A smokey pub, Khaldoon, Queer Poco el Mono Ara. A handful of napkins had been splayed out onto the table, upon which sat Jeremy Jaffacake's laptop computer, long since closed to make way for conversation with the people around him.
To his left, one Rubio Sanchez; young, keen, a great knowledge of football and a surprise gig covering his Krytenian national team's World Cup journey for his Emberton Post newspaper, for which Jeremy too had secured a job, by equally unexpected means.
To his right, a thirty-something hack from Krytie tits'n'tattle tabloid rag 'The Cy'Un' by the rather innocuous and unimaginitive nickname of 'Scoop'. "Call me scoop" had, indeed, been the journo's first words to Jeremy, who had thus taken an instant dislike to him. His match reports were shoddy, too, employing the trad hack tactic of hyping up a player regardless of whether their performances were good or mediocre, and remorselessly lambasting them when they had one bad game. Bad standards of reporting weren't the only reason that the name 'Cy'un' raised bile into the throat of Audioslavia's best (and, now, only) sports journalist; one Rameses Niblick III was high up in the sports department, and the two of them had history. Oh boy did they have history.
It had started way back in 2018 - the time of World Cup 26. Rami had been kicking around the scene for ten years and was making his name in Krytenia. Jeremy had been around for a hundred years - there were plenty of explanations why Jeremy had only aged forty years in the two centuries between World Cup 6 and World Cup 58. Jeremy's favourite, when he wasn't in the mood to give the stasis/dreamedrealm/cryogenic explanation, was that 'time travels slower in a plot hole' - and the two of them were both up for the 'Pun Writer of the Year' award. Jeremy, expecting an easy victory to go with his previous trophies, had been dismayed to find Rameses receiving the award and, if that wasn't bad enough, not particularly caring aboutit . That PWotYa had been the one reason for Jeremy to get up, most mornings, and lose the trophy in what turned out to be the final year of it being awarded was painful.
The two of them still hadn't properly crossed paths by the time The 2022 World Cup came around, and probably wouldn't have met at all were it not for Jeremy's short temper. upon reading about Krytenia's victory over Spaam and seeing the headling 'Wham, Bam, Thank You Spaam' - similar to a headline Jeremy had written years ago - Jeremy had picked up the phone, found Rami's number and called him a couple of rude words, one of which was 'plagiarist'. Rami, always one for a game of tit-for-tat, had sent him a quick 'fuck off' via fax and then, in a stroke of utter malevolence even Jeremy would have been proud of, faxed over a picture of a young Krytenian footballer. Jeremy recognised the face, but couldn't place it, until he read that it was a picture of one 'Jerome Jaffacake-Phillips', product of an illicit trist between himself and one Ffiona Phillips - long since departed Krytenian journalist - who had inexplicably kept Jaffacake's name.
The less said about Jaffacake senior and Jaffacake junior's first meeting, the better, but it was at least on the day that Audioslavia knocked Krytenia out of the World Cup; a result that, thanks to a previous bet, meant that Jeremy was allowed to brand Rami with the term 'Monkey's Labia' for an eternity.
From there, it had to be said, Rami had won every round the two had sparred. An altercation around the time of Silexhera's foray into World Cup 48 had resulted in Jeremy going into hiding in the face of professional hari-kiri, and Rami being the owner of Jeremy's centuries-old, priceless, long, elegant, swooping, mysterious, sexy, stylish mackintosh coat. His mackintosh. Jeremy wanted it back.
It wouldn't happen any time soon - Jeremy imagined that Rami kept that thing under lock and key - but Jeremy might, if he played his cards right, be able to engineer his way into tricking Rami, or fooling him, into giving him it back. Or winning it back in a bet. Double or quits? Hmm. Jeremy wasn't sure what he had that could count as 'double'.
Jeremy tipped the rim of his trilby towards the waitress as she delivered three more bottles of Burung Brew. Jeremy had no idea where exactly the famous Tanah Burungian drink was still being made, but he remembered quaffing it by the pint on the beaches of Loro Sae during World Cup 5 and always looked for it whenever he was on foreign shores.
