The Pasty Grudge


“Blood Bowl. Bah!” spat Chief Gummidge. “What do we care about Blood Bowl. That’s a game only good for them big city dwarfs. I don’t need no stupid ball for an excuse to punch someone.”

The Clown shifted his feet uncomfortably as he searched for the right way to say what he’d come to say. But say it he must if he was to complete the job he’d been sent to this Sigma-forsaken backwater for. Not that he couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the place, but the journey always seemed to take much longer than it should and the locals made him feel somewhat, uncomfortable.

“Well I’m afraid that you’ll have to start caring about Blood Bowl a lot more sir, as it’s at the heart of your particular legal, er, ‘misunderstanding’”.

At this Chief Gummidge lurched to his feet, his large belly tipping over the heavy wooden table and sending half a dozen tankards filled with the local apple ale spilling all over the floor.

“Misunderstanding! There ain’t no misunderstanding from where I’m standing. That greedy Halfling has stolen something what’s ours and he’s got no right!” As the Chief’s words boomed around the inn, a number of the other patrons turned in their chairs, eager to see who was at the receiving end of the Chief’s temper this time.  “This is what we hired you to do Clown”, continued Chief Gummidge. “You were to go down there and tell that fat Fling to stop ruining our good name.”

He was right of course, although his name wasn’t really Clown. That was just a nickname that the locals had given him the first day he’d arrived in town. One look at his fancy city clothes and everyone started asking him if the Kislev Circus was in town again. But he was right about the Halfling. What was supposed to be a simple matter of copyright law had escalated into something a lot more complicated. It had all started two weeks ago, when the Halfling in question had created the Kernowan Pasty Co and started making a fortune selling pasties to hungry patrons at Blood Bowl games across the Old World. Of course, as soon as the Kernowan tribe of Dwarfs had found out all hell had broken loose.

“Him calling those foul hairy pies of his pasties, and Kernowan pasties no less, in an insult. Worse than half the ones in the book of grudges itself” roared the Chief. “And if he don’t stop I’m going to have to take the boys down and stop him ourselves.”

“And that’s exactly what I told him sir,” protested Clown. “But I’m afraid that he just won’t budge. He said that he’ll stop naming them Kernowan pasties the day you go and win the Blood Bowl World Cup”.

At this the fury on the Chief’s face faded as quickly as it had arrived and was replaced by a look of amused curiosity. “Well I was just gonna dangle him out a window till he screamed but this sounds a bit more fun.”

“You can’t be serious”, scoffed the Clown. “The Blood Bowl World Cup has some of the best teams in the Old World.”

“So. How hard can it be? We just have to punch some folks and put the silly ball in the hole?”

“Well there’s not actually a hole…”

“Hey Boyo!” shouted the Chief towards the crowd of dwarfs down the other end of the drinking hall, causing around half a dozen dwarfs to all turn around. “Not you boyos, the Boyo.”

‘Yes Chief” said Boyo as he waddled up, eying Clown suspiciously.

‘Has your cousin Wurzel got that contraption of his fixed yet?”

“I’d say so Chief,” replied Boyo. “He says that its like brand new. He was running over a whole herd of gnoblars with it yesterday.”

“Well tell him that we’ll need the keys.”

“But Chief Gummidge,” objected Clown. “Who’s going to coach you!?”

“You will Clown. And you better make sure that we win!”

Before Clown even had time to argue the Chief had strode out the door, with a gang of dwarfs right behind him, eager always for any kind of fight they could get involved in.

“You’ve got yourself in another right mess this time,” thought Clown, feeling sorry for any blood bowl team that would have to put up with this gang of crazy tin-miners and village idiots for a whole match.

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