It was Game day.
Across the city crowds surged like syrup down a hot stack toward the stadium. Some came for the football. Others came for the mascots. Most came because they’d heard a rumour that OGRE’s vending machines were selling experimental hot dogs again and didn’t want to miss the fallout.
Inside the stadium, anticipation buzzed like a caffeine-overloaded beaver. Vendors hawked foam fingers, souvenir pies, and commemorative oxygen. The junior agents — padded, painted, and perilously under coached — paced the locker rooms with expressions ranging from mild dread to heroic denial. Somewhere in the rafters, a band was rehearsing the national anthem with so much brass it qualified as weapons testing.
And MONARCH?
MONARCH was on high alert.
Not for fumbles or fouls — but for the inevitable pow, splat, or boom that always arrived fifteen minutes after OGRE tried to look respectable in a government-sanctioned venue.
Because this wasn’t just a game.
It was a field test in cleats.
It was a broadcast spectacle laced with sabotage.
Meanwhile...Fifteen minutes to the National Anthem.
On the field, the wind had picked up again.
It swept across Royale City Stadium like a mischievous broom, flicking rain sideways and jostling confetti from the rafters before it was scheduled to fall. Down on the field, junior agents were jogging nervously in formation. Somewhere behind them, a mobile churro cannon misfired and struck a man dressed as a foam football.
But high above, on a narrow sky bridge that overlooked the eastern stands, Banks and Thorne stood with their collars up, their breath steaming, and their agendas irreconcilable.
Thorne was holding a clipboard. He hadn’t stopped smiling in twenty minutes. Banks was holding nothing. She had dropped her thermos ten minutes ago, out of sheer disbelief, when the marching band was replaced mid-procession by a unicycle ballet troupe sponsored by OGRE Creamed Corn: “Engineered for Palatability. Approved by Nobody.”.
Below, the stadium buzzed. Not with excitement. With uncertainty.
“This,” Banks muttered, “is not football.”
Thorne adjusted his scarf — silk, navy, embossed with tiny golden OGRE logos.
“This,” he said, gesturing wide like a royal presenting a kingdom, “is football-adjacent. Emotionally football. Commercially, very football.”
“People are eating popcorn out of edible helmets.”
“Saves on cleanup.”
“The veterans were honoured with laser projectors and a steam-powered fountain that spelled "SALUTING OUR VETERANS OF FOOTBALL – (OGRE CARES THIS WEEK!)".
“They liked it.”
“They fled from it.”
Thorne gave a casual shrug, as if even he were surprised how many fires had been put out by now.
“A few adjustments. But, you’ll note — all within regulation.”
Banks turned sharply, the wind catching her coat like a cape.
“You’ve buried this event under so much legal molasses, it’s unrecognizable.”
“But very profitable molasses.” He tapped his clipboard. “Let’s walk through the highlights.”
“No.”
He walked anyway.
“One: indoor tailgate experience — immersive, multi sensory, monetized. Fans loved the fog tunnel that smelled like ketchup chips. Good crowd movement, moderate panic, one lawsuit — but no paramedics needed.”
“Because they were locked out of the corridor.”
“Two,” Thorne continued, “Legends Luncheon: emotional, chaotic, and the hoop stunt got two million views before it was even over. That’s synergy you can’t buy.”
“I vetoed the flaming hoop.”
“You vetoed a double flaming hoop. We used one. Rule book permits reasonable pyrotechnics under Section 5, Subsection... oh, I think it's ‘Go big or go home.’”
Banks pinched the bridge of her nose so hard her glasses squeaked.
“Three,” Thorne said brightly, “the commemorative program? A big hit.”
“It’s a cry for help printed on recycled delusion.”
“With clues about the OGRE mission statement. Tell me that’s not interactive
patriotism.”
There was a pause. A long one. The kind of pause that makes birds look over their shoulders and weather forecasts change. Then—
A bang echoed from the western bleachers.
A t-shirt cannon had exploded early. Again. It had been loaded with protein bars instead of shirts. A cheer went up. Then some confusion. Then a “Boo,” half-hearted but heartfelt.
“I hope you’re proud,” Banks muttered.
“I’m deeply satisfied,” Thorne replied. “And may I point out — still well within the 1930 Rule book. Specifically under ‘Fan Engagement Strategies Not Otherwise Specified.’”
She turned to him. Really looked at him. “You’ve turned one of our nation’s most respected sporting traditions into an all-you-can-market buffet of grease, glitter, and re branded chaos.”