Rubio and 'Scoop' were talking football, but not the regular, physical, reality football played on Nationstates. They were talking about the little 'game within a game' they played on a website called RLstates. Rubio and 'Scoop' had nations next to each other in a small region called 'Iberia'. 'Scoop's 'Portugal' and Rubio's 'Spain' were the Krytenia and Starblaydia of RLstates soccer, apparently, although Portugal were without Starblaydia's success and Spain were without Krytenia's headache-inducing ineptness. (Although to be fair Rubio's puppet, 'Andorra', were). Jeremy, having created the 'nations' of Montenegro and its puppet K0S0V0 recently - both being put in the region of 'FormerYugoslavia', where all the new nations go - was intrigued by the game, but pretended not to be. His mind was elsewhere. His mind was where these two Krytenians mind should have been. The real World Cup. Krytenia's impending semi-final doom and their game against The Babbage Islands.
Jeremy had lost count of the amount of semi-finals he'd been to in the past. The World Cup 7 semi-final, hosted in Audioslavia, watching Errinundera win out at the old, long-since demolished Soundgardian National Arena. The World Cup 12 semi-final - a thrilling 4-3 victory for Audioslavia over Commerce Heights in the distinctly Audioslavia-friendly semi in Lemmitania's national stadium. The World Cup 19 and World Cup 20 semi-finals, the first a nailbiting 0-0 draw with Dance2Revolution which Audioslavia won on penalties, the second a 5-3 extra-time victory over long-time rivals Squornshelous that had entertained everyone except him, it had seemed. The World Cup 25 semi-final, also hosted in Audioslavia - Starblaydia winning out in a 2-1 win over Squorn, and that was it. Jeremy, like most Audioslavians, hadn't made it to the World Cup 29 semi-final, in which Audioslavia won out over rivals Krytenia in their own Isserton Stadium in extra time. The last world cup Audioslavia had played in before civil war, nuclear fallout and the like put paid to their realistic ambitions of ever been a powerful, world-beating nation again. Jeremy had made the final in Casari, which Audioslavia would lose to the hosts, but hadn't wrote about the event. Audioslavia, the country, was already ruined and the players on the pitch were fully aware that they wouldn't have a home nation to return to. Most of the players would find jobs in foreign countries. Some would return to find a single, small, unaffected town in the middle of Audioslavia had survived the nuclear fallout. Cathair. Still the nation's only population centre.
Watching the utterly demoralised Audioslavian side traipse down the tunnel after their gutsy 2-1 defeat, the full realisation that this would be the last time the claret and green played on a World Cup pitch had hit Jeremy hard. He had left the sport at the same time as Audioslavia had, thinking he'd never return.
And here he was now. Back in the game. Back in the saddle. And it felt great. 'Audioslavia' would be back in the World Cup mix soon, with the Baptism of Fire tournament and the AOCAF tournament to come in the next eighteen months. It was Audioslavia for a given value of 'Audioslavia', of course - most of the players available qualified for the Bulls' national side by virtue of ancestry or having been, by chance, born within the boundaries of the country, but they would play in the claret and green and, if luck went their way, do those colours proud.
"Crisps" said Rubio, derailing Jeremy's train of self-involved thought. "I need crisps". He was a bit drunk, bless him. "I'm going to get crisps. Do you want crisps?" said Rubio, the sybillance already grating on Jeremy's ears.
"No, thanks" replied Jeremy. Rubio offered the same question to 'Scoop' who shook his head. Rubio left, leaving the two at the table alone. Jeremy, in spite of his distaste for the hack, made the opening conversational gambit. He did, after all, have an angle, and a good journalist can never let personal prejudices get in the way of a story. Or the possibility to set up the chance of screwing someone.
"So... you work for Rami?" asked Jeremy. A neutral question. Jeremy had done well to mask it's intentions and done well not to spit the word 'Rami' in the way he was accustomed to.
"Nah" replied 'Scoop', to which Jeremy raised an eyebrow. "I work with him. Not for him. Easy mistake to make. We're equals at the Cy'Un, y'see. No one guy has authority over the other and he doesn't tell me what to do, you know what I mean?"
