Fighting Back

I felt like the train had come off the tracks. In the 6th minute, Mladost striker Vokje simply walked past the defence and slotted the ball in the net. If anyone could be accused of having little faith, it was the Novi Sad contingent, and on 14 minutes Ninko the Kid picked up the ball and fed Branko, who played it out wide to The Turd. With plenty of space on the left, he advanced and played a ball through to Darko who slid it in with precision. After 28 minutes, Ilijah picked up a ball from the defence and knocked it 45 yards to Darko who was moving clear. A savage strike saw Novi Sad take the lead. There was still an inevitable air of gloom over all concerned. In the 37th minute Grujic received the ball outside of the Novi Sad box. The defence melted away to let him stroll in and plant it into the roof of the net to draw Mladost level.

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Into The Mouth Of Hell

I drained the glass, and gestured to Angel to bring me another. She stopped scratching the flaky rash that spread across her thighs, pulled her skirt down, and waddled toward me. She was all I had! Jesus, I thought I’d hit the bottom, but the truth was I had only broken the crust on the surface.

Slobodan Zecevic was after me because his wife had been out whoring while he was in Finland; as if I was to blame for that. I only did what anyone in Novi Sad would do with a scab-free hooker, and had ridden her relentlessly. Vasa was trying to put the squeeze on me, and now he knew I was trying to stab him in the back. Boris seemed to be growing distant as he mistakenly considered himself to be a good football manager. The local anglers were after me for filling the river up with unsold programmes. The club was in debt to the tune of nearly £1 million. Chairman Milan Labus had stated that he feared for the long term financial future of the club. A shoddy draw had knocked us off the top of the table. I didn’t have enough money to pay for the drinks I was ordering. However, worst of all was the scabby peasants had started singing that song again.

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Preparing To Resume Battle

The remaining friendlies were against Balkan Bukovica and 14 Oktobar. Neither were classics, nor where they meant to be. The object was to build fitness. Mirkin tore a groin muscle and ruled himself out for 2 months, and Novi Sad won both games, 3-0 and 1-0. Both Cretin and teenage sensation Pilipovic (Pillhead) looked good. I saw Slobodan Zecevic around the place, but managed to keep out of his way. I asked Boris to send him off on a trip and he just laughed, pushing his index finger in and out of his fist in a crude sexual gesture. What’s more, I was sure that Vasa was pissing in my office on a regular basis. On the plus side, I was back in Angel’s good books. I gave her half a jar of marmite, and she was happy.

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Vasa Turns Up The Heat

“Sister, dry your tears and wipe that snot off your face, our region will be the pride of the mudflats; wash yourself with the turnip wine, it’s starting to stink worse than a fisherman’s bilge tank!”

My mind was on other things, such as ensuring my bollocks stayed attached to my body! Obilic proved themselves to be the cheap men of the First Division with a derisory offer for Branko that was rejected out of hand. Then Big Head complained that he wanted first team football. I spent every day avoiding the ground and typical Novi Sad hangouts. Muntpig disappeared that night, and I hadn’t seen her since. I found myself thinking about Angel’s shaved snatch, but there was no way I was going to the ground. I saw Zojan at the bar, and he just laughed. He obviously knew. Then it dawned on me, they all knew. Chuff! Continue reading

The mood turns black … well, blacker

A few days later it was New Year. I got hammered, and celebrated with Muntpig. A few hours later we were in the squalor of my house. Muntpig had a piece of firewood in her mouth, biting against the pain because I was intent on a bit of backdoor action. Things were going swimmingly when there was a knock on the front door. I froze. I didn’t want visitors, especially not as I was up Muntpig to the bristles! I kept quiet and heard the letter box slowly open, then a voice, whispering: “Victor, you little fucker. I am going to cut your balls off.” Then a sinister giggle and the sound of the letter box closing. I recognised the voice; it was Slobodan Zecevic, a Novi Sad scout. He was supposed to be in Finland. What the fuck did he want with me?

I pulled out of Muntpig and wiped my cock on her hair. She sat up and spat out the firewood. I stood there, puzzled. Eventually I looked at Muntpig and asked: “Do you know who that was?” She nodded, and replied: “Yes, that was my husband!”

 

NB. As I said before, this is not my own work. It is Vic Flange’s. The original work can be found on TheDugout, right here. TheDugout is dying, so I’m rescuing the story and giving it the attention it deserves.

Sit Back And Have A Beer

The winter break meant no matches for 10 weeks, and a transfer window was about to open. Boris did was unusual in Serbia; he arranged some friendly matches prior to kicking off again. No one else bothered. A rumour was circulating that Veternik’s keeper, Jovanovic, might be headed to Vojvodina. The training ground was empty, Vasa spent his days wandering the streets with bags of sweets, and Angel told me she had shaved her snatch. I spent my days drinking cheap beer with Boris’ son Zojan and talking football, and I spent my nights banging seven bells out of Muntpig. She started to walk bandy, and could pass a pint pot through her anus, but she seemed to enjoy it all. The weather deteriorated, the printing press started to rust, and Novi Sad settled beneath a patina of misery.

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