With a shower of blood, the Rat-Ogre tore through Becker’s protective Linemen, hurling bodies aside like ragdolls. Its huge and unnatural arms, tipped in gore-soaked claws, reached hungrily for him; swinging, once, twice, as Becker dodged, left, right, the crowd gasping each time, before Becker ducked underneath its huge frame, evading its lashing tail, and sprinted into the open field. He glanced up, and saw amidst the blur of moving bodies that Schürrer was open and hurtling down the sideline. He pushed off his back foot and with all his strength unleashed a perfect spiral pass that fizzed down the field and met Schürrer in stride, seeing him canter untouched into the endzone. As the crowd erupted into celebration, Becker turned to the stands and shrugged nonchalantly, as if to say, ‘That’s just what I do.’
Seated amongst the excited spectators were two Goblins. One, older, with scarred ears and an eyepatch, but otherwise dressed inconspicuously enough; the other, younger, clad in a shocking pink tracksuit, shining with jewel-encrusted rings, and draped in gold and platinum chains.
‘I gotta hand it to ya Shiv, you may only have one eye, but you know how to spot ‘em.’
He patted the older Goblin on the shoulder, stood, and nodded to a hulking, stony-faced Ogre, who unceremoniously cleared a path through the crowd for his master. The two pushed their way through the throng until they had made it into the backrooms of the stadium, as the final whistle screeched faintly in the distance. Minutes later, as the players filed in from the field, Mingo caught the tall, blond-haired Becker by a blood-spattered glove.
‘Hey kid, Mingo Payola, pleasure to meet you, how’d you like to be a superstar?’
‘What?’ he said, without stopping.
‘How’d you like to earn a million Gold Crowns?’
Becker stopped suddenly and turned as if finally registering the bizarre sight before him and the insane words he was hearing.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Mingo Payola, agent to the stars. And you, kid, are the future of Blood Bowl. Now listen, who’s your agent, ‘cos you’re dying out on the vine here, you need an upgrade.’
‘Agent?’
Payola, clapped his hand to his forehead.
‘No agent?! Mork’s maw! You’re being exploited, kid! What do they pay you here?’
Before Becker could answer, a commotion came from the other end of the tunnel as a well-dressed man, red-faced from his exertions, jogged toward them with the unmistakable air of one who is not used to jogging. His eyes were clamped on Payola as he pointed and gasped a command.
‘No, no, no! You get away from him!’
‘Hey we’re just talking here!’
‘Shut it, you little green parasite. This is my stadium and my team and I want you out of here!’
‘Now that’s no way to talk to your player’s soon-to-be-representative.’
‘Don’t be absurd! Becker, what is this?’
The player looked with narrowed eyes at the owner.
‘He says you’re exploiting me, Mr Schattzblacher’
‘Sigmar’s balls, Becker! It’s a Goblin! They’ll say anything for a Gold Crown!’
‘Speaking of which, what are you paying your star player?’
‘That’s none of your business! Now I won’t tell you again, get the hell out of here!’
Payola’s bodyguard cracked his knuckles and stepped forward, but the Goblin reached out an arm to steady him.
‘Ok, calm down, we’re both businessmen.’ He turned to Becker. ‘Listen kid, great job today, why don’t you have a little think about what I said, and if you want what you deserve, come and find me.’
Sure enough, the next day Becker was seated in the luxurious surroundings of Payola’s office, staring wide-eyed at the parade of Blood Bowl legends who adorned the wall of Payola’s clients.
The Goblin leaned back in a chair far too large for him, mouthing an unlit cigar.
‘I’ll tell you straight kid, you’re too big for that place. They are never going to pay you what you deserve and you’re never gonna win a thing. You should be out there fighting for the Majors with a real team. Now with a little magic from yours truly, we’ll find you a club that matches our ambitions.’
‘That’s what I want Mr Payola. You made me realise I need to set my sights higher.’
‘That’s great. Well first things first, we need you to stop playing, immediately. You’re going on strike.’
‘What?!’
‘Hey, if you get injured this deal might never happen. And do you think old Schattzblacher cares what happens to you? You’re just meat to him kid, and he’ll want to wring every drop of blood out of you before you leave!’
‘That’s very smart Mr Payola.’
‘Mingo, kid, Mingo! I’m in your corner now, and I always have my clients’ best interests at heart.’
