Midnight, on a nearly moonless night, meant perfect conditions for vampires but disastrously shabby and problematic ones for werewolves.
Vampires have superb night vision, thanks to their finely tuned bat radar that operates much better than eyesight, whereas werewolves have fairly poor eyesight at the best of times, even in broad daylight. At night they were blind and all they had was their powerful sense of smell, which mostly emanated from their cricket shoes.
Because it was midnight and pitch black – the cricket ground had coincidentally forgotten to pay its electricity bill and the night lights had been cut off – the werewolf players were unable to observe the audience or even the stands. And obviously the audience saw nowt, and all chanted for a ticket refund. The werewolves heard the chants and muffled singing, then clearly over the top of it WG Grace shouting, ‘Come on boys – let’s show them how to play real cricket!’
The team honed in on the sound of WG’s voice and found him sitting alone in the dark stand. These sad excuses for cricketers crowded around, complaining about the murky conditions, telling him they were sure to be beaten and that they might as well give up now.
WG looked disgusted. ‘Bah. Listen to you lot, whimpering like a pack of wet dogs. You think this is dark? You should have tried playing cricket from my point of view. You see this …’ He held his great curtain of face fuzz up in front of their snouts. ‘This is like playing at midnight even on the brightest day.
‘This great beard blanket was tossed over my head every time I hit the ball, but did it put me off or slow me down? Never! You complain about the lack of light; well, light never penetrated this harness of hair, but it never stopped me. You know why? Because I played from here,’ he said, tapping his heart, ‘not here,’ tapping his eyes. ‘So don’t give me that cheap whining. Get out there and take them down!’
That was the sort of rousing talk that appealed to aspirational young werewolves, who are prone to cheap, tub-thumpingly patriotic speeches even more than they’re prone to high-pitched whistles. They scurried onto the field of conquest, all fired up once more, brimming with newly stoked confidence.
WG sat back down in his seat and chuckled to himself. Little did the werewolves know, he’d always had his beard and hair done up in ribbons like a girl, not only keeping the hair out of his eyes during play but also helping him get in touch with his feminine side. Sometimes he even played in his maiden aunt’s silk knickerbockers. In fact he was wearing them now. Who said being a captain meant sacrificing comfort?
What those hounds didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them …
The vampires, having won the toss, elected to bat first. Not wanting to tire his best bowlers out too early, Jason-Jock sent Dingus and Steppenwolf to bowl the first few overs.
It was called strategy.
The vampire opening batsmen savaged the ball like Fat Albert at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The batsmen demolished each ball in turn, ate them alive, hammered them flat, cracking the bowlers all over the park.
So much for strategy.
Eight sixes in a row meant that pretty soon the opening batsmen had amassed a half century between them. Pretty soon? Criminy – the game had barely started. Not knowing what else to do, Jason-Jock sent Fangbert in to bowl.
It was a masterstroke. Fangbert, obsessive as always about Warney, had been practising the famous ‘Flipper’ ball night and day for months. Those bloodsuckers couldn’t handle the flipper – they began to fall like ninepins. Within two deliveries he’d dismissed the troublesome opening batsmen, then took the next vampire two balls later.
Then, just for kicks, Fangbert started in on the remaining middle-order vampires with Warney’s famous ‘Wrong-un’. Wrong-un was right – the result was wrong. The remaining vampires – in their haste to get out of the crease and back to the safety of the pavilion – nearly busted their boilers.
Four overs later they were all out for seventy-seven.
None of this meant the werewolves were out of the doghouse yet. The vampires might have been talented batsmen, like Terry ‘Type-O’ Taggart and Deadman Walken, but they were truly evil bowlers.
The head vampire opened play from the southern end of the ground with a blistering pace attack that claimed Howler first ball for a duck, smashing his wicket like toothpicks and scorching his new cricket bat so badly it smoked like an extinguished safety match the whole long trip back to the pavilion.
The crowd went mad!
