Football Fiction

FOOTBALL FICTION: A COUPLE LIGHT BULBS AGO

  By

  Stilflat Shadow

  *****

  PUBLISHED BY

  Football fiction: A couple light bulbs ago

  Copyright  2013 by Stilflat Shadow

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to download their own copy.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Please not that UK English spelling and narrative is used throughout.

  FOOTBALL FICTION: A COUPLE LIGHT BULBS AGO

  CHAPTER ONE

  A BULLION LOAD IN GOLD

  On the planet The Ar in the Rust Belt sector of space, they view football the same way as on this planet: To some it is a matter of life and death to others it is just a game. To the owners of Bitominge City, it is a long overdue game well into stoppage time that doesn’t look like it is ending.

  David Bullion and Dee Gold were the owners who thought they had finally sold the club to a gambling man with angina but the deal stalled, and they now had to endure another season at the helm.

  Fortunately for footballing aficionados, the Angina Man was naïve to the game and had paid a quarter of the agreed value and then couldn’t stump up the rest and now they were stuck with an extra cuff link. They loved the exposure of owning the club and the celebrity status that went with it, but not the pressures of making the club a success. They wanted out. Easier said than done much like trying to please the ungrateful fans, something Bullion loathed.

  For the time being, they would have to sit and wait for their pot of gold and let the stalemate play out and resolve itself. Whatever the outcome, it was another nice little earner for the wide boys, whether or not they sold the club.

  David Bullion was rich as rich could be and from nothing too, straight out the ferret racing pipes of Betsy Coeds and now swinging from his Essex mansion chandeliers and having a laugh.

  “Anyone drop a soft hundred watt?” he used to say at his parties. He was a proper Thomas Alva when it came to lightbulbs and was proud of his incandescent show. He sold jellied Frogspawn for a living before it was found to be the cure for all illnesses, and he rode the incredible wave of success.

  He got into commodities, real estate, racing, and anything he thought would give him a quick pound on his pence. One Bullion endeavour happened to be the football club Bitominge City that he picked up for 750,000 quid when he was high as a kite after a weekend lightening rod party with a few of his old mates.

  He loved life, and, most importantly, he loved his money. He often said to himself in the mornings, “David, if I could bathe in money, I would.” He nodded in the mirror, returning a big, accommodating smile before setting off into another day’s adventure. He could charm the eggs from a robin’s nest on his good days and had enjoyed his flirt with fame via the football club, but he was now bored and wanted out. He yearned to chase his true love, the sport of Kings, snail racing.

  His public was demanding too much after sixteen years’ tenure. They wanted success and entertainment too? Wasn’t he giving them that already? He might dress like a communist party member on match days, but he wasn’t going to be spending his millions like a mad Russian or an oiled Arab, was he? He knew how hard it was to hold on to money and frittering it away on a whim willy-nilly, wasn’t arcing his carbon filament any time soon.

  It was a yo-yo club, as in, “Oye yo. I’ve got the money yo don’t.” At best it was an up and down club that, if managed correctly, turned a nice little profit with exposure. What was the problem? It wasn’t like they had won anything.

  Besides, it was a public company, and he and his partner Dee Gold were the main shareholders together so it didn’t matter a bugger what anyone else thought. Unless they stomped up the cash, all these dissenters could find another lost cause.

  When David Bullion walked into Bitominge City sixteen years ago, they had gone from the jaws of administration to a financially solid club that had great potential in the right person’s hands. He was not that person nor did he want to be. The way he looked at it, he had restored an old listing barge with a corroded bilge pump into a sea worthy socialite that just needed to find her ocean-going frog.

  “Oh well, kiss another frog.” He smiled at himself in the mirror.

  “Not for nothing, but I made that leap happen, we hammer a good Blackbun side 4-1 on the last day of the season and get relegated by one point and they turn on me, my family, and my friends like a pack of rabid dogs? What do they want? Let’s not get carried away lads! These people should be sectioned under the mental health act. It’s only a game for Christ’s sake. Ask Gazza? The way they acted that day I won’t put up with that,” he remembered saying, as he straightened his tie and gave himself a wink. “C’mon Dave, let’s go ante up the day’s pot.”

  It was raining as he pulled out of his driveway. Bullion liked the rain, as it provided a slick surface down the track—and that meant snail racing.

  He smiled smugly. “I wonder if I can coax Ingot into a night out. He can pick me up early from the club and have an evening racing with me,” he thought. “Time and a half and a couple of quid to gamble with down at the track sounds like a great night to me.”

  Ingot was his longtime Swedish chauffeur and confidant. Any major decisions Bullion made, he did so only after consulting with Ingot. He was yin to Bullion’s yang, AC to his DC. David Bullion sought his advice on everything he did.

  “Where is he when I need him?” said Bullion, driving to the beastly stadium he hated. He checked the racing venues for tonight.

  “Which snail do I fancy tonight? There’s a sweet filly racing at Arugula Downs in the 7:30 p.m. Monster Munch classic, Let’s Congo.” He wanted to see her last month on the Essex track when she won by a country mile but was tied up with work. Seeing her glide tonight would be awesome, especially with the weather. Tonight’s forecast was perfect for the track. He checked the trap. Trap two his favorite, if he organized his day he could be there for starter’s orders. He pulled out his cell phone and called his chauffeur.