He beamed. “Thank you.”
“That was not—”
But she stopped. Because down below, in the middle of it all, the anthem singer had finally arrived for the dry run-through — flown in by suspended bicycle from the roof, trailing a banner that read:
"YOU STAND FOR THE ANTHEM AND YOU WILL FALL IN LINE?"
And behind her, Big Joe wandered onto the field wearing his ref cap, a striped jersey several sizes too small, and a foam finger on each hoof.
Banks didn’t even blink anymore.
“Shall I mark this down as another win-win?” Thorne asked.
She exhaled like a train engine low on coal.
“Mark it,” she said, “as a countdown.”
“To kickoff?”
“To your eventual tribunal.”
Thorne only smiled wider.
“We’ll brand that too.”
The fog machines started first.
They hissed from every corner of the stadium, releasing a light blue mist that shimmered under the floodlights like a shampoo commercial gone rogue.
Then came the lasers — a grid of bright red beams crisscrossing midfield like a sci-fi security system guarding the world's least subtle vault.
From the viewing suite, Banks squinted.
“This doesn’t feel like ‘O Canada.’ This feels like the intro to ‘Laser Lords IV: Rise of the Synth-Priests.’”
Then the music hit.
Not piano. Not brass. Not even a choir.
Instead: a wall of synth. Warbling. Majestic. Deeply unsettling. The kind of soundtrack that plays when a star ship explodes in slow motion… or when a barbarian prince discovers he’s actually a cyborg from the planet Nova Maximus.
At midfield, Redd Ensign stood at attention, helmet over his heart. His eyes were misty — not from fog, but from the sheer anticipation of this sacred moment.
“The anthem,” he whispered. “The hymn of the homeland. The soul of the game. This... this is why we play.”
Squire stood beside him, less inspired. “Do we… salute the fog? Or wait for the remix?”
And then — the flag.
From the northeast tunnel came a golden ceremonial platform, pulled by four junior agents on chromed-out roller blades. Atop it stood a single Canadian flag — tiny, stiff, clearly meant for a desk — flapping beside two dozen OGRE pennants, each five times the size.
From the loudspeakers, Thorne’s voice purred: “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem… presented in OGREvision?.”
On cue, the music swelled.
A synth eagle screamed. A guitar solo attempted O Canada, then veered wildly into Thunderama-cats, took a detour through Maple Rangers, and crash-landed in a minor key power ballad.
The crowd stood. Confused.
Some placed hands over hearts. Some filmed it.
One man saluted the nacho stand.
Back on the field, Redd’s lip trembled. “I… I don’t know what country this is for,” he whispered. “But I don’t think I could live there.”
Beside him, Soash nodded, arms crossed as mist curled around his boots. “Stirring,” he said. “Bold. Expensive. I wept.”
“You didn’t,” Sandy snapped.
“Internally,” he replied. “Like a man.”
Back in the booth, Banks was halfway to the control panel. “This is a travesty,” she growled. “That flag is a toothpick, and the anthem sounds like a laser dentist appointment.”
Thorne didn’t look up. “All anthem modifications were approved under the 1930 Dominion CupTheatricality Addendum. Section 12: ‘Sound and Colour Enhancements May Be Used to Increase Marketable Grandeur.’”
“Marketable what?”
But it was too late. The anthem reached its climax. A flying robot cow soared over the crowd on a visible wire, hind legs sparking, trailing a banner that read:
CANADA: PRESENTED BY OGRE.
The Stadium was silent, everyone trying hard to figure out what just happened.
Then — a single, confused clap. Soash joined in immediately. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s the moment. That’s the album cover.”
Redd slowly lowered his hand from his chest. “I’m going to need to pray about what just happened,” he murmured.
Meanwhile… The Coin Toss
At midfield, Redd, Squire, and the two junior agent captains stood waiting in the drizzle. Redd looked proud. Squire looked damp. The junior agents looked nervous — like they’d just been told they were about to meet the King and also be tackled by him.
From the far end zone came the unmistakable sound of Soash making an entrance.
“Here we go,” Squire whispered.
Soash didn’t just walk onto the field. He arrived.
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Striding through a tunnel of his own hype, arms raised like a pageant winner, flanked by two junior agents tossing invisible rose petals, he radiated the self-satisfaction of a man who had once autographed his own mirror.
