It was an exciting day. The birds that adorned the referee had finally got to have their say in about the issue. As inscrutable, pompous and arrogant as he was, there were times when he was right. This was one of them. He was a bum, you see? And an ugly one at that, but there was no other referee around, so, they had to make best with they had. He was rather clumsy; John and Jane thought; might as well sell laundry to the local circus than have a say in the coliseum.

They coldly looked down. Precious dark faces subdivided by the carbon emission their stinking mouths produced. They were openly gagged during the mid-season. It wasn’t getting any easier from this point on. But the bum agreed, it was a red card, it meant that you were in the wrong zone; it meant that it was over for you, and if you thought it couldn’t get worse, then you were exceptionally wrong. One of the muses had an open-skulled brain tumor sprouting out of her head.

Mildly exposed to the chemicals that were present in the air, she arrived to the conclusion that this match would be the last one she would passively, yet hopefully to the end, experience the fullest. So many wrong plays already, that she could feel that spindly black mush actively gnawing at her head. An unimpressive thing, to say the least, but it was the primordial aspect of nature, which couldn’t be defeated either, regardless of how hard it was fought against.

By the fourth row, north-east of the edgeways stood an easy going bachelorette, standing with her peers; smoking contraband; gulping free discs of comic air that somehow penetrated her every surrounding.

‘He is god, is he not?’ Asked one of the pigeons.

‘A marvelous one at that.’ Added the other.


But he had a knife on him, waiting to pull it out at any moment. He had a stroke. He was a stroke survivor. He survived. It was tempting to end his life right in front of thousands of spectators. No shame. He’d do it anyway. It was a slanderous way in which he prevailed over them, the dark pigeons who whispered death in his ears.

A self-fulfilling prophecy that would simply not go away. Blasphemous even, as the very edge of the knife spoke to him in tongues. Ah, a spark of pudgy blood, he knew, the yellow card was miles away now. The cat is his and it is an awfully insane thing that he was granted custody over it. No one could’ve perceived it a mile away from, especially if judged in accordance with his behavior. He would not stop there either.

As his house was worse than a mess, after leaving his animal unfed and ruffled up for hours and days at a time; the scourge of a man still found fondness over beating it just so he could get a reaction out of himself. This was the man who was supposed to be the referee, and this was unforgivable. A little here, a little there, some come around, just about everywhere, before the morning was done. And the flesh ran out.

Back where he’d begun. In the field, dinging on red, yellow, red, yellow, red, with promiscuous possibilities of craning his neck, all because he wouldn’t go to a doctor for his strain. But there came Jane again, checking on all possibilities, followed by Rudolpho Belsinkin, who was the pro-amateur get-go when it came to writing tickets on cars. Somehow indistinguishable to the other men that accompanied him. Many of which were suits, corporate plugs that had stakes in it. But there was no football match just yet. When they approached him it was raining. In the cold morning. Faces came aghast for every passing moment was hellish for the man they called the referee.