Coach Spachemen threw his space helmet on the ground, stomping on it while shouting, spit flying from his mouth as he tried to get his mouth to form any word that wasn’t a cuss.
“Those galdang robot cheerleaders are at it again! That’s the fourth quarterback they’ve cut the head off of this season! Get Doc Robotus over here, and make it snappy!”
“Hey coach, your blood pressure.”
The disintegrator turned the teenager’s hopes of seeing Tammy Larou’s panties to dust, along with the rest of his body. Coach whipped it back into its holster, sneering at the other blasterball players.
“You boys got anything else to say, or are you gonna get out there and sack those kids?!”
The team shouted halfheartedly, but when Danny’s ashes crumpled to the field, the New States Tyrannosaurus Wrestlers surged forward, moving into position despite the deadly array of sharp implements that were swinging around them. The Saurus’ cheerleaders, once known for wearing only see-through fabric, had been taken off the field by the Society of Parents Who Were Concerned About Pretty Much Anything And Everything, or SPWWCAPMAAE, for short (it is pronounced Sopawwcapmaaie!, commonly ending as if you are screaming while falling down a well or pit when you’re the villain in an Old Earth action picture). Their replacement, the Gleebot 9000, was lauded for its complete lack of any reproductive parts, and was touted as being part of the next wave of ways for parents to ignore the fact that their children would have to have sex at some point in order for them to have grandchildren.
Another player screamed as the Gleebot’s whirling blade arms ripped half of his torso apart, carrying it up into the air. His upper body, still half-alive, puked and cried while the Gleebot spun it around like a gory pom-pom, shouting out a somewhat modified version of the school team’s cheer.
“Tyrannosaurus’! Tyrannosaurus’! You efforts are equal to or greater than the other team’s!
Tyrannosaurus’! Tyrannosaurus’! You hormone-muddled antics appeal to women of low self-esteem and moral caliber!
Tyrannosaurus’! Tyrannosaurus’! Your best years are almost behind you!
Tyrannosaurus’! Tyrannosaurus’! So do something adequate so that you have some memory to suckle yourself with when you’re in your thirties and drowning in an alcohol-fueled oblivion!”
“Goddamn things don’t even rhyme.” Coach chomped down hard on his cigar, flicking the ashes onto Danny’s remains. He could hear his mother crying somewhere out in the field, and the sound was making his head ache.
“Shut up out there!” He fired three or four shots into the crowd, waiting for the beam’s kill-counter to increase a few before turning back to the remaining players. “Where’s Robotus?”
“You shot him three months ago, sir.”
He smirked. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Man, that was funny.” He turned to the remaining living players, gore showering on them at regular intervals as the Gleebot went into its crowd rousing subroutine, an act of raw carnage that would kill at least a quarter of the attendees, much to the entertainment of the other three-fourths.
“Boys, I’m not going to lie to you. The glory you receive on this field will last for the rest of your life. Being the winning team in the Blasterball cup is basically a license to sleep with any woman you see until you come down with sexually-transmitted fleshshredder, after which you will die a pauper’s death, choking on your own skin which you’ve devoured for nourishment in your fever-addled state. It will be the last time you see a woman’s parts without spending a few hundred credits, and the last moment you’ll enjoy your bodies before they become fat and bloated with oncoming age. So, go on and get out there, because the rest of your life was going to be miserable anyway!”
They tore off onto the field with a rousing cheer, falling before the razor blades of the Gleebot, ready to claim everlasting glory.