Sandy, trudging behind him with a clipboard and the soul of a woman bracing for disappointment, had her hood up and her face down.
The entrance lasted fifteen minutes. No music. Just the sound of Soash narrating his own greatness.
“And now... the team you’ve all been waiting for. The underdogs. The crowd-pleasers. The cinematic dark horses with a third-act twist — Team Maple Might!”
Sandy muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “I’d like to twist something.”
At the centre of it all stood Big Joe.
His referee’s cap sat askew atop his antlers. A striped jersey stretched across his chest like a tablecloth trying its best. One sleeve was clearly inside-out. Around each leg now bobbled a pair of bright orange pool floaties — no one knew why, and no one dared ask.
His whistle dangled from his neck like a badge of authority. Tangled in fur. Possibly chewed.
He looked like a sentient sports store clearance rack.
“Redd,” Squire whispered, tugging at his sash, “this is taking forever. What about the coin toss? Big Joe’s already eaten three rolls of quarters. And my lunch money. I’m out of coins.”
Redd nodded solemnly, gaze fixed on the fifty-yard line with the reverence of a man watching a national ceremony unfold.
“All part of the great game, lad. Canadian football is like life — noble, unpredictable, full of mud and occasionally peppered with injustice. It reminds me of my boyhood in Fort Frances... racing my bicycle through the sugar beet fields... singing the national anthem to the wind—”
Behind them came a sound.
A deep, wet, rolling hrrrnk — like a sousaphone sneezing into a velvet curtain.
Then: choke... clatter... SPANG!
Thirty assorted coins spilled from Big Joe’s mouth and rattled across the turf like divine judgment from a novelty piggy bank. One struck a VORTEXADE cooler. Another bounced off Soash’s boot. A third rolled in a perfect circle, paused, and collapsed beside a well-chewed rubber ball — yesterday’s favourite.
“Heads, I win!” Soash declared, plucking a coin from the grass and tossing it dramatically in the air. He caught it without looking. “Great game, Redd. Well fought. Let’s collect the trophy and make that brunch reservation.”
Redd stared at him.
“That’s... not how this works,” he said slowly. “That’s not how any of this works.”
Big Joe let out another hrrrnk — this one sharp and unmistakably offended. He pawed at the ground, lifted a front hoof, and pressed his referee’s whistle to his lips.
He blew.
The sound cut through the stadium like patriotic lightning. A flock of pigeons bolted from the rafters. A tuba in the marching band let out a surprised honk.
Then Big Joe turned toward the sideline, stomped three times, and jabbed his antler at the chalkboard Squire was holding.
Squire blinked. Then squinted at the message, freshly scrawled in bold, hoof-printed chalk:
“Touchdown: Team Soash.
Penalty: Redd – 15 yards for ‘Unpatriotic Salad Bar Interference.’
Also: ‘No Celery for Anyone Named Redd.’”
Redd’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, filled with the kind of disbelief usually reserved for civil tax violations and experimental Jell-O molds.
“That’s not a rule,” he said flatly. “That’s not in any rule book. That’s a vendetta.”
The wind picked up. A hot dog wrapper skittered across the field like a tumbleweed of injustice.
Then came the voice — low, smug, and carried by a P.A. system likely fuelled by mutual funds and corporate menace.
“Do what he says, Mr. Ensign,” purred Thorne from somewhere in the VIP box. “This is exactly why I appointed that magnificent moose as referee. The people demand a little chaos with their coleslaw.”
Big Joe let out a pleased hrrrnnnkk, raised his whistle in one hoof... and lifted the other in what might have been a thumbs-up. Or a polite hoof-wave. Or possibly just a celebratory twitch.
The crowd roared with approval.
Meanwhile...
It was the first play of the game after kickoff.
Redd’s team had kicked to Soash’s squad, who immediately began what could only be described as synchronized swimming — but on dry land. Limbs waved. Jazz hands flared. Someone did a backstroke across the turf.
The ball, mercifully, bounced out of bounds. It was spotted at midfield.
Redd’s team lined up in formation: focused, determined, boots planted like proud little saplings. And then... they stood there. Waiting.
For fifteen minutes.
Rain drizzled. Flags flapped. One junior agent quietly aged a full year inside their helmet. Redd didn’t move. He stared across the field like a general watching an interpretive coup. His jaw clenched. His playbook got soggy. At one point, he quietly muttered the national anthem through gritted teeth just to keep himself calm.
