The Most Selfish Man in All of Stretford Concluded
A week later, Roger was at the Old Trafford, and apart from Liverpool’s knocking Man U around and Nistelrooy nowhere to be seen, things were approaching fabulous.
The spirit of the sloth paw was seated next to Roger, lackadaisically sucking on a pint. There was no cheering the fellow up, and Roger couldn’t help feel a little bit responsible.
“Look, I don’t know how other lads took to these dooms you hitched them up to, but I’m sorry, you just didn’t press the right buttons with me.”
“The right buttons!” the spirit exclaimed. “I gave you a manor house! A big one!” He had, too. The man at the door had been a barrister, and it seemed that the old man who had been killed by the lightning had bequeathed his property to whoever possessed the sloth paw. Roger had produced the paw and gotten the deed, just that easy.
“I took your wife from you!” The spirit exclaimed. “Your children, too! She’s been awarded the big manor house gets half of your salary in support!”
That was true as well. Once the wife had learned about the manor house, she set about getting herself into it not only without Roger but also with all of their kids and as much of his money as she could manage. She got half, but what the spirit didn’t seem to understand, was that Roger had been giving her all of the money, and then just to keep her quiet. Getting a new house hadn’t lost him the old one, so his life was a bit richer, and a whole lot quieter, with more time to go to the matches, which was why Roger had moved to Stretford in the first place years before he met the wife.
“It’s the irony that does it.” the spirit said. “You get what you always wanted, then lose it along with whatever you had. It drives most men mad.”
But Roger wasn’t listening. A change was being made on the pitch. Then the announcement came, and Roger, along with tens of thousands Manchester United fans, stood and cheered as Ruud van Nistelrooy took to the field.
“Who’s that?” the spirit asked when things had calmed enough for him to be heard.
“Who’s that?” Roger said. “WHO’S THAT?”
There followed a lengthy explanation of Nistelrooy’s career and his many contributions to Man U’s victories, but now the spirit wasn’t listening. He read the fire in Roger’s eyes, saw at last passion in this man that had so far proved so impossible to punish. And although it wasn’t entirely cricket, the spirit of the sloth paw felt justified in doing what he did next.
The play on the pitch was heated, the players moving at top speeds, the ball a blur as it flew from midfield to striker, just ahead of the fullback–
There was a collision. Nistelrooy went down—stayed down. He lay on the pitch, twitching. The Liverpool fullback who had run him down stepped away with an awkward gait--he knew what had just happened. He had been near enough to hear the snap.
The stadium fell so silent that Roger overheard the spirit’s low chuckle. He turned on him in a flash.
“You did this, you bloody fairy!” he accused, his face red with fury, his fingers taking the spirit’s arm in a madman’s grip.
“I never!” the spirit protested, still grinning.
“Put him back!” Roger said, leveling one thick finger in the spirit’s face. “That’s an extra doom you gave me, now give me a wish!”
“Is that really what you want?” the spirit said, pleased to be getting through to the man at last. “It won’t be pleasant.”
“Do it now or I’ll put you back into that paw in a way less easy than what you’re used to!”
“I don’t actually live in the paw.” the spirit said.
Roger slugged him.
The spirit fell back into his seat, holding his bloodied ethereal nose. “Fine then!” he cried. “Have your final wish and your final doom!” He gestured dramatically.
The announcement came over at once: Nistelrooy had recovered and would be returning to play. Fifty thousand Manchester United fans exploded with a fervor that bordered on mania. The game resumed.
The spirit of the sloth’s paw leaned back, a paper napkin pressed to his nose, and waited. It wouldn’t be long now.
Nistelrooy drove the ball. A linebacker rushed him, and against all reason, Nistelrooy abandoned the ball and attacked him. He dug his claw-like fingers into his opponent’s flesh and tore at his throat with slashing teeth. Officials strained to pull Nistelrooy from the struggling linebacker. There was blood--a lot of blood--but the linebacker quickly got back to his feet. He seemed unsteady, but he waved away assistance.
Nistelrooy was penalized and play resumed.
However, the savagery had just begun. On the next play, Nistelrooy and the Liverpool linebacker he had attacked both downed other players, and there was more blood. Again, the offended players returned to their feet, refused assistance with clumsy waves of their bloodstained hands, and played on. The injured players had lost none of their purpose or agility, yet there was an unusual looseness to their limbs, an unnatural deadness to their eyes. They played on with mouths hanging open, blood and drool staining the front of their jerseys.
