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PremierBromanov · 07-28-2020, 09:04 PM

Earlier this week, it was discovered that terrorist organizations New Orleans Spectres and Edmonton Blizzard took part in the dastardly deed of assigning player roles incorrectly. The world of hockey was in uproar, never had such an abomination disgraced the good name of hockey since the Hamilton Steelhawks figured out the matrix code. While the hockey community took to the web to figure out a reasonable solution (and also to fling shit at eachother, as is tradition), the HO Shaman was hard at work.

Deep in the untamed jungles of Alberta sits the HO Shaman. It took nearly 12 hours for management to hike back there, but time was of the essence and a ruling was required. They came upon a small yurt, acrid smoke rising from the center, indicating either a new pope had been selected, or that the Shaman was deep in meditation. Tattered Canadian flags covered the doorway supported by two wooden hockey sticks, like the very gates of Argonath. The Commissioner dropped his sack (his backpack, not his scrotum) and prepared for a long wait. The Shaman was known to meditate long and hard on matters of hockey. Just as he had sat down, the curtains drew back followed by a cloud of smoke, smelling of ginger and maple. Out trotted the old Shaman, on his head a crown of blades, his torso adorned with used hockey pads. Yet bare were his legs, as required by the humidity and heat of the Albertan Jungle. No jersey he wore, as no bias would he carry into his deliberations. For deliberations they were: The Shaman was not a single mind. He was many; generations of Shamans' (Shamen?) Souls packed into mortal flesh.

No words were needed. The Shaman had sight beyond sight and well knew the issue at hand. He also had an internet connection, which was probably more likely the reason he knew, but wise he was and ever did his sight penetrate the hearts of men. The Commissioner dropped his gaze, too humble to dare share a gaze with The Shaman.

From seemingly nowhere the Shaman pulled out a live chicken, the neck gripped firmly by a knobby hand. In the left hand, a skate blade. Raising both high above his head, arms crossed, he brought them down in one swift motion. To his left, a bloodied skate blade. To his right, a chicken head. Between the Shaman and the fearful Commissioner a headless chicken ran in circles, blood spurting from his open neck like a run-away firehose. After a dozen heartbeats, the chicken slowed to a staggering walk and then fell over, blood gushing in one final defiance of death. The Shaman stepped over and looked long into the pattern of blood, the direction of the body, the twisting of the talons of the once lively bird.

"Limit One per Team"

And Vanished.

The Commissioner looked round, saw no Yurt, no man, if indeed man it was. Yet he knew he had not dreamt it. For this was the way all HO rulings had been done and would always be done.

He took a solemn look around, determined to remember the Shaman's face. But he couldn't. No matter how many times, he never could. In the back of his mind crept the knowing fear that he would never see the end of the Shaman, and the Shaman would never see the end of him.

590 words. Grade it