The Bridgeport Chronicles -Rated R A lot of people ask me what it takes to be a part of a top club as a rookie dman. Well luckily for us I've been journaling. Perhaps a few stories would help shed some light on what it is that makes for a winning club, eh? Well wonder no longer because I've got JUST the story. The Bridgeport Chronicles -Rated R The sun had just set on another day that consisted mostly of 2 things: staring at the TV watching little people intercourse home videos is the first thing. Hawkishly staring over stats to build a bigger E-Peen is the other. Some say one feeds into the other. It was 8 pm on a Saturday and once again I was ignoring my phone, my friends and my family, having forsaken all in the name of dedicating myself to Lord Bon and Commander Math. The fact that I had no friends or family willing to text me anyway is beside the point. The point is that, with The Tigers, I had found renewed purpose. Through the discipline and commitment demanded by both power hungry madmen, I had found the structure I craved. A knock came at the door, more a courtesy as the man named Powertop AGM Bacon strode into the room before the invite was even issued. “Ah what the fuck!?” he said lifting his foot away from the slippery substance on the floor. “Sorry Powertop, sir…must’ve spilt something.” In truth, a knock was not the only thing that came at the door recently. “You’re to see Lord Bon in 5. For God’s sake clean yourself up a little and get dressed.” Lord Bon He sat in a massive throne, all velvet trimmed with gold, as befitting a man of his station. Chains, spiked collars, leather saddles and all sorts of BDSM paraphernalia adorned the walls or hung from the ceiling. Next to the throne was a man in a gimp outfit. I strode in confidently, sure that my record, plus/minus stat and takeaway/giveaway ratio were all too good to get me in trouble. But trouble there was. “You wanted to see me, Lord sir?” came my nervous inquiry. “Son, I’ll cut through the hog shit and turn up the piece of corn-” “Lord sir what does that m-“, I foolishly interrupted. “It means what you think it means, now shut up!” he said, punctuating the end of his sentence by slamming a medieval axe into the table. “Now you’ve done well kid…real well. Your stats check out, record is good and you’ve cordoned yourself off from everyone and everything important in order to dedicate yourself to this online video game hockey league, as we asked.” He paused before whipping the exposed buttocks of the gimp to his left in a random show of anger. After smoothing back his hair and flattening his suit he continued, “But there was an oversight. You’re not…initiated”, he finished while pressing down on a button. Almost immediately a small boy shuffled into the room. “Bite this boy Bent. If you can’t bite a boy then you’re not initiated and you want to be initiated don’t you? You NEED to be initiated don’t you?” The request was so inhuman, so awful and there were so many questions. Why do we have a random boy around for people to bite? Who is the man in the mask? Sensing my hesitation, the Lord began to explain my situation further. “This man beside me is one of our TCs. You don’t know which one and he won’t tell you because he’s sworn to sile-“ “Hey Bent!” came the unmistakably dumb sounding voice of deadbloatedgoat, my former partner in the WJCs. “Hey goatse!” came my excited reply. Lord Bon Bon practically rolled his eyes through the back of his own skull.“Oh for fucks…”, and with that, another round of vicious beating took place. “Point is Bent, if you aren’t going to be initiated we can find some lump of meat who will be. Now bite the kid. Bite the kid.” Right then the walls began to rise, revealing the entire team chanting “Bite the kid” over and over. The pressure was building, the tension mounting and the boys arm, covered in teeth marks, hung limply by his side. All it would take is one, little bite. I had already forsaken all the friends and family I didn’t have anyway, what’s one little bite? Will Bentbd2pointoh bite the arm of this small Cambodian? Will the goat gimp ever recover from his vicious beating? Will this story be met with at least 10 “wtf did I just read?” responses? Find out next time on Bridgeport Chronicles!