Til the Fat Rat Sings

“Explain it to me one more time.” said the clump of hair and ears.

There was a silence. A gentle throat clearing.

The clump rotated upwards to reveal it was, after all, a head. A head attached to a neck, and then a set of shoulders, and you probably know the rest. This particular head belonged to an elf, and this particular elf was drunk.

There was another elf in a much more dignified state next to the first.

“Well, we-“

“I mean,” said the first head, swivelling back to again plant itself face-first into the beer-sodden oak of this bloody pub. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure we were winning when the final whistle blew.”

“Not exactly,” explained the second elf. “It was all a bit of a muddle. We were certainly winning when the final whistle almost blew. There was about fifteen seconds left, I think.”

A bleary groan punctuated this.

“It was hard to see in the snow, if I recall, and we were all patting ourselves on the back quite heartily. The ball flew into the snow, then all I saw was a tail, then the referee said it was two-all.”

Another groan, more of a gurgle this time.

“Then, well, there was a coin flip. We’d said ‘crown’ and it came up ‘carp’, so we set ourselves up to kick. Another thirty seconds or so of shuffling about, then another whistle, and we lost.”

The head slurred itself up again. “Bartender, I need another drink,” said the first elf. ‘

A leaflet flutters in on a gust of breeze. On it, in bold, red letters: NAGGAROTH SPANGLIES – 2, RODENTIA AD NAUSEUM – 3’

The story above was written by Twelfman

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