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Culver City Forum, Los Angeles, CA; Now:
"Alright, listen up, you vomitus, pustulating nut-rashes! Quit yer pansy, pussy-footin' around this friggen hockey rink! I wanna see Hounds' heads hittin' the glass, and pucks flyin' hard and fast at that abomination the other guys call a goaltender!"
The coach of last season's Mild Weather Goons hockey league champions, The Los Angeles Priests, was one exuberantly ruthless and mean son of God. He was the most foul-mouthed ex-man-of-the-cloth you'd find anywhere this side of the hemisphere. When he spoke, he spit. His thick, gray mustache resembled the carcass of a caterpillar stiffening on his upper lip with a brow so rigged it cast a shadow over his beady brown eyes. And his chin – nicked with old scars under stubble and satire – looked as rough and as stern as the sound of his raspy voice whenever it'd claw its way out of his throat to speak. He never seemed not to sweat at any point in a league game, and during practice he'd smoke cigars and yell obscenities like, "You call that a slapshot, you sissy! I could slap my meat harder'n that against yer mother's chubby cheeks!" or...well, other such obscenities thereabouts.
"Marty! Get yer ass out there and don't come back 'til you get me a goal or a penalty for misconduct! Jimmy, you're my Designated Decoy! Make pretend like you gotta miserable shit's shot in Hell at being a viable threat out on that ice, plant yer pudgy ass in front of that goal, and don't you fucking budge! You eat that goddamn puck and spit it in the net if you have to! We're down by two, you dipshits! That's three goals too many! Let's show these mutts why God gave man a set of balls and two hands to grab his dick with, and use those tools to fuck the fight out of these soulless rodents! Do you get me?!"
As a team, the men on the bench all answered in unison, pounding the butt-ends of sticks against the floorboards below their skates.
"Praise the Priests!!"
"Amen! Alright, now go out there and GET YOU SOME ASS!!"
Marty "The Monster" Grimson was the Priests' star centerman and, in all likelihood, the most badass beast of a man ever to play the game of ice hockey with any sort of skill or grace at any level of the game. He was six-foot-six inches tall, two hundred and fifty-something pounds, and had fists like fucking lead hammers. His eyes and prominent features were chiseled and dark due to his mixed ethnicity – the Caucasian in him being anything but pure, while the Native American blood that coursed his veins was nearly as ancient as the culture itself. He kept his long, brown hair in a single braid as a tribute to his mother's memory, honoring her heritage the only way he knew how, but also as a rebellious "screw you" to his father who could leap backwards off a cliff into a garden of jagged spears for all he cared. His stubbornness at times was as unyielding as a mountain, but his temper was often as sporadic as the wind. He very likely could've played professionally if the National Hockey League wasn't so averse to his prowess causing permanent physical damage to their "oh, so" costly and unexpendable star players. (Not that their reluctance to sign him was of any real consequence. His place in his city, and in this story, was not to be a sports hero to all the little kiddies of the greater Los Angeles community. When compared to that of national championships or lucrative marketing contracts, the weight that the likes of this man's life will soon hold would be utterly transmundane.)
The blades of Marty's skates crunched the ice below him with his every stride, growling hungrily in the presence of their opponents. The cold air over the surface of the rink was heavy with humidity but a welcomed breath of freshness from under the thick protective pads that buffered his bones from his enemies.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Magik: A Cold Day in Hell (Book One)
HorrorA brother- and sister-team of LA orphans come to face their demonic witch of an aunt for the salvation of mankind with naught but a measly squad of hockey-playing do-gooders and their unruly, well-aged coach as allies. When blood-magik rains, an arm...