In the year of our Lord 2011, several young lords have gathered to do battle on this ground. Lord Shan, Berserker King, hath paired with the gallant Murph Dragonsbane against Lord Leo the Magnificent and Ryan, last descendent of a noble but cursed race of giants. At the evenin’ repast – a culinary delight featuring the finest Italian cheese of the Mac, stuffed Arctic sea bass, and meat of the loaf – the gauntlet had fallen among these lusty young men, eager for battle and opportunity to prove their worth. Not since the Versailles Oath of 1789 have such a momentous occasion graced a tennis court. Lord Leo and his partner Ryan the Stouthearted quickly announced their readiness to play while Shan the Great and Dragonsbane braced their spirits with a rowdy shout.
“We await your serve, sir,” speaketh Murph Dragonsbane, champion of the Undead Court. “Lest you be a coward as well as a knave.”
“No knaves we have here, sir,” Ryan sneereth. “We come to play with men not babes lost in the woods. Play on!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Leo mutterest in the common tongue. “If you ladies are finished playing knights or whatever the hell you call it, we can play some tennis.”
The sport of tennis is a sacred one in these parts. To the Murphey family it transcends the mere appellation of ‘game’ or ‘sport;’ tennis is life here, robbing young men of glory as it bestows it upon another. Thus, the common tongue cannot adequately illustrate the gore-strewn horror and beauty of the game. I, your humble narrator, shall describe the game in the kings-speech, the language of God’s living representatives on this sin-soaked sphere. Continue reading