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The Cloaked Conspiracy - A DA Séance
It was a dimly lit evening in the DA’s lair, the flickering light of a single candle casting elongated shadows on the stone walls. Steven K. Talbot and Ed Clark, clad in their signature black hooded cloaks, stood over a dusty ouija board. The room smelled faintly of cheap incense and desperation.
"FFO's bloody boring, Steven," muttered Clark, sliding a hand through his hood. "And I swear half of them think it’s our fault that Ian left Real Madrid last week, what a shame."
Talbot, distracted, barely registered Clark’s words as he fiddled with a tactical notebook. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure. Totally our fault. Meanwhile, I’m managing Dortmund like it’s my full time job, and Chelsea’s just… there. Trying to pin down Oily Kirby for a deal with them is kinda killing my vibe man!” He yawned dramatically.
Clark smirked, pulling a crumpled BHN list from his robes. “I’ve got better things to do like counting every bloody player in FFO and on the BHN list. Did you know there are 47 left footed midfielders in the entire pool? Riveting stuff.”
Talbot rolled his eyes. “You’re a true scholar, Ed. Right, let’s do something fun. Let’s summon the spirits of FFO past get some real answers. Maybe Ian can tell us what really happened, and we can stop being the scapegoats for this circus.”
Clark grinned mischievously. “You got the board ready?”
“Do I look like an amateur?” Talbot snapped, pulling a gleaming planchette from his cloak pocket. “Let’s get started.”
The candle flickered ominously as Talbot placed his hands on the planchette. Clark followed suit, muttering, “If this doesn’t work, I’m going back to my BHN stats.”
“Spirits of FFO past,” Talbot intoned dramatically, “we call upon thee! Reveal yourselves to the DA and tell us why you left this hallowed ground!”
The planchette jerked violently, and a ghostly mist began to swirl above the board. The faint outline of Ian Greaves materialised, looking somewhat annoyed but otherwise well preserved for a spectral form.
“Greaves! Old buddy!” Clark exclaimed. “Why did you leave us? Was it… was it us?”
Ian sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, no, it wasn’t you two. I told JB this, but he didn’t listen. It was the rabbit stew. That infernal concoction gave me food poisoning for weeks. I couldn’t focus on Real Madrid with that kind of gastrointestinal trauma.”
Talbot blinked. “Rabbit stew? That’s it?”
“Yes,” Greaves said solemnly. “But it wasn’t your fault. So stop moping.” With that, his form dissolved, leaving behind a faint aroma of carrots.
Clark looked triumphant. “See? I told you it wasn’t us!”
“Don’t get cocky,” Talbot muttered, shifting the planchette. “Let’s call up Derek Hughes next. Maybe he can explain why he bailed on Roma.”
The mist thickened, and another figure emerged, Derek Hughes, sporting a cowboy hat and holding a vial of what looked suspiciously like snake oil.
“Derek! What happened, man?” Talbot asked.
Derek tipped his hat. “Boys, it ain’t complicated. Roma was old, JB’s knee jerk changes were driving me up the wall, and, well, snake oil pays better than FFO management. Nothing personal.”
Clark looked relieved. “So, again, not our fault?”
“Not a bit. But don't forget to sign up for my newsletter fellas” Derek said with a wink before fading away.
The board grew restless as the planchette began to swirl wildly. A new figure materialised a shadowy man shrouded in mystery. It was Frank Moses, former Fiorentina boss.
Talbot leaned forward. “Frank, is it really you? What do you have to say?”
Frank initially spoke in incomprehensible gibberish, (maybe glossolalia?) gesturing wildly. Clark looked alarmed. “Uh, is this a possession or…?”
Suddenly, Frank snapped into perfect English. “Ah, sorry about that. I learn Ghost-Speak very quickly. Anyway, I’m Frank Moses. Or am I? Who’s to say? Bye.” And just like that, he vanished.
“What the hell was that?” Talbot whispered.
“Classic Frank,” Clark replied, shaking his head.
The next figure to emerge was a towering man with an aggressive aura, Adam Castle. His energy filled the room like a thunderstorm.
“AB on steroids,” Clark muttered.
Castle cracked his knuckles. “You two don’t know how lucky you are. If I were still around, I’d round up JB, pin him down and give him what’s coming if you know what I mean.... Got it?”
Talbot quickly nodded. “Crystal clear. I think. Thanks for stopping by.”
Castle disappeared with a menacing laugh.
Finally, the room fell silent, and a faint, garbled voice echoed through the mist. The figure was indistinct, but one word emerged clearly... “Ralph.”
Talbot and Clark froze. “Ralph?” they said in unison.
Clark’s eyes widened. “It’s him. It has to be.”
Talbot exclaimed, his voice cracking with excitement. “We’ve found you at last!”
The spirit didn’t respond but lingered, as if deciding whether to reveal more. Talbot and Clark exchanged a gleeful high five.
“This is the best thing to happen to FFO in ages,” Clark said.
“Agreed. Let’s tell everyone… or maybe not. Let them stew,” Talbot replied, grinning beneath his hood.
The candle flickered out, leaving the room outwith light, plunging it into darkness, and filling the DA with newfound hope.
