Season 2- Chapter Four, Raven Slave No More

Charles Dickens, Football Manager

Sup brothas.

This pre-season seems to drag on forever, however I look at my fixture list and see there is only two more friendlies left- Yeovil and Hartlepool. Tempted to hand the keys to the team’s cage to Oscar Wilde for those matches, I decide it’s best to decide which of these bitches should make the team for the games which matter.

So, on to Yeovil.

We start well as Murphy scores once again- when he swings his sword they all choppable (props to anyone who gets that reference). This game is important- Yeovil are a genuine League Two side, so this is an important test. We go into half-time strong, so I satisfy myself with testing whether leeches really do heal on Raven.

Mullin scores as he comes on for Fortune-West during half-time. I’m likin’ the looks of this!

Fuck yeah! We finish the game and carry our plunder back to our camps, along with their womenfolk.

You’re fucking mine, Raven you little piss-cunt. He ain’t goin nowhere.

The slave’s escaped! I suspect it was with the help of those human rights dickheads, so I hunt down anyone in Accrington who has any haircut except a skinhead (which oddly turns out to be no-one…). He’ll be recaptured, damnit!

We begin against Hartlepoo, our final friendly, and as I looked at the empty, blood-caked seat of Raven in the dressing room, a small acidic tear appeared at my eye. I promised the team:

“Raven was an example to all of ya- listen to whatever the fuck I say or suffer the origin story of a Batman villain. So fucking beat the shit out of this team or you get acid in yo face and a dick in yo mouth.”

Fucking arse-meat!

Fortune-West strikes back as the game proceeds end to end, as the 10 Stanley fans cheer and jeer, throwing beer bottles and bags of shit at our alcoholic bags of shit.

DICK(ov)!

Murphy earns his minimum wage as we strike back against these shitslots.

The final match card spells the facts.

Our first match is against dirty gay boys Darlington. Darlington are odds-on favourites, something we of course are not foreign to. I put the players into intensive training, and I step up efforts behind the scenes to launder enough cash to save this tinpot club from oblivion.

Here’s the opening squad- Mullin is kept as an impact player to bring on when Fortune-West runs out of brasso in his joints; Florence, as I like to call him, Wilson is our lad of choice at leftback. Morais is a new bloke, a little dykey dego who I enjoy wrapping up in a man-sized tortilla and mocking with mariachi music every time he enters the training ground.

“Reckon you can win, Mr Dickens?”
“Of course we fucking can. You know what? I’m not used to losing. I’m just used to kicking so much ass, that it’s as foreign a feeling as rejection at the hands of a slut, or an empty whipping hand. My trigger finger says we’ll beat the shit out of these little cunts or my players will die tryin’. And don’t mistake me for a joker.”

We line up against the chicken shit muthafuckers, ready to show this division who’s fucking boss. The Accrington fans enjoy visiting an equally disgusting cesspool of a city, I promise them pic-and-mix from Woolworths if they win- a pane of glass over the head is the opposite wager.

We dominate harder than Andrew Sachs’ niece, as Darlington are saved by their goalkeeper.

We go into half time and these motherfuckers just don’t know what’s coming to them. I mean, who the fuck do they think they are, not beating them to a shred of meat.

It takes us until the 63rd minute and a whole lot of bile and spit in the faces of my strikers for us to break-through, as we keep them encamped in their half and kick the living brown and black shit out of them.

Darlington hack down harper in the boss, so we step up to the fight. I await with a mad eye on my striker from the by-line, and get ready my sharpy sharpy trusty trusty throwing knife…

Mullin converts and earns another day of living, as we set our dominance complete.

A second half performance which kicked almost as much ass as me and Chuck Norris on a night on the town solvin’ crimes (that’s a fucking awesome spin-off if there ever was one!), which earns them some sweeties and a night of passion with Oscar. They don’t really consider this a prize, but Oscar’s AIDS infested cock says otherwise.

Mission fuckin’ accomplished, niggas.

So truly begins the second season of Charles Dickens, muthafuckin Football Manager