The Pink Horrors 3 - 0 Vitesse Arnheim

The usual cheers and roars from the packed stadium of the Vitesse Arnheim fell abruptly silent as the home team sheepishly crept out onto the pitch.  The Pink Horrors’ players were forced to stare at their hooves, desperately trying to hold back fits of giggles as the minotaur hid its face and swallowed down the last of its mouthful.

It began with a single chuckle from somewhere at the back of the stands, growing into a smattering of guffaws from several small groups of supporters throughout the crowd before swelling infectiously, slowly spreading to all corners of the stadium until it became a howling roar of laughter from fans both elf and beast alike.  The crowd were shrieking hysterically by the time the elf Marko van Ginkel had stormed naked to the scrimmage line to face off against the newly-promoted captain of the Horrors, the Spry Butcher.

‘WHERE IS IT?’ the elf spat through gritted teeth.

‘Where’s what?’  The Butcher fought to keep a straight face.  ‘You missing something?’

‘You know exactly what we are miss–‘ van Ginkel  looked down.  ‘Your legs are glowing!’

‘Aye, sonny.  They do that now.’

‘Where is our kit?’

Behind them, the minotaur belched loudly.  The towering creature made a lunge for the elf but the Butcher raised his arm.

‘Easy, Ermintrude.  Pointy’s lost his trousers, haven’t you, Pointy?’

‘Just give us our kit back!’

Lost in daydreams of violently hitting small furry things with sticks, the orc referee obliviously raised the whistle to its lips.

‘Wait,’ cried the elf, ‘we haven’t got our uniforms.  Or our armour!’

The orc shrugged its swarthy shoulders.

‘You not bring kit,’ it slurred, ‘you play in your pants.’

The orc blew for the start of the match and that was the highlight of the elves’ game.  Without any armour and being forced to protect their dignity with at least one hand at all times, things went downhill pretty quickly...

The Horrors had won the toss and, the Drowned Lover having expertly scooped up the ball, the Pink Juggernaut marched its way down the pitch as any man-goat and warrior with a free fist proceeded to punch the elves into the middle of next season.  The lack of armour was obviously hampering the efforts of Vitesse as one by one they were ejected from the game and piled in a bloody heap by the side of the pitch.

The elves’ apothecary was forced to watch one of their journeymen bleed to death after being gored by Ermintrude Gayhammer – who was on astonishingly violent form, taking out no less than three opponents.  Even when the apothecary did spring into action, the absence of armour on thrower Eloy Room meant that though almost certainly saved from a horrible death, his resilience had been as diminished as his once flawless (and now shredded) face.

While Gayhammer, the Butcher and new goat the Silent Blade tore their way through the poor elves, star scorer the Drowned Lover thought he’d have a crack at getting some more of those touchdown things that seemed to please the crowd so much.  By the middle of the second half, the elves were so outnumbered that both he and the Murdered Maid found that they could score almost at their leisure while the rest of their unscathed team were urinating on the prone bodies of what was left of the elves.

By the final whistle, the surviving elves barely had the strength to breathe a sigh of relief.  In fact, as the departing Horrors set fire to the stadium on their way out, most of Vitesse Arnheim barely had the strength to escape the raging inferno...