Words: 869
It was a dimly lit evening in the DA’s lair, the flickering light of a single candle casting elongated shadows on the stone walls. Steven K. Talbot and Ed Clark, clad in their signature black hooded cloaks, stood over a dusty ouija board. The room smelled faintly of cheap incense and desperation.
"FFO's bloody boring, Steven," muttered Clark, sliding a hand through his hood. "And I swear half of them think it’s our fault that Ian left Real Madrid last week, what a shame."
Talbot, distracted, barely registered Clark’s words as he fiddled with a tactical notebook. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure. Totally our fault. Meanwhile, I’m managing Dortmund like it’s my full time job, and Chelsea’s just… there. Trying to pin down Oily Kirby for a deal with them is kinda killing my vibe man!” He yawned dramatically.
Clark smirked, pulling a crumpled BHN list from his robes. “I’ve got better things to do like counting every bloody player in FFO and on the BHN list. Did you know there are 47 left footed midfielders in the entire pool? Riveting stuff.”
Talbot rolled his eyes. “You’re a true scholar, Ed. Right, let’s do something fun. Let’s summon the spirits of FFO past get some real answers. Maybe Ian can tell us what really happened, and we can stop being the scapegoats for this circus.”
Clark grinned mischievously. “You got the board ready?”
“Do I look like an amateur?” Talbot snapped, pulling a gleaming planchette from his cloak pocket. “Let’s get started.”
The candle flickered ominously as Talbot placed his hands on the planchette. Clark followed suit, muttering, “If this doesn’t work, I’m going back to my BHN stats.”
“Spirits of FFO past,” Talbot intoned dramatically, “we call upon thee! Reveal yourselves to the DA and tell us why you left this hallowed ground!”
The planchette jerked violently, and a ghostly mist began to swirl above the board. The faint outline of Ian Greaves materialised, looking somewhat annoyed but otherwise well preserved for a spectral form.
“Greaves! Old buddy!” Clark exclaimed. “Why did you leave us? Was it… was it us?”
Ian sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, no, it wasn’t you two. I told JB this, but he didn’t listen. It was the rabbit stew. That infernal concoction gave me food poisoning for weeks. I couldn’t focus on Real Madrid with that kind of gastrointestinal trauma.”
Talbot blinked. “Rabbit stew? That’s it?”
“Yes,” Greaves said solemnly. “But it wasn’t your fault. So stop moping.” With that, his form dissolved, leaving behind a faint aroma of carrots.
Clark looked triumphant. “See? I told you it wasn’t us!”
“Don’t get cocky,” Talbot muttered, shifting the planchette. “Let’s call up Derek Hughes next. Maybe he can explain why he bailed on Roma.”
The mist thickened, and another figure emerged, Derek Hughes, sporting a cowboy hat and holding a vial of what looked suspiciously like snake oil.
“Derek! What happened, man?” Talbot asked.
Derek tipped his hat. “Boys, it ain’t complicated. Roma was old, JB’s knee jerk changes were driving me up the wall, and, well, snake oil pays better than FFO management. Nothing personal.”
Clark looked relieved. “So, again, not our fault?”
“Not a bit. But don't forget to sign up for my newsletter fellas” Derek said with a wink before fading away.
The board grew restless as the planchette began to swirl wildly. A new figure materialised a shadowy man shrouded in mystery. It was Frank Moses, former Fiorentina boss.
Talbot leaned forward. “Frank, is it really you? What do you have to say?”
Frank initially spoke in incomprehensible gibberish, (maybe glossolalia?) gesturing wildly. Clark looked alarmed. “Uh, is this a possession or…?”
Suddenly, Frank snapped into perfect English. “Ah, sorry about that. I learn Ghost-Speak very quickly. Anyway, I’m Frank Moses. Or am I? Who’s to say? Bye.” And just like that, he vanished.
“What the hell was that?” Talbot whispered.
“Classic Frank,” Clark replied, shaking his head.
The next figure to emerge was a towering man with an aggressive aura, Adam Castle. His energy filled the room like a thunderstorm.
“AB on steroids,” Clark muttered.
Castle cracked his knuckles. “You two don’t know how lucky you are. If I were still around, I’d round up JB, pin him down and give him what’s coming if you know what I mean.... Got it?”
Talbot quickly nodded. “Crystal clear. I think. Thanks for stopping by.”
Castle disappeared with a menacing laugh.
Finally, the room fell silent, and a faint, garbled voice echoed through the mist. The figure was indistinct, but one word emerged clearly... “Ralph.”
Talbot and Clark froze. “Ralph?” they said in unison.
Clark’s eyes widened. “It’s him. It has to be.”
Talbot exclaimed, his voice cracking with excitement. “We’ve found you at last!”
The spirit didn’t respond but lingered, as if deciding whether to reveal more. Talbot and Clark exchanged a gleeful high five.
“This is the best thing to happen to FFO in ages,” Clark said.
“Agreed. Let’s tell everyone… or maybe not. Let them stew,” Talbot replied, grinning beneath his hood.
The candle flickered out, leaving the room outwith light, plunging it into darkness, and filling the DA with newfound hope.
Words: 869