As the match continued, the violence escalated. The officials tried to regain control—and were themselves attacked. Somehow, play went on—shots were taken, kicks were blocked, the crowd, always enthusiastic, went into a genuine frenzy.
The spirit sank lower into his seat as the men around him shouted, cheered and clapped each other on the shoulders with blows fierce enough to stun hogs. He had been present at genuine battles where the bloodlust had not run so high. Couldn’t these mortals recognize that the horror building on the field would soon grow large enough to engulf them all?
Apparently not. The fans cheered, catcalled, hooted. The sight of the two rival teams actually ripping each other’s throats out had pushed some into a state of transcendent ecstasy. Roger himself was standing on his seat and cheering so ferociously that his voice had become a ragged howl, but he cheered on, flecks of foam about his lips.
The spirit tried to forget about the others and focus on Roger. That was his prey: the one human out of the entire 70,000 madmen who should be looking for supernatural payback from the apparent miracle that had put Nistelrooy back on the field. The spirit had been visiting ironic and often deadly punishment upon mortals long enough to know that Roger’s bliss would soon, inevitably, collapse into dread.
Then the violence escaped the pitch and overflowed into the stands, as the spirit knew it would. The players, officials, coaches and officials, now all infected with the zombie’s curse, abandoned play and scaled the partitions that separated them from the spectators. Once among the fans, they began biting, tearing and infecting the seventy-thousand men, women, and children who filled the stadium. The swelling ranks of undead soon swallowed up the lower seats and began to climb towards Roger’s section in a ghastly wave of frenzy, mutilation, and horror.
As the tide of undeath swarmed over the crowd, killing as it came, the spirit focused on Roger, watching for the moment of terrible irony that must surely come. Roger’s moment of pure misery would be short lived, but the spirit would savor it
That moment never came.
As the rush of hungry dead boiled up the stands with several Manchester United players riding the crest, jerseys smeared with blood, bile, and tatters of flesh, Roger stood with arms outstretched to embrace them, a delirious smile on his face.
Roger cheered even as the dead pulled him under. His last act as a living man was to point excitedly at the scoreboard, where the closing score showed Manchester leading Liverpool, three to two.
The End
The spirit of the sloth paw was seated next to Roger, lackadaisically sucking on a pint. There was no cheering the fellow up, and Roger couldn’t help feel a little bit responsible.
“Look, I don’t know how other lads took to these dooms you hitched them up to, but I’m sorry, you just didn’t press the right buttons with me.”
“The right buttons!” the spirit exclaimed. “I gave you a manor house! A big one!” He had, too. The man at the door had been a barrister, and it seemed that the old man who had been killed by the lightning had bequeathed his property to whoever possessed the sloth paw. Roger had produced the paw and gotten the deed, just that easy.
“I took your wife from you!” The spirit exclaimed. “Your children, too! She’s been awarded the big manor house gets half of your salary in support!”
That was true as well. Once the wife had learned about the manor house, she set about getting herself into it not only without Roger but also with all of their kids and as much of his money as she could manage. She got half, but what the spirit didn’t seem to understand, was that Roger had been giving her all of the money, and then just to keep her quiet. Getting a new house hadn’t lost him the old one, so his life was a bit richer, and a whole lot quieter, with more time to go to the matches, which was why Roger had moved to Stretford in the first place years before he met the wife.
“It’s the irony that does it.” the spirit said. “You get what you always wanted, then lose it along with whatever you had. It drives most men mad.”
But Roger wasn’t listening. A change was being made on the pitch. Then the announcement came, and Roger, along with tens of thousands Manchester United fans, stood and cheered as Ruud van Nistelrooy took to the field.
“Who’s that?” the spirit asked when things had calmed enough for him to be heard.
“Who’s that?” Roger said. “WHO’S THAT?”
There followed a lengthy explanation of Nistelrooy’s career and his many contributions to Man U’s victories, but now the spirit wasn’t listening. He read the fire in Roger’s eyes, saw at last passion in this man that had so far proved so impossible to punish. And although it wasn’t entirely cricket, the spirit of the sloth paw felt justified in doing what he did next.
