Warface - Steven Scott Nelson - Bog

I'm feeling down and dirty, feeling kind of mean, so I give those fans my middle finger. Those poor bastards go nuts. My team looks at me in awe. My coach frowns and the opposing one begins to furiously scratch out new plays. The Warface is feeling her oats tonight and they all know they're in for a deep snag. I see our opponents and I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. Their fans can't help them. Their coach can't help them. I'm going to run them off their own track in front of their own fans and there is not one thing they can do about it. I see my counterpart positioning herself on the outside line. I've got my eye on her and I've got her number. She is going nowhere. I'm going to body check her narrow ass off the track and into the third row. I hear the second whistle sound. The jammers are starting to move behind us as I veer toward her. I lower my right shoulder. She sees me at the last second. I smile as her eyes open wide. I get speed, lean in deep and hit her. My jammer, Brute, slides up my left side. I see the opposing jammer shimmy through the wall and I give chase. Silly rabbit, no one gets past the Warface. Not tonight they don't.