Drippin' Dirty

   #muse

“The sight of a voluptuous figure gets me weak to my knees" said a friend who was squeezed in the corner at the extreme left of the gallery facing the rostrum.

We had been there for a couple of hours already  witnessing the 19th NSF Martyrs Memorial Trophy with early monsoon raindrops pouring as if there was no tomorrow. The air inside the dilapidated ground must've been refrigerated to its highest temp well before being diffused adding to the misery of coldness and freaks of the onlookers.

“What does a Booty mean to you?” another douchebag kicked back. It didn't take long for the former to throw back the ball. “a good material in bed”, he said. A long stretched and exaggerated ‘wohhhh...’ followed in unison (that was the culture tho). Now I know where the conversation was heading to but for some reasons I had no intention of hijacking and throwing the topic out of the ground. If I do that, it would be unapologetically unethical on my part and a sign of disloyalty to the circle. I blended in!

Fast forward. It was on additional time and the players were battling for the ball in the flooded ground. “I banged yours like a lot before the two of you hit up. How’s the gate condition now?”, the first guy commented haughtily. It was douchebag’s turn to reply. It didn’t take a seconds long for him to react with a frosty fist over his face. Now the conversation was getting as dirtier as the players in the ground could get. His nose began to drip warm blood. The girls seated down in the front row turned their unsolicited heads and smirked off. It seemed like the chilly air had ripped the nerves apart of their pale faces.
Then it became a scene where few elders took active part in cooling the two pervs down and saved everyone from being kicked out of the ground by the caretakers.

The match ended with a 2-1 in favour of the club clustered in black and red jerseys. We made our way out by trailing on the sideways of the gallery to avoid congestions. But as unlucky as the guy with a bleeding nose could get, he slipped and fell into a small fishery pond made in the corner of the ground. He had to get home with a swollen nose, if not a bleeding nose and a soaked dress. The pouring had stopped by then. We helped him out of the pond and got his clothes squeezed off of water. Everyone became literally sober and talked in the softest tone possible (as though it was a protocol we had to follow after every fights).
Both of them reconciled and apologised equally much before the most philosophically retarded guy in the group hopped in and started giving life lessons.
It was understood that one shouldn’t make negative remarks of each others’ girlfriends. Just then, another friend showed up and said to the unlucky guy “Are you wet?”. A girl nearby turned her head quickly and stomped off.

Egwin Yim