark in disguise, his odd behavior would have warranted an encephalogram to see if he’d even had a brain. But as you know, Bob, rotting corpses don’t test well.
The referee attempted to get it away from John, but maggots and beetles crawled over his hand, up his arm, onto his face, and pretty soon, were covering his entire body. The referee screamed as he fell to the ground, attempting to swat bugs off him.
Pretty soon, he was nothing more than bones and the odd bit of cartilage and a job for CSI investigator Gil Grissom.
Jimmy Hoffa, never known for playing fair, grabbed the ball and ran with it. It was slow going with his cement over-sized shoes, but he still managed to make three steps before being intercepted by his teammate, Lizzie Borden, who swung an axe at him for good luck and splitting him in half through the torso. She scooped the ball up in her lacrosse racket and, as an opposing team member approached to intercept her, she hit him over the head and gave him a concussion, then gouged his eyes out for fun, plopping them into her mouth. She ran for the goal, but Alas! And Alack! her left foot, long since rotted, fell off. An awkward stilted step that looked like a hooker missing one ten inch heel and she fell over, head first, into the grass.
The ball rolled away. A living opponent, living despite being practically geriatric himself and wearing jersey number 99, plugging his nose from the fumes that reminded him of thrice-vomited worm-ridden rotting gangrenous green ground beef long since past its sell-by date, attempted to retrieve the ball, only to discover it was an overgrown kidney stone that had freed itself from its previous owner. Number 99 screamed like a little girl and ran in the opposite direction as fast as his girly-girl Phoebe run could take him, off the field, and into the waiting arms of his big, strong lover, The Fireman. He sobbed uncontrollably as he tried wiping the blood off his hands. “Out damn spot, out I say!”
Bela recovered the ball and ran for the goal. Two members of the living team blocked him and he landed on his back. He bared his teeth and growled. They ran for the nearest exit. Bela stood up and headed for the goal again. This time, he was intercepted by the goalie, who tackled him. Bela lost his head, and while fumbling for it on his hands and knees, found a wooden stake. Spectators chanted, “Bela Lugosi’s dead. Undead. Undead. Undead.” Bela picked up the stake and ran after his opponenets.
A white van with padded walls waited at the entrance to the stadium. Four hulking men in white uniforms sporting huge keyrings hanging from their belts helped the living team members into their white jackets as they left the field, one by one, in hysterics.
The scorekeepers called the game as a lone figure, shadowed in the wings, pulled on a lever and lowered the until-now unseen box holding the gods high in the sky to the bloody, body-part infested playing field. The god, with lovely blond hair the color of wheat and eyes as blue as cornflowers, stepped out of the box. His robes, glowing white (possibly from radiation from the Van Allen belt) hung delicately around him, conforming to his beautiful, athletic body. He gazed upon the scene around him and spoke two words. “Game over.”
This is my (late) entry to Flash Fiction Friday 3. I hope you don’t vomit too much.
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