All because Soash’s team made their entrance.
They paraded from the sideline to the ball in tight choreography, Soash at the front, a boombox on his shoulder blaring synth-pop remixes of the anthem. The junior agents high-stepped behind him, twirling flags and spelling out “S-O-A-S-H” in human letters across the field like a halftime tribute to their own delusions.
They eventually reached the line of scrimmage.
And then...
End of the first quarter.
Redd blinked. Slowly. Like a man confronting the collapse of everything he ever believed about honour, rules, and athletic punctuality.
There was a polite chime.
A tray of steaming poutine sliders floated past on a monorail track labelled “OGRE Snack Experience Rail?.” A robotic voice purred from a speaker in the ceiling:
“Intermission One: Please hydrate responsibly. Remember — disappointment is dehydrating.”
Banks stood at the edge of the viewing suite, arms folded, eyes fixed on the field below. Her expression was somewhere between “surgical assessment” and “resigned fury.”
Beside her, Thorne leaned comfortably against a glass counter, sipping a drink from a souvenir cup shaped like a Mountie’s horse.
“Well,” he said, swirling the beverage like a sommelier of nonsense, “that was... dramatic.”
Banks didn’t turn. “They played a single down.”
“True. But what a down. Interpretive. Evocative. Some say... transcendent.” He smiled. “We’ve already sold out of the commemorative choreography guidebooks.”
Banks raised a brow.
“Souvenirs, Banks. We’re moving product at championship pace. You see that fog machine Soash used? You can rent those now. ‘Fog Your Yard — with OGRE flair!’”
She exhaled. “And the game?”
“Still technically in progress,” he said brightly. “Which means it’s still eligible for all scheduled marketing tie-ins.”
He gestured behind him. On a wall-mounted screen, metrics flickered:
Churro Cannon Accuracy: 62%
Hot Dog Hat Sales: 438 Units
Boombox-Themed Slushie Buckets: Sold Out
Average Fan Understanding of the Rules: 12%
Banks scanned the data with clinical disapproval. “We’re supposed to be showcasing junior agents’ training. Discipline. Teamwork.”
“Oh, they’re working together,” Thorne replied. “Soash’s team executed a human pyramid and spelled out his name using only flag semaphore. That takes cooperation.”
“They haven’t touched the football.”
“Neither has your team. They're still posing like a commemorative stamp.”
Banks finally turned to him. “You’ve turned a national sporting tradition into a retail test kitchen.”
Thorne sipped again. “And yet—ticket revenue, up. Merchandise sales, through the roof. Emotional engagement—off the charts. Someone proposed marriage during the fog solo.”
A long pause.
“Is this your idea of legacy?” she asked.
He smiled, as if she’d paid him a compliment. “Legacy is just brand loyalty over time.”
From the field below, a fresh blast of synth music began. Soash’s team was attempting a second entrance. For reasons unclear, one of them had a cape now.
Banks stared flatly through the glass.
“This isn’t a game anymore.”
Thorne adjusted his scarf and clinked his ice against the side of his novelty horse-cup.
“No,” he said. “It’s an experience.”
Meanwhile, deep into the Second Half...
It was now 18–0.
In favour of Team Maple Might.
Not because of touchdowns. Not because of strategy, or skill, or anything that resembled football.
Soash’s team had been awarded six points for “most synchronized hair flip,” another six for “thematic costume cohesion,” and—most recently—six more for “implied dramatic tension during musical number, judged emotionally resonant by Referee Big Joe.”
Redd’s team, by contrast, had been penalized for “excessive upright posture,” “flagrant use of grass,” and something called “unlicensed whistle envy.”
None of these infractions existed in any rule book Redd had ever seen. Not even the 1930 edition with chapters on zeppelin etiquette.
And now, after watching his left tackle get ejected for “insufficient sparkle,” Redd had reached his limit.
“Joe,” Redd said gently, walking beside the moose like a man approaching a wounded tank. “Come on now, buddy... you remember me.”
Big Joe, looming beside the VORTEXADE? table, with a banner reading, “Fuel the Future. Ignore the Warnings.” He was studying the MONARCH-issued rule book upside down — not reading it, just studying it. The pages were soggy, partly chewed, and flapping in the breeze like they wanted to escape the situation entirely.
“You remember,” Redd continued, trying not to sound desperate. “Fort Frances. That cat chased you up that pine by the ranger station, and who climbed up after you — in his church slacks — to haul your antlers down?”