  “Ingot? Hello, Ingot, can you hear me?” he commanded down the phone.

  There was a short silence. “Hello David?” boomed the response back.

  Bullion pulled his ear away from the phone. He thought it sounded like his partner Dee Gold. He didn’t want to be speaking to him now if he was planning on going racing did he? He waited to see if the voice would speak again to confirm his worst fears, a silence was held until he closed his cell and punched in the numbers again.

  “Hello Ingot?” he asked again getting through.

  “David, it’s me, Dee. We need to hold an emergency board meeting. We need to make some major decisions by the end of today. Okay?”

  “What? How did I get you?” asked Bullion down the phone.

  “You called me,” answered Gold.

  “But…”

  Dee’s deep voice boomed back, “But what, David?”

  “But I didn’t call you!”

  “But you got me.”

  “But how?”

  “It’s our chemistry David, like rum and coke and curry and goat. We’re meant to be, David.”

  Dee Gold was born in Jamaica but was raised in the East End of London, the son of a chimney sweep and seamstress. He had three brothers, Alf, Balf, and Calf. Alf followed Dee into the family busine
ss and onto incredible wealth, but Balf and Calf—twins—were twenty years younger from a second marriage so towing the family line wasn’t their prime rib. They were born premature, Balf ten minutes before Calf, but that’s where the similarities ended. Calf was born with a birth defect—he had four stomachs.

  The twins’ way of trying to get rich quick was to smuggle large quantities of cocaine back into dear old Blighty in Calf’s stomachs and they were now serving time in a U.S. penitentiary for their cud-chewing scheme.

  Balf looked and acted like a black Charles Bronson on steroids in Death Wish 3, and Calf was a dead ringer for a muscle bound hyena on an Atkins South Beach diet, only too willing to assist in any protein kill. They were the enforcers of the Gold family and Calf could smell fear like a bad dump. Their idea of fun was resolving a minor dispute with 24-carat violence.

  Dealing in bulk and not brains cost them dearly in the wrong way, but they had now turned Stark Florida into their own Stepney Landen and were the charges of the death row prison. They were due out on June 28 and were looking forward to a big family celebration. Dee didn’t want to think about that right now and remembered his first commandment, “You shall have no other Gold before me”—besides he had another crisis to manage.

  “David what we gonna do with the Finn? His contract is up, and he wants another five grand to sign back on. Surely he wasn’t serious? What do you think?” he asked Bullion.

  Bullion sighed and closed the racing paper and concentrated on the road. “Do we have to do this today? I know how long these emergency meetings go on. We’ll be stuck at the stadium all night hammering out our differences like we always do.”

  “No we won’t,” answered Gold.

  “Look, there is some serious racing going on this evening. How long will this take? Can’t it wait, Dee?”

  “No, David, it cannot. Besides, what’s the rush? It’s only snail racing,” he answered, rattling his gold chains around his neck. His bling was his thing, and he shook them again.

  “Very funny,” said Bullion.

  “David, the new season is upon us. We have to talk and make some decisions quickly,” he ordered, pulling on his beard.

  Bullion thought it made sense but not today. Dee looked at his reflection in the glass window of his office and asked again for confirmation. “David, you need to answer.” He likened himself to a black Charlton Heston, NRA style.

  Bullion finally answered. “You owe me an evening’s racing, and I get to choose.”

  “You can have your gastropod mollusk outing as soon as we nail down the plans for next season.”

  Bullion closed the phone in on itself. “How did I get into this situation again?” he asked aloud as he drove to his miserable obligation.

  Bullion’s first entrance to the club was like a haloed savior—a thousand supporters had turned up to greet him. Today, when he pulled into the parking lot, only a flock of seagulls bothered to acknowledge him. One squawked at him while the others eyed him suspiciously. “And you.” He motioned back, shaking his fist at the last bird. The action caused him to go weak at the knee. “Now fuck off!” he yelled at it.

  Bullion looked around sheepishly to see if anyone saw him. He regained his composure and imagined how George Best would have recovered from a scything tackle like that. “Don’t be silly, George wouldn’t have let them get that close,” he said, nimbly skipping over the wet puddle at his feet. If there was one redeeming quality of David Bullion, it was his belief that he could do anything in life he turned his mind to, including play football—especially on the money they made these days. The thousand or so fans that turned up that fateful Monday had hung their hopes on him and his buddy Gold taking them out of the football wilderness and installing Bitominge City into the hierarchy of the football food chain. It hadn’t worked out the way they had imagined.

  Bullion bustled into his office and dropped his wet infantry coat over a chair. He liked Gold as a person and friend, but they were totally opposite when it came to things they liked to do. Their paths crossed growing up through business and eventually they agreed to enter a venture together after a full-on East End weekend block party. Bullion had done things that he couldn’t remember down at his manor and was now the owner of an insolvent football club for his trouble. That was sixteen years ago, and he was still here.

  Troy Ounzt walked into his boss’s office with his Welsh breakfast tea. “Morning David. How was the drive?”