"I know what you think you mean" said Jeremy, supping a finger of his drink and swallowing it carefully, keeping his eyes on the hack, waiting for a flinch, or a tell, or any sign that the interviewee might be in any way uncomfortable with his chosen reply. Jeremy doubted this pilchard was an equal of Rameses Niblick. "I know what you mean but, tell me, did you come out here on your own accord?"
"Of course. World Cup innit? wouldn't miss it for the world."
"You came for the first round, didn't you?"
"Yeah"
"And Rami didn't"
"No"
"But, had Rami wanted to come here, to report on the games, to give his opinion pieces and write the match reports, as both he and I have done in the past, then tell me, 'Scoop'" - now there was a name he could spit - "tell me, would you even be here?"
'Scoop' shifted in his seat and offered only an annoyed grunt. To be fair, Jeremy had known the answer to the question before he asked it.
"Don't like him, do you?" asked Jeremy, probing
"Nah"
"Would you like me to tell him that?"
"What? No!" came a confused and slightly scared reply. Rami was this guy's boss alright.
"It's OK, It's OK" said Jeremy, reassuring his prey by sheathing his claws for a split second. "I'm not his biggest fan either. Must be annoying the way he bosses you about"
"No. Well. Yeah. I mean, who does he think he is?"
"Exactly"
"Yeah.. I mean he's good and all but, hey, all he does it sit behind a desk and take what I write and put a headline on it. And then he has some opinion or other and writes it down and submits it and sits back with a coffee. I could do that. And I'd be able to see whatever football game I want to as well". 'Scoop' sniffed.
"Critisizes your writing style too, doesn't he?" asked Jeremy
"Yeah" said Scoop, sniffing again. Unconfortable.
"Tells you you should write with more panache. Be a bit more exotic with your sentence structures."
"Yeah..."
"Tells you to use more semicolons too"
"Yeah.. hang on, how..."
"'Stop using hyphens' he'll say, exhasperatedly flinging a copy of that Sunday's paper back onto your desk. 'Stop using hyphens, it's an Audioslavian thing to do, Joe' he'll say"
"How?!"
"And then he'll make you write it all our again, won't he? Semicolons in, hyphens out, less misquotes but more conjecture, isn't that right?"
"How do you know all this"
"I know him, and I know you well enough"
"How.. how did you know my name was Joe?" wailed 'Scoop', eyebrows akimbo. It was a good question. Jeremy had absolutely no idea that 'Scoop' was a Joe. He just looked like a Joe. He looked like a Joe, so Jeremy had called him a Joe. He was such a f***ing Joe.
"Never mine, Joe" said Jeremy "but there may be something you can do with me. Maybe Rami needn't be telling you what to do."
"He doesn't tell me what to do or where to go" announced Joe, in defiance of the previous five minutes of conversation.
"Tsk tsk Joe" said Jeremy. He leaned forward and gazed directly into Joe's eyes. This was the moment. Jeremy would enjoy it. He liked using his skills like this.
Joe looked terrified. Bless him. He was about to look even worse. Jeremy kept his gaze on Joe's eyes and uttered the words that Joe would remember for a long, long time afterwards:
"What would Chloe say if she knew her dad was lying, Joseph?"
Joe's brain just gave up. Right there and then. Jeremy needn't have bothered with the explanation but, well, this was just too good an opportunity to pass up. He knew he could get this guy to work for him. It was just a matter of time, now. Jeremy didn't wait for Joe to stop opening and closing his mouth, didn't wait for him to finally get around to asking the question. Jeremy made his explanation.
"You've a tattoo on your right wrist that says 'Chloe'. I deduced that this was the name of a daughter, rather than a mother or father because, A, who gets the word 'dad' tattooed on a loveheart and, B, if you'd have wanted a tattoo of your mother on your wrist you'd have used the word 'mother' and, C, the name 'Chloe' only takes up the bottom half of the love heart. The top half has been erased. I deduced that the top half was an ex-ladyfriend - because why else would you erase a name on a tattoo - and that the fact that Chloe's name was obviously on the tattoo at the same time as the initial name means that both names were etched onto your skin at the same time. Chloe is still here, the bitch has gone, so your daughter is called Chloe"
Jeremy took a sip of his drink.
