smh open players

Smh, Open Players
	The tall man with broad shoulders lowered himself from his post. He glanced upwards towards the top of the hole, sighing at how shallow it was. He looked down to the unfriendly side of the jumble of rocks. Be arrived, out of breath and whimpering like a little boy. The tall man clenched his fist. The antagonism and intentness in his voice made Be flinch.
	“What do you want?”
	“Wrech?” Be squealed, clearly pained to undergo such humiliation. “Can I play?” Wrech chuckled, vaguely irritated by this irrelevance but too apathetic to let it worry him. He smiled, but said nothing. Immediately after this, there came a gasp, and a squeal of pain. Wrech crouched instinctively. Wolsne appeared from a thicket with a dark look on his face, blood on his hands, and the skin of JDuff draped across his back. Wrech looked at him long and hard but was too lost in a maze of thoughts that were rendered vague by his lack of words to express them to care. He continued down the rocks with the sun in his face, frowning. He glanced down towards the low open players, not understanding the wearisomeness of their lives. They stirred uneasily, with the thought of his whip in their heads, and watched him, envious and resentful.
	Frenzy and Um were behind a rock, going at it like rabbits. Keylime sat and stared, finally aware of his envy for them. Thing 2, lying on the floor next to Keylime, was blankly gazing into the sky above. After his years spent working in the ricefields, his speech became limited to one or two words answers followed by impending silence. From the top of the hole, Perfection stared down at them with black eyes, cackling and gesturing to someone behind him. A few others peered down then quickly jumped back in disgust.
	“What is wrong with you?”  Unskilled, Fyg, and Shiloh exclaimed in unison, refusing to ever fall for Perfection’s dirty tricks again. Perfection just laughed. That grin never went away, permanently burned into his face. Almost at once, Milan and Barycenter came to his side, always defending their good friend. The IM players came and stood along Unskilled, Fyg, and Shiloh, muttering and whispering. Their big brains speculated. Something was to be done.
	The IM players pushed. Perfection fell. Wrech, surprised by the loud thump, looked straight into Perfection’s soul and saw only fear. Wrech stepped forward. Perfection began to back up, but with untrained feet, he fell right into a jagged rock with a sickening, cracking noise. Perfection screamed as he attempted to move his legs. He began to sob and blow ribbons of red snot out of his nose, meekly scratching at his useless legs. The low open players took advantage of this, throwing themselves onto him and fighting for his vital organs. Mackmon, the king of low open, slashed open Perfection’s stomach and grabbed his heart right as it hit 200 bpm. Holding it above his head as if it was a twelve dollar open winnings check, Mackmon released a deep, harsh note from his diaphragm. Wrech watched the creatures devour Perfection for hours with pain in his eyes.
	Five men gathered around the black smudge where a fire had been, while Andrew knelt and blew. No sparks appeared. Andrew continued to blow, but then a swift breeze came, blinding him with ashes. He squatted back, swore, and rubbed his eyes.
	“No use,” Andrew spat. Sombre passed, limping a little, but full of unquenchable vitality. Andrew raised his head when he heard Sombre mutter something about his balls. Almost at once, Sombre was upon him. They were chest to chest, breathing fiercely, pushing and glaring.
	“Who got second place in open?”
	“Go fuck yourself!”
	Andrew wrenched free and swung at Sombre. The blow struck Sombre’s arm and slid down his elbow.
	“Fuck you Andrew,” Sombre growled, fists clenched, eyes sharp. Truculently, they squared up to each other but kept just out of each other’s reach. Andrew nodded. He relaxed his fighting muscles, stood easily and grounded himself, seeing that Sombre was only here for a brief scuffle. Andrew expertly made his way back up the rocks to his team while Sombre remained below. There was a quick moment of silence. Almost instantly after this, Wrech, with a sense of delirious abandonment, lugged a rock at Sombre. Sombre heard the rock before he saw it, swiveling around to meet it. The rock struck him in the chin, shattering it into a thousand white fragments. Sombre, with no time for even a grunt, landed hard on the rocks; head first. His skull opened and stuff came out and turned red. Sombre’s arms and legs twitched a bit, like a pig’s after it has been killed. This time the silence lasted. Andrew’s lips formed a word but no sound came. Wrech screamed wildly and beat his chest like an ape.
	Wolsne was death himself. He deemed who would live and who would die. The day when JDuff tried to climb from the hole, Wolsne ripped his legs off and wore his skin like a coat. Power lay in the his forearms and authority sat on his shoulder like pets. There was a blink of bright light beyond the hole and thunder exploded; the low open players started to cry. Big drops of rain fell among them, making individual sounds when they struck the rocky floor.
	“Going to be a storm,” said Wolsne, “and you know what that means.” The low open players, although innocent, looked uneasily at the sky, flinching with each drop of rain. The flickering lights became brighter and the blows of the thunder were no longer bearable. The low open players ran about, screaming and would only calm down when Wolsne promised to do a demo review with them. The hole slept nervously. When the rain had passed and the morning had come, Dyl4n, Paul, and Yuno were gone. No questions asked. Gone.
	Wrech surveyed his kingdom. He accepted the pleasures of open, the money, the friends, as a time when play was good and life so full that hope was not necessary and therefore forgotten. The low open players huddled together for warmth. Wrech saw them as aimless and trivial creatures, who only found time to eat and sleep in between their play. For the most part, their emotional and corporate lives were their own, interrupted only by the occasional ffw win. Wrech looked at them dumbly. He gave himself up to them now; spasms of grief that seemed to contort his whole body. The low open players glanced briefly at him but were afraid to meet his sad gaze. Miles above, resting upon the clouds, the invite players looked down on them.
	“Smh,” they said, “open players.”