  “Miserable.”

  Bullion liked a leek in his tea first thing in the morning. He said it gave the day a kick-start. A tender border leek shot out of his mug like an Arsenal star-bust formation this morning. He took a sip and crunched down on the vegetable.

  “Damn that’s good. You know, in ancient times of battle, King Cadwaladr of Gynwedd ordered his troops to wear this very root on their heads to identify themselves against the Saxons. Even Shakespeare, our noble bard, wrote about King Henry’s allegiance when he tells Fluellen by wearing one ‘I am Welsh, I am good countryman,’” he said, parading around his office with the leek above his head.

  Troy smiled with Bullion knowing he had passed the acid test. “Nothing like an Allium porrum on a cold, wet morning to get the blood flowing.”

  Bullion nodded and moved swiftly on to the day’s agenda. “Did Mr. Gold say anything about the Finn?”

  “Yes. He said he was finished,” answered Ounzt.

  “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

  Troy smiled again and encouraged his ego further as Bullion continued. “He’s not finished until I say he’s finished. I control this club and all that’s in it. He’s still part of this club until I say otherwise. Get me his agent Willie McClay.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Ounzt.

  The door swung open and clattered against the back wall. It was Gold. He stood there and announced himself. “David, Troy, shall we continue and get this baby done?”

  “My, you’re in a rush this morning,” Bullion admired.

  “No. Just keen to get started, we have a lot to discuss, and time is money, as they say.”

  “I need to get my notepad for the minutes,” said Ounzt.

  “What’s to get done?” asked Bullion. “We have a year’s option.”

  “David we have a lot more to address than just the Finn. We were relegated. We have to cut our cloth accordingly. We can’t afford him on the numbers the club will generate now. It’s not like we haven’t been here before,” answered Gold, rubbing his chains.

  Bullion sopped his tea up with his King Richard leek and chomped on the tip.

  “Do you have to smack your chops like that when you’re eating?”

  Bullion ignored Gold and sopped some more. He looked out over the Quattro Fianco Stadium, remembering happier times.

  Troy came back with his pad and pen. “I hereby call a meeting of board members on this day, Tuesday, June 3rd, 2008. All present, please state your name.”

  Gold nodded to him. “Dee Gold.”

  They waited for Bullion.

  His noisy eating slowly ceased, acknowledging them. “David Bullion.”

  “Troy Ounzt. In the event of an impasse, as secretary, I, Troy Ounzt, will have the deciding vote.”

  There was silence until Gold and Bullion burst out laughing.

  Ounzt continued. “Please note two absent board members, Alf Gold and Carstolen Young. Also absent is the manager of Bitominge City, Alsex MyQuiche.”

  Bullion slurped his tea. “Where is MyQuiche anyway? And where’s Alf? He’s never bloody here lately. What’s wrong with him today?”

  Gold stared at Bullion. “He’s got a cold from the weekend, and MyQuiche is where he’s supposed to be—at the bloody training ground.”

  “Alf’s always got a cold. Every time he goes off on a tractor pull weekend and sniffs diesel, he ends up with a head cold for the week,” Bullion bristled.

  “Excuse me. I want that stricken from the record: Alf is not a sniffer.”

  “C’mo
n! We all know he sucks hard on the deezel,” said Bullion emphasising the octane.

  “You are obsessed with diesel and super glue, David. Contrary to what you think, not everyone thinks about diesel and super glue all the time.”

  Bullion put a crisp bag over his nose and imitated huffing.

  “Cut it out or I’ll...” Gold caught himself and stopped. He motioned angrily to Ounzt to stop scribbling and continue.

  Ounzt coughed to clear his throat.

  “The reason for this agenda is the issue of whether to renew and increase the Pending Property Sign’s contract and other matters.”

  Gold threw the season ticket sale spreadsheet over the table to Bullion.

  “Look, David, and see.”

  Bullion picked the paper up and swallowed. “Where have they all gone?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gold, pouring himself a gin and juice from the drinks cabinet.

  “Okay,” said Bullion. “When we went up in 2003, we had 220,000 season ticket holders,” he gulped.

  “And now?” Gold questioned.

  “But how.” asked Bullion.

  “Maybe bad management. Who knows?” answered Gold.

  Bullion stared at Troy. “I thought we got rid of that last year?”

  “David! I meant bad management on our behalf not our last manager. That’s not fair and you know it. We had good times and bad times. I didn’t hear you complaining when we got the three million for him. I seem to remember you being in seventh heaven thinking what a coup we’d pulled off. This is a new time, David. With a new manager and a new beginning, you have to be patient.”

  “Patience… my ass,” said Bullion. “All these managers and players ever do is ask for more money, and most offer little in return. It’s a bloody standing joke.”

  “Come now, David. That’s unjust. MyQuiche has been proactive with all our policies and the Pending Property Sign was great the first year. It’s just a shame he got injured.”

  “Then explain to me why he wants a five grand pay raise?”

  “Because that’s the nature of the beast.”

  “But he’s done nothing but hobble from one tea trolley to the next in the players’ lounge for the last two years. How can he ask for more money?”