"The tattoo is immaterial, however, as well as being badly drawn and coloured. What matters is the fact that I can see it. I can see it because your sweater is rolled up on your right arm, but not on your left arm. This is for two reasons, both of which important. Firstly, you are occasionally stretching that arm skywards and slightly over your head towards your left shoulder, and you're doing this for the second reasion; you've been carrying a heavy bag. You've been carrying a heavy bag because - and correct me if I'm wrong - you're carrying all of the posessions you initially brought with you to Queer Poco el Mono Ara," - Jeremy relished the hispanic enunciations of the name of the country - "and you're doing this because you've been told to leave. You've been told to leave because someone else is taking your place so as that the level of journalism for the Cy'Un increases in line with the hitherto unforeseen improvement in the play of the Krytenian national team and the first real occasion where they may very well be able to get to the World Cup final. The name of the journalist relieving you of your duties, Joe, is..."
Joe stared. Joe realised he was being asked a question. He still hesitated.
"Shall we say it together?" asked Jeremy.
"Rameses Niblick"
"Rameses Niblick" chorused the hacks.
Rubio, at long last, sat back down. In his hands were three bags and three bottles, each packet bearing the logo 'Queerios', each bottle stating it was, again 'Burung Brew'. Two of the bags were empty. The three bottles were full.
"Ah" said Rubio "The waitress.. earlier... I forgot she brought the drinks to the table"
"Yes" said Jeremy "But put them down. We'll find a good home for them" he said, raising his bottle towards Joe with a knowing smile. Joe looked as dumbfounded as ever. He bagan to speak, but found himself competing for Jeremy's attention with Rubio's slurred explanation of where exactly he'd been for the last ten minutes. Nevertheless, Jeremy heard something that made him turn towards the defeated 'Scoop'.
"Come again?" asked Jeremy
"I said, this isn't my bag. This isn't my stuff"
"Oh"
"It's for Rami. Y'see. I had to bring it when I first came, cos he knew he'd be flying out if Krytenia made the knockouts and he wanted his stuff there ahead of time. His hotel is a fair few miles away from mine, though, so I've kept it for him. He's picking it up at 8 O'Clock."
It was Jeremy's turn to furrow his brow.
"What time is it now?" he asked. Joe shrugged. Rubio looked at his watch.
"Why" asked Rubio
"Just.. tell me what time it is" Jeremy demanded, beginning to look a little scared himself. He didn't want to see Rami. Not now. Give him more time to bed into the job, to get to Rami's level, and then they'd see who was the cleverer. Whom could outwit whom. Rubio was talking.
"..pm exactly, signor"
"Say that again?" asked Jeremy
"I said, it is eight O'clock exactly" Rubio repeated. Jeremy blinked and, as quick as he could, draped his long (ish) blackish brown sheepskin coat over his shoulders and stood up. He tipped his trilby a little lower until he was sure the shadow from the overhead lights would obfuscate his face, just a little. He flicked the collar of his coat up. It was a sheepskin coat, so this just served to make him luck utterly ridiculous. He flicked it back down, took a breath, and turned around slowly
"Like clockwork" he said, under his breath, seeing the familiar greyish black, short, well kempt hair, obscured by the shadows of the pub and the large crowd that had built up since the trio had arrived, all of four hours earlier. "You could run a car by him" said Jeremy.
"You mean" asked Rubio, brows furrowed, "that you could run a watch by him... surely?" Jeremy smiled and turned a little towards the still-seated Rubio, without taking his eyes from the direction Rami was arriving in.
"I meant what I said."
The music in the bar stopped, suddenly. Over in the opposite corner of the pub, a good thirty feet away and obscured by two or three pillars and a false wall, a television was turned on. It was the World Cup semi-final. Valanora expected to win out over Aguazul. The bar became silent, transfixed almost immediately on the game. A lull. One that pub-goers will recognise. The lull between the music being turned off, a television being turned on, and the remote control - and its volume buttom - being found by the bar staff. For now: silence.
"Hey, boss, over here" - it was Joe, breaking the silence, calling over to Rami. Rami took a step forward, moved out from behind the tallish punter that had been between him and the trio's table and looked up. Saw Jeremy. The crowd, inexplicably, parted. A gust of wind, equally inexplicably, caused Jeremy's coat to billow and wave.