That was first ball. Second ball was launched to Grubby after a seventy-five metre run-up. And I do mean ‘launched’, like the space shuttle-type launch. The delivery resembled a fiery meteorite more than a cricket ball – head height, deadly accurate. Grubby screeched and, sweating with fear, ducked for cover. Speaking of ducks, next ball took out Grubby’s middle stump, but not before snapping his bat clean in half.
Third ball, third victim. Chomper for a duck.
Jeez Louise.
Three out for nowt.
The middle-order werewolves pretty much followed the same pattern, folding like cheap suits. So much for WG’s great words of wisdom; in the inky darkness the batsmen simply couldn’t see the ball.
Then, in an over-the-top attempt to cow the opposition, gross them out and give them the heebie-jeebies, the vampire bowler drooled blood from his fangs all over the cricket ball.
Bad mistake. In the failing light the vampire’s radar had been a distinct advantage, but with the blood-dripping ball now broadcasting a distinctive and powerful scent, the werewolves’ superior powers of smell took over.
Now they smelt the ball as it scorched towards them at top speed and lashed out with the bat to great effect. Suddenly runs started amassing from the werewolves’ bats. The middle-order batsmen held on for half a dozen overs, slowly stealing runs.
But even with this improved performance, the vampires still seemed to have it all over the werewolves. Every time the wolves clobbered the ball in a big hit, even as it rose over the fielders’ heads and looked certain to be sailing for a six, a vampire fielder would transform into a bat and fly up to encase the ball like a black, leathery baseball mitt. It was mighty frustrating to see, and that was just for me watching through night-vision goggles from the stands …
Jason-Jock had deliberately put himself second last in the order of batsmen, saving himself in case of emergency – another threadbare stab at strategy. The wickets slowly but inexorably fell and now, finally, he took the crease, to do or die.
The other werewolves had done their best, but now it was up to Captain Jason-Jock Werewolf and the famous Fleabag, their lamest batsman at the opposite crease, whimpering like a half-toilet-trained kid who’s just let off and followed through.
‘Suffer!’ hissed the vampire captain. ‘Suffer, and die!’
‘It’ll take more than you’ve got to achieve that,’ replied JJ.
The vicious vampire grinned an oily grin. ‘Time for re-education, dog.’
‘Time for resuscitation, bat.’
The two protagonists looked set to lock horns – not easy between a dog and a bat – when the umpire stepped in. ‘Simmer down, boys,’ he commanded. ‘It’s only a game.’
Only a game?
They needed over thirty runs to win. I need an aspirin.
Thirty runs? Not in this lifetime, maestro …
The vampires figured these last batsmen must be pretty puny and left their lesser bowlers to deal with them while crowding up close in the fielding positions.
Bad mistake. Jason-Jock cracked their first ball, sending it humming for six. Next ball went hurtling to the boundary for four. The fielders crowded in even closer. One vampire was so close JJ could smell his blood-flavoured chewing gum.
A wild bowl, then a no-ball, but JJ didn’t know that and took two steps up the pitch and cracked it, aiming for the boundary. Maybe he was aiming for six, but he hit the fielder at silly mid-on, knocking his head silly mid-off, and the bloody missile flew through the air, hitting the ‘Hit Me!’ sign on the f
ull and leaving a thick, bloody smear down the middle of the billboard.
Jason-Jock ran around jumping with joy, thinking he’d won himself a car for hitting the coveted sign, as was the longstanding tradition in cricket. It wasn’t until the umpire’s cry of ‘No Ball!’ that the werewolf captain noticed the headless vampire through the darkness, slumped beside the pitch.
No ball?
No head!
Jason-Jock smacked the next ball through the slips for a crafty single, and finally Fleabag was facing his first ball.
Fleabag was always scared to some fair degree but now he was peaking out. The whole team’s future rested on his hairy head, and between the captain and himself they had to get another fifteen runs. He wasn’t sure he could do it.
Fleabag had been scared stiff of the cricket ball until WG Grace came along. He and WG had practised heaps with a soft red Nerf ball, and soon Fleabag overcame his fear – of Nerf balls.