The play on the pitch was heated, the players moving at top speeds, the ball a blur as it flew from midfield to striker, just ahead of the fullback–
There was a collision. Nistelrooy went down—stayed down. He lay on the pitch, twitching. The Liverpool fullback who had run him down stepped away with an awkward gait--he knew what had just happened. He had been near enough to hear the snap.
The stadium fell so silent that Roger overheard the spirit’s low chuckle. He turned on him in a flash.
“You did this, you bloody fairy!” he accused, his face red with fury, his fingers taking the spirit’s arm in a madman’s grip.
“I never!” the spirit protested, still grinning.
“Put him back!” Roger said, leveling one thick finger in the spirit’s face. “That’s an extra doom you gave me, now give me a wish!”
“Is that really what you want?” the spirit said, pleased to be getting through to the man at last. “It won’t be pleasant.”
“Do it now or I’ll put you back into that paw in a way less easy than what you’re used to!”
“I don’t actually live in the paw.” the spirit said.
Roger slugged him.
The spirit fell back into his seat, holding his bloodied ethereal nose. “Fine then!” he cried. “Have your final wish and your final doom!” He gestured dramatically.
The announcement came over at once: Nistelrooy had recovered and would be returning to play. Fifty thousand Manchester United fans exploded with a fervor that bordered on mania. The game resumed.
The spirit of the sloth’s paw leaned back, a paper napkin pressed to his nose, and waited. It wouldn’t be long now.
Nistelrooy drove the ball. A linebacker rushed him, and against all reason, Nistelrooy abandoned the ball and attacked him. He dug his claw-like fingers into his opponent’s flesh and tore at his throat with slashing teeth. Officials strained to pull Nistelrooy from the struggling linebacker. There was blood--a lot of blood--but the linebacker quickly got back to his feet. He seemed unsteady, but he waved away assistance.
Nistelrooy was penalized and play resumed.
However, the savagery had just begun. On the next play, Nistelrooy and the Liverpool linebacker he had attacked both downed other players, and there was more blood. Again, the offended players returned to their feet, refused assistance with clumsy waves of their bloodstained hands, and played on. The injured players had lost none of their purpose or agility, yet there was an unusual looseness to their limbs, an unnatural deadness to their eyes. They played on with mouths hanging open, blood and drool staining the front of their jerseys.
As the match continued, the violence escalated. The officials tried to regain control—and were themselves attacked. Somehow, play went on—shots were taken, kicks were blocked, the crowd, always enthusiastic, went into a genuine frenzy.
The spirit sank lower into his seat as the men around him shouted, cheered and clapped each other on the shoulders with blows fierce enough to stun hogs. He had been present at genuine battles where the bloodlust had not run so high. Couldn’t these mortals recognize that the horror building on the field would soon grow large enough to engulf them all?
Apparently not. The fans cheered, catcalled, hooted. The sight of the two rival teams actually ripping each other’s throats out had pushed some into a state of transcendent ecstasy. Roger himself was standing on his seat and cheering so ferociously that his voice had become a ragged howl, but he cheered on, flecks of foam about his lips.
The spirit tried to forget about the others and focus on Roger. That was his prey: the one human out of the entire 70,000 madmen who should be looking for supernatural payback from the apparent miracle that had put Nistelrooy back on the field. The spirit had been visiting ironic and often deadly punishment upon mortals long enough to know that Roger’s bliss would soon, inevitably, collapse into dread.
Then the violence escaped the pitch and overflowed into the stands, as the spirit knew it would. The players, officials, coaches and officials, now all infected with the zombie’s curse, abandoned play and scaled the partitions that separated them from the spectators. Once among the fans, they began biting, tearing and infecting the seventy-thousand men, women, and children who filled the stadium. The swelling ranks of undead soon swallowed up the lower seats and began to climb towards Roger’s section in a ghastly wave of frenzy, mutilation, and horror.
As the tide of undeath swarmed over the crowd, killing as it came, the spirit focused on Roger, watching for the moment of terrible irony that must surely come. Roger’s moment of pure misery would be short lived, but the spirit would savor it
That moment never came.
As the rush of hungry dead boiled up the stands with several Manchester United players riding the crest, jerseys smeared with blood, bile, and tatters of flesh, Roger stood with arms outstretched to embrace them, a delirious smile on his face.
Roger cheered even as the dead pulled him under. His last act as a living man was to point excitedly at the scoreboard, where the closing score showed Manchester leading Liverpool, three to two.
The End
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