The same gust of wind had the same effect on Rameses Niblick's mackintosh. A familiar, centuries-old, priceless, long, elegant, swooping, mysterious, sexy, stylish mackintosh. It fitted the shorter yet slimmer Rameses better than it did Jeremy, there's no doubting that, but it was still the mother of all affronts.
Jeremy met Rami's gaze. Without averting his eyes, he moved his hand into his pocket, pulled out a cigar, inserted into the corner of his mouth and, producing a lighter from his breast pocket, lit it, and rolled it around in his mouth, waiting for Rami to make the first move.
Rameses obliged.
"Nice coat"
"I wouldn't expect to see you here" retorted Jeremy, the best he could come up with. He had to cede the point about the coat.
"Funny" said Rameses, looking around, at the television screen, the drunks, the sticky table covered in dirty napkins and the six bottles of opened Burung Brew "it's exactly the kind of place I'd expect to see you"
Two-nil? Not if Jeremy could help it. He wasn't about to let Rami take a victory, no matter how little.
"Ah, Rami" Jeremy started "you thought I meant 'here', the place. I meant 'here' the time. The fourth week of a World Cup. Like I said... I wouldn't expect to see you here..."
2-1? Maybe. Maybe not. Rami just smiled. The bar was still quiet. Without taking his eyes from Jeremy, he nodded, ever so slightly, towards the barman, suddenly relieved of immediate customers since the match started.
"Barman" - such was Rami's presence, the barman immediately took notice of the man five or so feet from the counter. "Two whiskies."
"Yes sir"
"I'll take mine neat"
"Yes sir"
Rami kept his eyes on Jeremy. Jeremy returned his gaze, giving the barman a sideways nod
"I'll take mine on the rocks" came Jeremy's request.
"Yes sir"
"With ice"
"...yes sir"
"And a straw"
"...OK sir"
"And an umbrella"
"Yes sir"
"And a packet of Monster Munch"
"We're out of monster munch"
"Queerios then"
"We're out of Queerios. Your drunk friend took the last three bags". Rubio ignored the barman's remark. He was slumped on his chair facing the two combatants, his eyes wide, watching the pair of them intently, dropping crisps into his open mouth like a moviegoer with popcorn.
"Well, what do you have, then?" asked Jeremy, still looking at his foe. His only movement was to occasionally remove and insert his cigar, which had by now burned to halfway.
"Twiglets?"
"Twiglets?"
"Yes sir"
"What the f*** are Twiglets?"
"Twiglets, Jeremy" interrupted Rameses, "are small, twisted, bitter, long since fashionable and are only, now, long after their heydey, found in pubs, propped on a table, next to a pint of gut-rot beer" he said, with a wry smile eminating from the corner of his mouth. "They'll suit you much better than that sheep you're wearing."
Jeremy flinched. He needed to stay calm. Stay classy. 3-1 down. Still everything to play for...
"So... Twiglets?" asked the barman, clearly bemused by procedings and obviously eager to complete the order. The whiskies were prepared and laid out on the bar. It was obvious which was for whom.
"Make that nuts" said Jeremy.
"Salted or Dry Roasted?" sighed the barman.
"Salted" said Jeremy. "You'll like nuts, Rami". Rami was was raising an eyebrow in bemusement.
"And why's that?" Rameses asked
"Because you're nuts" said Jeremy, announcing it to Rami like it was the wittiest single reply any human had ever created. Jeremy put his hands on his hips and stood as triumphantly as he could. He knew it wouldn't work. He knew his reply hadn't been clever enough to put the score at 3-2, but if could act his way out of this, he could possibly save face, maybe some dignity.
"That comes to three mono and two cents" said the barman, by now wishing he'd never applied for the job in the first place.
"Three two?" asked Jeremy "That's the same price as in Krytenia, is it not?" The question was directed at Rami. Jeremy was supressing a smile. He paused. His mind was begging. begging Niblick to ask something. Anything. Rami frowned.
