The coach watched incognito from high in the stands, gnawing at a wedge of Skaven Mature and washing the taste out of his mouth with a pint of XXXXXX. He didn’t need a disguise. Nobody, even (or especially) his former colleagues, knew or cared what he looked like and what did he have to lose anyway?

He’d been on his travels, had a taste of the exotic. There had been a stint at the helm of an ill fated Chaos team. He had to flee after five players snuffed it in three weeks and of course the survivors thought the new guy was to blame. He’d helped set up a Dark Elf squad, but was hounded out after (unwarranted) accusations of the use of ‘unapproved performance enhancers’ on the witch elf. A return to the oblivion of thralldom was looking more and more appealing every day.

The oblivion of the game before him now, however, was making him think twice. The Fangs were being utterly humiliated by a coven of elves, chief among them Eldril Sidewinder, as they ran circles around the vampires – Eldril plucking the ball from the sky with unnatural ease even as his laughable attempts to hypnotise the hypnotists repeatedly failed. Even the elven hired wizard was frozen in horror and unable to recite his spells. The coach had heard that the Fangs qualified for the playoffs on a fluke, based on an unlikely result between two teams who had both beaten them earlier in the season, but did they deserve such a shocking undoing? Surely Big Tooth Tony wouldn’t be able to face the pitch again after this.

But clearly the coach ​was severely underestimating Tony’s thrist for revenge. Already engraged that he was forced to sit out the first half, just because of a spot of bloodlust, schemes were forming before the final whistle blew. Skitter Stab-Stab all but forgotten, Tony had a new object of his obsession.