And that Nerf ball had been bowled by Fleabag’s everlovin’ coach, an elderly gent with a funny, flappy beard, and both gent and beard had been dead nearly 100 years.
Now Fleabag had to face a killer pace attack with a real, rock-hard ball, launched by an angry, beardless vampire who was his sworn enemy and a paid-up member of the Werewolf Wasters. Fleabag whimpered and his face crinkled up like an overstuffed taco.
He was about to cry.
Jason-Jock met Fleabag halfway up the pitch and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t panic, Fleabag. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘I could be killed!’ wailed Fleabag.
‘You’re a werewolf! You can only be killed by a silver bullet – not a red ball.’
‘I could be severely maimed,’ Fleabag countered.
‘Well,’ replied Jason-Jock, ‘I’ll take my chances with that. You’ll be alright. Just try to block the ball and give me the strike. Just don’t get out. I’ll do the rest.’
‘Easier said than done,’ replied Fleabag, gritting his teeth and facing up to the bowler.
First ball he faced was an evil in-swinger that literally shaved the bails and left them rocking in the dark. Had the slightest breeze blown, the whole show would’ve been all over Red Rover, call your aunt who lives in Dover.
Second ball was a yorker that luckily wasn’t on stump, or it would’ve spelt death, D.E.T.H.
Third ball Fleabag played a blocking shot. It worked. Cripes, he thought – I’m not that bad. Which was a lie, but we’ll let it go. Everybody needs a dream, even werewolves.
Considering what a monumental wuss he was, Fleabag did really well. Admittedly he was very lucky, closing his eyes and poking his bat out mostly, but he didn’t get out.
If there hadn’t been so much at stake, Jason-Jock would’ve been enjoying himself. He cracked the ball to the boundary a couple of times and nearly hit another six, causing the vampire cheer squad to hiss and fizz with savage rage and exhibit symptoms of a broad spectrum of anger management issues.
JJ slipped as he played a cut shot and ran a snappy single, nearly getting himself run out, but finally they were level score with the vampires, and one run away from victory.
Trouble was, Fleabag was the batsman on strike. Could he hold out for one more run? Could he save the day, salvage their chances, rekindle their lives?
Oh, the tension. Oh, the humanity. Oh, my haemorrhoids.
The vampires sent their nastiest bowler in, desperate to uproot Fleabag. The vampire’s speciality bowl was dead-bodyline, and his even specialer specialty was slinging deliveries straight into the batsman’s head. Now he slowly paced out his run-up, a full 200 metres, 200 steps, so far back he was starting from the ladies’ queues at the members’ toilets, in a neighbouring stadium.
Fleabag, meantime, was laying down skidmarks in his cricket whites that not even a full bore exorcism would ever remove.
The run-up began, slowly, gathering pace. Flecks of blood sprayed from the bowler’s murderous fangs, jolting in time with the pistons that were his legs. Closer, closer, closer, the dark gleaming eyes, the fangs, the inevitability of Fleabag’s horrible death.
Fleabag whimpered, closed his eyes, prayed.
The killer bowler fired a cannonball of death. The air sizzled with hate and craziness and too many bad metaphors. Fleabag threw his bat up in front of his face, desperately fending off the red missile that would take his head off at the stump if it connected.
With Fleabag dead, the vampires would win by default.
The ball nicked the bat and sailed up in the air, a genuine Heavens-to-Betsy, lollypop catch.
No! No! After all the hard work, all the heartache, all the blood, sweat and tears … to lose in the final second.
Like most things in low-market books of gibberish like this (from the simplistic story summary on the back cover to the author’s faked credentials on the front), the above chapter heading is bogus, spurious, erroneous and wrongus.
There’s nothing unlucky in it at all …
The two vampire fielders raced for the ball, cracked heads, fell dead. The ball landed on the ground, rolling. Fleabag opened his eyes, amazed to find himself still alive.
‘Run!’ screamed Jason-Jock.