"Is it?" he asked/ Perfect
"Because last time I was in Krytenia" said Jeremy "it was three-two in the Isserton Stadium..."
And it was 3-2 in the duo's little game of one-up-manship. Jeremy had to physically stop himself from jumping for joy. It was to be short-lived.
"Oh, no" said Rameses, "it isn't any more, Jeremy. Times have changed in the last..." - he looked at his watch, a pristine rolex, for effect - "century". Shit, thought Jeremy. 4-2, and with time running out. Rami looked over Joe and nodded at him. "Pay the man, will you" he said, to Jeremy's surprise. Rami was usually the gentleman when it came to buying drinks. Jeremy had always figured it was because Rami had a bit of money about him. Indeed he had, but, as Rami would never admit, he did it simply because it made him feel, y'know, a bit like James Bond.
"You get your lackeys to do everything for you?" asked Jeremy, feigning disgust. Joe rose slowly from his seat and traipsed over to the bar, head bowed, trying to shield his face from either man. A fiver was handed over, one mono and ninety-eight were handed back. 'Scoop' returned to his seat.
"Speaking of 'lackeys', who's yours?" replied Rameses, nodding towards Rubio who, for a split-second, was shocked at being included in the conversation. Like Humphrey Bogart had turned to him, reached through the silver screen and grabbed him by the collar, demanding to know the wherebouts of the girl. Rubio didn't get the chance to answer.
"That's Rubio, he isn't a lackey, he's a correspondent. We don't have lackeys at respectable broadsheets" came Jeremy's retort.
"I'd hardly call the Post 'respectable'" said Rami, but it was clear to both that the point had been won. 4-3. But yet... an idea. This'll work.
Jeremy stubbed out his cigar, carefully as he could, into an ashtray, and retrieved his notebook and pen from his breast pocket, flicking it to a blank page. Any page. He begen to write.
"...hardly... The Post... respectable... Rameses Niblick, sober, a pub, QPeMA, July 9th, 2146". Rami's eyes widened, slightly, but percepitably. That was it. 4-4. yes..
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" asked Rami, rhetorically.
"My pen is sharper than your supposed 'wit', it seems" said Jeremy
"Really?"
"Yup"
"Can it spell..." Rami left the word hanging in the air as he showed his left hand to Jeremy. In the hand was a smartphone, the screen showing a large red circle, and a counter, going past the twelve minute mark. "...'Luddite'?". 5-4.
"I, unlike you, haven't made any unprofessional, negative remarks about a rival publication" said Jeremy. "and at the Post, we often spell it 'F. A. X.'" 5-5. A remark about the Cy'Un still employing fax machines and analogue printing presses in an age where, at the Emberton Post, at least, everything was digital. Not the most biting satire in the world, but a point nonetheless. At five-all, Jeremy could see this one ending as a draw. Whether Rami was keeping count himself, or not, was anyone's guess.
"My bag, Joe"
"It's right here, boss" came Joe's reply. Rami stooped down and picked it up, slinging it over his shoulder. He turned to Joe, who didn't seem to like it when Rami's attention was on him.
"It's Joe Ojosangel, isn't it?" asked Rami.
"Err, yeah, sir, you know my name" came Joe's reply.
"Well well. The gang's all here then, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?" asked Jeremy, fearing the worst.
"Rubio and Ojosangel" said Rami. "You speak Spanish, don't you, Jeremy?"
"Ein petit peut" said Jeremy, sarcastically. "Rubio means 'Blondie', 'Ojosangel' roughly translates as 'Angel-eyes'..." Jeremy's eyes opened, just enough for Rami to make out that, to Jeremy's horror and Rami's growing mirth, they both knew where this one was going.
"Blondie and Angeleyes" said Rameses, "Two characters from a certain spaghetti western. 'Blondie' is 'The Good', 'Angel Eyes' is 'The Bad'.. so that... just... leaves..."
"You" interrupted Jeremy. Rami narrowed his eyes, as if to say 'that's not going to be enough' but... was it? Rami couldn't very well say 'no, you' as a viable retort and still expect to come away with the point. Had Jeremy saved it? Had Jeremy evaded that final, sickening, injury-time Krytenian winner? Maybe he had... maybe he had... the punchline.. he's interrupted the all-important punchline...
