"His dreadful finishing has cost Kaapstad nearly every game they dropped points in. The chances are there, the crosses are flown in, and he either skies the shot, misses the ball entirely, or loses the header. I mean, did you see him against-"
The pundit's voice came to a halt as the TV flashed static, then went black, as it toppled backward off the stand and shattered. A penalty miss, five clear-cut chances missed, and a 5.6 analysts' rating. The words had rang in Louis' head every day since the game. He was convinced that the league was out to get him. Maybe they had been paying off the referees, or made sure to "juice up" the defenders he was up against, or had his drinks spiked to make him lose focus. He had no idea, and most likely never would, but regardless he had to do something about his sudden drop in form. He eyed the face of Goodrick Whitewood I on his trusty dummy, who had suddenly become a completely different person, merely a shadow of his former wicked self.
Louis scowled as he got up, marching towards the tower of gasoline tubs he had stacked in the corner of the garage. He grabbed one and made his way towards the dummy, locking eyes with his rival. But as he approached what was about to become his pre-match bonfire, he stopped in his tracks. He could hear something, in the distance, almost a symphony. As he listened closely, he noticed the face of Whitewood on the dummy moving, as it began to speak to him.
"Nuh be afraid, dear Louis. Mi deh yah tuh liberate yuh," it said softly. Louis sent a piercing scream echoing through the garage as he immediately tried to unscrew the tub of gasoline, his fingers trembling violently.
"Nuh resist, Louis. It wi onle mek things worse fi yuh. Yuh cyaa hurt mi," it continued. The harder Louis tried to open the tub, the tighter the opening seemed to screw shut. As the symphony got louder, beginning to sound more like a chant, he dropped the tub and ran towards an emergency Pulaski axe fastened onto a wall. He retrieved the tool, crying out loud as he ran back towards the somehow sentient dummy. Tearfully, Louis swung the axe towards its head, but before it could make contact, there was a bright flash of light before his eyes, and his grip on the axe seemed to disappear.
As he blinked and tried to recover from the shock, he was no longer holding the axe and the dummy was gone. Louis' voice croaked as he tried to speak, nothing coming out but a raspy groan. As he spun around, he was met with a gazelle standing completely still, looking back at him. Louis blinked at the creature in disbelief while he rubbed his eyes. As he looked back at it, it began to morph, going pale, its horns continually growing, and three large udders emerging from beneath it. The creature started levitating and developed piercing blue eyes as it emitted a warm orange hue from within. It began to chant its name.
"Ai-Deccan, Ai-Deccan."
Louis simply stared back open-mouthed, bewildered at the sight of the marred flying gazelle. He attempted to speak again but again to no avail. The symphony began to grind to a halt, and Louis felt strangely at peace. A shadowy figure emerged from behind the demon, and began to speak.
"Nuh resist, young Ashworth. Mi wi liberate yuh. Yuh ago bi at peace." Goodrick Whitewood walked alongside as Ai-Deccan as the demon offered a hand out to Louis.
"No..." Whitewood uttered under his breath. Ai-Deccan turned to him slowly, tilting his head in confusion. The Jamaican's eyes suddenly flashed bright red as opposed to the usual glaring white.
"Bun yuh, yuh demon." Blackwood suddenly thrust his palm at Ai-Deccan, sending the demon tumbling across the garage. "Yuh betta get di hell outta here, Ashworth." Louis snapped out of his trance and took off running, with his 18 acceleration coming in handy here. The screeching of Ai-Deccan and some screaming in Jamaican Patois bellowed through the room as Louis slipped out the door.
*
Louis turned to face his rival in the tunnel ahead of the Kaapstad-Seoul game. The wing-back smiled at him, as he leaned in and whispered in his ear,
"Mi wi liberate yuh, Louis," his eyes momentarily flashing white.
The pundit's voice came to a halt as the TV flashed static, then went black, as it toppled backward off the stand and shattered. A penalty miss, five clear-cut chances missed, and a 5.6 analysts' rating. The words had rang in Louis' head every day since the game. He was convinced that the league was out to get him. Maybe they had been paying off the referees, or made sure to "juice up" the defenders he was up against, or had his drinks spiked to make him lose focus. He had no idea, and most likely never would, but regardless he had to do something about his sudden drop in form. He eyed the face of Goodrick Whitewood I on his trusty dummy, who had suddenly become a completely different person, merely a shadow of his former wicked self.
Louis scowled as he got up, marching towards the tower of gasoline tubs he had stacked in the corner of the garage. He grabbed one and made his way towards the dummy, locking eyes with his rival. But as he approached what was about to become his pre-match bonfire, he stopped in his tracks. He could hear something, in the distance, almost a symphony. As he listened closely, he noticed the face of Whitewood on the dummy moving, as it began to speak to him.
"Nuh be afraid, dear Louis. Mi deh yah tuh liberate yuh," it said softly. Louis sent a piercing scream echoing through the garage as he immediately tried to unscrew the tub of gasoline, his fingers trembling violently.
"Nuh resist, Louis. It wi onle mek things worse fi yuh. Yuh cyaa hurt mi," it continued. The harder Louis tried to open the tub, the tighter the opening seemed to screw shut. As the symphony got louder, beginning to sound more like a chant, he dropped the tub and ran towards an emergency Pulaski axe fastened onto a wall. He retrieved the tool, crying out loud as he ran back towards the somehow sentient dummy. Tearfully, Louis swung the axe towards its head, but before it could make contact, there was a bright flash of light before his eyes, and his grip on the axe seemed to disappear.
As he blinked and tried to recover from the shock, he was no longer holding the axe and the dummy was gone. Louis' voice croaked as he tried to speak, nothing coming out but a raspy groan. As he spun around, he was met with a gazelle standing completely still, looking back at him. Louis blinked at the creature in disbelief while he rubbed his eyes. As he looked back at it, it began to morph, going pale, its horns continually growing, and three large udders emerging from beneath it. The creature started levitating and developed piercing blue eyes as it emitted a warm orange hue from within. It began to chant its name.
"Ai-Deccan, Ai-Deccan."
Louis simply stared back open-mouthed, bewildered at the sight of the marred flying gazelle. He attempted to speak again but again to no avail. The symphony began to grind to a halt, and Louis felt strangely at peace. A shadowy figure emerged from behind the demon, and began to speak.
"Nuh resist, young Ashworth. Mi wi liberate yuh. Yuh ago bi at peace." Goodrick Whitewood walked alongside as Ai-Deccan as the demon offered a hand out to Louis.
"No..." Whitewood uttered under his breath. Ai-Deccan turned to him slowly, tilting his head in confusion. The Jamaican's eyes suddenly flashed bright red as opposed to the usual glaring white.
"Bun yuh, yuh demon." Blackwood suddenly thrust his palm at Ai-Deccan, sending the demon tumbling across the garage. "Yuh betta get di hell outta here, Ashworth." Louis snapped out of his trance and took off running, with his 18 acceleration coming in handy here. The screeching of Ai-Deccan and some screaming in Jamaican Patois bellowed through the room as Louis slipped out the door.
*
Louis turned to face his rival in the tunnel ahead of the Kaapstad-Seoul game. The wing-back smiled at him, as he leaned in and whispered in his ear,
"Mi wi liberate yuh, Louis," his eyes momentarily flashing white.