Fleabag stared down the pitch, saw his captain running and sprang out of his crease like a jumping-jack. Then he saw the kitten. It had wandered out of the crowd, meandered through the field looking for some attention and settled onto the pitch. Fleabag stopped dead in his tracks. He was petrified of kittens. Nothing could induce him to budge. His team screamed and howled from the benches. The vampire team hissed and spat and cursed from the sidelines.
Pandemonium reigned.
Screams and whistles. Shouts and incriminations. Threats of violence from parents. Unsavoury advice from old ladies.
It was deadset chaos.
Then, out of nowhere, Principal Skullwater streaked across the midnight pitch, his withered and wrinkled form as nude as the Creator created him. Bad form all round, from my observations, but I won’t get in the way of time-honoured cricketing traditions like streaking, and certainly won’t put myself in the way of a streaking Skullwater.
He skipped across the pitch, aged bits and wrinkles flying everywhere, collared the kitten in one swift move and popped it in a sack. ‘Plump and young and juicy,’ muttered Skullwater as he sprinted past on his naturalistic way. ‘This kitten will do nicely for my dinner.’
Then the naked principal was gone, vanished into the darkness. So had the kitten.
And Fleabag ran, ran like the devil was on his tail. The vampire fieldsman pegged the ball from the outfield, straight at the wickets. The stumps tore apart like the little pigs’ house of sticks just as Fleabag crossed the crease.
But Fleabag was safe. He’d made it.
The werewolves had won the Cup.
The howls of joy! The yelps of delight! The baying for vampire blood! The capering of those delighted dogs as they jostled and snarled and rough-housed and rolled and scuffled and scrambled and snapped their teeth, before completing the whole victory ceremony with a big, deep sniff of each others’ butts.
It’s a werewolf thing …
Next Monday the truck from Death Valley High delivered the portable classroom. It was a sweet victory finale for Horror High, a fully swish scene. I was supposed to cut the ribbon at the opening ceremony, but the security guards wouldn’t let me through.
The two flash portable classrooms now squatted side by side, housing all the overflow students, with their two portable toilets housing all the overflow from the students … the finer details of which we definitely don’t need to examine here.
Principal Skullwater pranced about, grinning, gaping, slapping backs and praising the victorious werewolves. Now he was their best mate, their biggest supporter, head of their fan club, the one and only person who’d believed in them from the very start, and never doubted they’d do it.
The shonky sod.
He’d checked the new portable classroom out, made sure everything wa
s in its place and now proceeded around the rear to check the attached toilet block. This was the best part of all. These two extra dunnies would ease the chronic lunchtime toilet gridlock, discourage all those monsters ducking behind bushes and banish those interminable lines of straining students waiting for the can, man.
Oh yes, this was the highlight of winning the bet for Skullwater. He had a weird fixation with toilets and considered himself an expert in all things septic.
He sure wasn’t an expert in etiquette. As far as good manners were concerned, Skullwater might just as well have been raised by wild lowland gorillas. He didn’t bother to knock on the portable classroom’s toilet door, just barged straight in. Perched on the throne was WG Grace, pants around his ankles, going about his business 19th-century style and reading a cricket magazine.
It might have been WG’s quick temper or it might have been that powerful and recurring gypsy curse – nobody who witnessed it could say for sure – but the final effect was there for all to see.
The new classrooms may have looked impressive, but the truly notable fixture was the toilet block and its bold, post-modernist approach to interior design – Principal Skullwater stuffed headfirst down the bog!
Paul Stafford is a literary consultant working in schools across Australia, and the author of nine books of teenage fiction. He grew up in Kurrajong Heights and now lives outside Bathurst, NSW. He studied print journalism at Mitchell CAE, graduating in 1989, but renounced the make-believe world of journalism for the hard and gritty reality of teenage fiction. Although a career in writing has meant abandoning his childhood dreams of wealth and respectability, he now gets to sleep late, dress scruffy and gnaw on the skulls of his enemies. It’s a trade-off he’s learnt to live with.
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