*****
Barely a week later, with Payola’s conspicuous declaration of interest, and the media attention generated from Becker’s strike, the Blood Bowl hype machine went into overdrive. Where once a few minor teams had been looking at Becker, suddenly the biggest teams in the game started sniffing around, and the reported transfer fee and wages required to secure the bright new star (not to mention Payola’s reported cut) all leapt astronomically. The media fanned the flames, with pundits who had never seen him play loudly proclaiming that they had been watching him for some time and had always tipped him as a future star. After several days of incessant attention, the club made an announcement: they would be willing to listen to offers for the player and would sell to the highest bidder a week hence.
On the appointed day, Becker arrived at a private suite in the finest hotel in Altdorf, where Payola and his team of similarly outlandish Goblins excitedly welcomed the most talked-about man in Blood Bowl.
‘Thomas, come in, come in. Let’s get you a drink. What a day huh? Are you as excited as I am? Here have some champagne.’
Becker took the glass and sat in a chair so deep and luxurious he was not sure he would ever be able to get out if it again.
‘That’s the real stuff you know. Bretonnian vintage! You might as well get used to it, you’ll be swimming in it this time next week!’
In the centre of the table before him sat a large crystal ball tuned to the Cabalvision Network, and Becker saw that the channel was showing a room packed with journalists crowded around an empty desk from which the great announcement would soon be made. Shortly, a solemn-looking Schattzblacher approached the desk and took his seat, a roll of parchment in his hands.
‘Huh, not looking so full of himself now,’ Payola sneered. ‘He should be grateful, we’re making him a multi-millionaire!’
‘Before I announce the winning bid, I would like to take a moment to note the pernicious and poisonous influence of Mingo Payola on this whole affair. I want every member of the Blood Bowl community to know it is he who has driven these distasteful and sad events.’
Payola laughed loudly, ‘These owners! So melodramatic! Hard cheese, pal!’
Schattzblacher continued. ‘It is my regret to announce that the winning bid came from-,’ he paused, sighing, as the Blood Bowl world held its breath.
‘The Champions of Death.’
A hush went around the press room. Journalists looked at each other in horror.
At the same moment, Becker, eyes as wide as saucers, looked across the table at a grinning Payola.
‘Congratulations kid! Hope you enjoyed your drink. Unfortunately, it’s going to be your last.’
Becker looked down at his champagne and suddenly the room started spinning and went black.
The next day, Becker’s pale but otherwise remarkably healthy-looking corpse appeared alongside Tomolandry the Undying at a press conference to officially unveil him as a Champions player. Mingo Payola was conspicuously absent.
Meanwhile, at a small stadium in the city suburbs, an old, one-eyed goblin sat beside a heavily cloaked figure in the sparsely-populated stands.
‘Keeping a low profile?’
‘You wouldn’t believe the overreaction of some people, Shiv. Lawyers, league officials, people who have no idea about honest business. I had to disconnect the crystal ball!’
‘No one does a deal like you, Mingo.’
‘Well I’ll say this much, I never had a client make me more money dead than alive! Anyway, who ya got for me today?’
Shiv pointed across the field to one of the players, and the two began the business of star-making again.
*****
Almost a year later, a small and distinctive figure stood incongruously on the sidelines of the Champions of Death training field, exchanging small talk with one of the Old World’s most notorious Necromancers.
With a wave of one of Tomolandry’s decrepit hands, the players ceased their activity and trudged off the field. The Necromancer motioned to one of their number to move toward them and with a brief nod to his companion, walked with the rest of his players into the locker room leaving the two alone.
‘Thomas, well look at you! What a season! You really proved you belong in the big leagues!’
A year of undeath and Blood Bowl had not been kind to Thomas Becker. His skin was a greenish-grey, with numerous gashes and wounds showing bleached bone beneath; his hair was a patchy and ragged mop; his white-pupilled eyes gazed blankly into the distance.
‘Anyway, I’ve got exciting news for you, one of the big foreign clubs has put in an offer for you, and Tomolandry says he’s going to accept. You ever hear of Khemri? Yeah, well pack your shades kid, it’s going to be sunshine and sand all the way for you!’
As the words slowly penetrated what remained of Becker’s mind, his head turned upward and his pale eyes inclined toward the sun.
‘Ha, that’s the stuff! I’ll forward the details over, you’re gonna love it. Anyway, no need to thank me, never let it be said that Mingo Payloa doesn’t have his clients’ best interests at heart! Catch ya round kid!’
As Payola walked away, Becker stood alone, staring unblinking into the sun.