Steady Peddlin’: The Autumn Wind Is An Adder
Things were left on the field that day. Mounds of chipped bones dotting the yardage markers like cairns leading the frightened traveler across hostile Gondwanaland, the unmovable scent of a sweat brought on only by the true terror and resilience found when a man is borne down on by forces greater than himself, the remnants of helmets cleaved in twain like the shells of primeval insectoids, and the pool of blood, spreading slowly out from the fifty yard line like a ceaseless, unknowable thing, its edges and desires becoming obscure with its ochre dissipation, swirling eddies that twisted like Charybdis below the Messina.
The Adders were the victors, all the rest their pitiful subjugates, lumbering away from them on snapped, ragged limbs like a wailing procession of the dead, their slowest being struck down by pummeling fists encased in spiked taconite knuckledusters, leaving puncture wounds like maps across writhing torsos, their heads seized and twisted until rend from their flopping necks like so many turgid crimson fruits. Never was a more deafeningly brutal game of football played, and it brought its participants back to a time where meeting another on the arid wastes meant not palaver with newfound kin but the gritty acquisition of some salted meat, or a small hidebound blade that could be used to mark another terrible notch into your now corrugated belt.
In the stands the spectators were upon each other, drunk as much off of spirits as from the steam heat rising from the undulating viscera that streaked the field before them. Straws were forced into softflesh like the multicolored proboscis of a bloodhungry mosquito, plastic beer bottles torn in teeth and wielded in stuttering dances of pugilistic ruination. Those that survived were never the same, but each was given a t-shirt. It comes in Black, Heather, and White.
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