"Well, I'd love to stay and chat, Jeremy, Rubio, Joe, but, y'know, I'm a busy man. Those columns don't write themselves"
"Fine" said Jeremy. "Nice to see you again, Rami"
"You too" came Rami's not entirely genuine reply. "We must do this again sometime, now that you'll be working out of Krytenia"
"Oh we must, yes, Rami, we must". Rami had turned his back, and was walking away.
"Good luck to the Krytenian eleven with that glass ceiling, Rami"
"It won't be there much longer, Jeremy"
"If it doesn't, you'll only be moving it one level higher"
"We'll see"
"We will"
And with that, Rameses was gone. Jeremy looked around. Rubio and Joe had watched Rami walk out the door, and had turned their eyes back on Jeremy. Jeremy looked around the pub. The pub looked away. They had all been watching. The two old combatants had had an audience. They'd all been enthralled by the 5-5 draw.
Jeremy sat down and breathed a long, healthy sigh, before picking up a three-quarters full beer bottle and halving its contents in two gulps.
"That..." began Rubio, still staring at Jeremy "...was awesome!" Jeremy grinned.
"You think?"
"Yeah!" You too battling it out in the middle of the pub, all biting remarks and points scoring, I had you at five-five by the way, man..."
Jeremy was surprised. He'd assumed it was just him that was keeping count? He knew no-one back in Audioslavia in the old-days was quite so low-down as him as to create an arbitrary scoring system for the points-scoring one-upmanship of the profession. Maybe he'd underestimated his colleagues..
"Five-five?" questioned Joe, now perked up a little after the departure of his boss. "I had it as six-five"
"To who?" asked Jeremy.
"To you, of course. I especially liked the bit about the nuts". Jeremy sighed. Of course. He'd forgotten, in this time, that Joe was an imbecile. One that called himself 'Scoop' without embarassment.
"Really Joe. Really"
"Yeah. Because of the insanity thing". Jeremy almost choked on his beer.
"What?" he asked.
"Well, it was just a rumour"
"Ah, that" said Rubio. "A rumour. A malicious one."
"Yeah" said Joe "Rami took a two-week holiday and ended up being away for, like, a month. He said it was because of difficulties getting back from, where was it, Vilita? Said something about 'complexities eminating from the recession of Krytenia from the crown of Atlantian Oceania' or something like that. He's probably right, but you know what hacks are like. Someone spread a rumour that he'd been taken into the priory. Addiction to meth, followed by him being sectioned under the mental health act. Can you believe that? Bullshit of course but it became a running joke, only he got wind of it when he came back. Got someone fired. Almost fired me. Long and short of it is, he was pissed off that, after taking time out of his holiday to cover the situation in Atlantian Oceania, his name was being sullied in the place he's been working for, pfft, god knows how many years. He didn't trust many people for a year or so after that. He's OK now, like..."
"So..." said Jeremy, taking into account the information he'd just been told. "When I called him 'nuts' that... that actually went to the bone? More than anything else?"
"You betcha" said Joe, downing the last of his bottle and slumping back into his chair. Rubio did the same. Bless him, the young guy. He looked like he was ready for bed.
He wouldn't get much sleep at that particular moment, as Jeremy flipped the table upside-down - bottles flying, laptop tossed onto Joe's lap - in his over-exuberant, ecstatic, hollered celebration.
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAAA!!!" - a caterwaul to mark his first real victory over Rami effing Niblick for around a hundred years. "Barman!" he shouted, the barman, shocked, stuttered a reply.
"Y.. yes?"
"Twiglets! Twiglets for f***ing everyone!"
"Did you flip that table upside-down?"
"And beer!"
"I'd like you to leave, sir"
"OK!"
And with that, the trio gathered their belongings and staggered out of the pub.
"See you tomorrow, guys" said Jeremy, offering a small wave as they departed in different directions. "Big day for you, eh?"
"Yup" replied Rubio, staggering off in the general compass direction of his hotel. "Bigger day for Krytenia..." he mumbled, as he kicked a passing pigeon. "A hell of a big day.."
Nope has to be the weather. Score up in just a bit. 