Joe blinked. Slowly.
“And what did I get for my trouble?” Redd pointed to his knee. “Two sprained ligaments and a scar that still throbs every Groundhog Day. But I did it. Because I believed in you.”
Joe hrrnked. Once. Thoughtful.
“That’s right,” Redd said, stepping into his line of vision. “Because we’re a team. And now... now you’ve got the whistle, the floaties, and—for some reason—the legal power to assign touchdowns by hoof gesture. And what’s Soash’s team doing? Interpretive dance. Fashion shows. Something that involved glitter and a fog machine.”
Joe tilted his head.
“We haven’t even seen the football,” Redd whispered. “There is a football, Joe. There’s supposed to be one.”
Big Joe glanced down.
There it was. Nestled in the turf like an afterthought. Untouched. Unloved. Round-ish.
Redd nodded toward it like it was a sacred relic.
“We’re supposed to eventually pick that up, pal. You know—advance it. Strategically. Like the Founders intended.”
Joe grunted. Shook his head. Hard.
“Come on,” Redd urged, softer now. “You can trust me. Remember our motto: Truth, Justice, and the Canadian Way. You love the anthem. You hum it in your sleep. Remember that game in Winnipeg? You mooed through the whole third verse.”
Big Joe snorted, vaguely offended. Then he spotted the ball. Nudged it with one floatied hoof.
It rolled.
He gasped.
He nudged it again. It rolled again. Another gasp — louder this time.
He did it a third time.
Three rolls. Three gasps.
Redd paused mid-rant, finally noticing. “Joe—what are you doing?”
Big Joe looked at him.
Then the ball.
Then back to Redd.
And nudged it again.
It rolled. He gasped.
Redd groaned into his mittens.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Redd whispered. “They roll. That’s the game, Joe. That’s the whole thing.”
Joe let out a low hrrrnk of revelation.
Then stepped back—directly onto his own whistle. It squawked beneath him like a startled duck.
Redd’s eyes lit up. “So... we can start now?”
Big Joe’s pupils narrowed in thought. Then he blew the whistle. Twice.
Once for “personal reminder.”
Once for “dramatic flair.”
And then, to Redd’s horror, he hoisted a chalkboard—rough, splintered, and clearly dragged from behind the bench—revealing the next official ruling in bright pink sidewalk chalk:
New Rule:
Game starts when the ball makes you feel emotionally ready.
Until then: continued dance montages encouraged.
Also: still no celery for Redd.
From across the field, Soash called, “Great ruling, Joe! Love the theatrical pacing. Keeps the tension up!”
Redd slumped against the cooler, staring at the ball that had just become a metaphor for everything wrong with modern sports diplomacy.
“Et tu, Joe,” he muttered.
Big Joe hrrnked again, nudged the ball a third time…
And watched it roll with delighted wonder.
It happened just before halftime. A glitch in the pageantry. A ripple in the spectacle.
Big Joe, still enchanted by the magic of rolling objects, accidentally signalled “Play On” by blowing the whistle three times in rapid succession — once to clear his nose, once by stepping on it, and once purely for fun.
Redd didn’t hesitate.
“GO!” he bellowed, voice sharp as a cavalry bugle.
His team — who had spent the entire first half frozen in formation like patriotic lawn ornaments — sprang to life. Cleats tore into turf. Hands snapped to motion. The ball, still miraculously untouched by drama, was scooped up by Jenkins, a wiry junior agent with socks up to his knees and fear in his eyes.
“DOWN THE MIDDLE!” Redd shouted. “RUN LIKE YOU OWE THE TAXMAN!”
Jenkins ran.
Past a fog machine.
Past a backup interpretive dance team warming up for Soash’s halftime preview.
Past Soash himself, who was mid-selfie and shouted, “What is happening?! Are we live?! Is this a bit?!”
And straight into the end zone.
Touchdown.
Clean. Legal. Beautiful.
Redd’s arms shot skyward. “YES! Maple mercy, we’re on the board!”
Squire blew a party horn. No one knew where he got it.
Even Big Joe blinked, impressed, before blowing his whistle again — not to stop the play, but to declare “Snack Break.”
On the far sideline, Soash slowly lowered his phone and whispered, “Did we just... lose a sports moment?”
Sandy, not looking up from her clipboard, replied, “Welcome to football.”
Big Joe hrrnked.
And nudged the ball again.
It rolled.
He gasped.