Delayed a day due to quality content of actual importance in the diary section that I didn't want to boot from the front page…
In the loosely adapted ways of Dante, I present to you the seventh canto of Formerly's Football Inferno. I promise nothing when it comes to grammar, punctuation, logical plots, or anything that normally goes into story writing.
For those of you unfamiliar, Dante walks through each region of hell to learn the sins and punishment by talking to those souls trapped. In this canto, we reach the great city of hell – what Dante called Dis. This city houses the final circles of hell.
Davy Crockett and I made it down to the ferry after a lengthy walk. Along the way I admired the great wall along the far side of the Styx. The wall was gray and stained with blood. It had a dank and dark feeling, evil if you will.
"Davy, what's with the wall?" I ask.
"That there wall separates the light sinners from the truly vile sinners. Behind it lies the great city of the underworld. Back several years ago, it was called Dis. Now, they officially call it Columbus."
I turn to Davy with a smug look on my face, "That's not too cliché is it?"
He replies, "Yeah, hell isn't filled with a truly creative bunch."
"Apparently," I say.
When we reached the ferry, we were met by the boat keeper. The keeper was in a druid robe, so his features were hidden, but I could tell he was tall. When we approached him, he motioned us to the boat without saying so much of a word. He left my nerves unsettled.
About half way across, I decided to break the silence and ask him a question, "So is this your full time job?"
The next thing I know, the boat keeper pulled up his oar and wacked me across the head. Everything went black.
When I awoke, I was on the banks of the Styx, already taken off of the boat. I could hear the current ripping by the shore and someone talking in the background. As I came to my senses, I realized it was Crockett talking while trying not to laugh.
"Dammit, man, that was one hell of a hit. You can't be doing that kind of stuff...Yeah, yeah, I know, he'll be fine. Just take it easy you crazy badger."
As I rolled over and up onto my feet, I looked over a boulder to see Crockett talking to the robed figure. This time his hood was down. It was Bucky Badger. That stinking badger knocked me out.
I tried to run over to him to give him a return shot, but my head hadn't quite recovered. As I stumble across the banks toward Bucky and Crockett, I saw the badger reach into his pockets and retrieve a bag. Too dizzy to fight and interested in what he had to offer, I stopped and grabbed the bag from his hand.
"What's this?" I asked.
Bucky, unable to talk motioned to Crockett to explain. Davy said, "That's a mixture of mushroom, mushroom, and snake called Badger, Badger, Badger. It'll clear your head."
Puzzled, I reply, "Clich—"
Davy interrupts, "Cliché, yes. We established that already."
"Just checking," I say as I take a bit of the contents in the bag. Amazingly the stuff worked, clearing my head almost immediately. I handed the bag back to Bucky as he made his way back to his boat. He motioned in a big wave, replaced his hood and was off.
I whisper to Davy, "I hate badgers," and Bucky promptly turns around, gives the arm gesture for "suck it." That bastard. But he's not worth the effort of chasing him down. Especially with him already so close to his boat oar.
Turning back to Crockett, I ask, "So what next?"
"Well, we gotta get into Columbus. There's a gate up yonder. We'll have to go in there," said Crockett.
As we walked up to the gate, the tower over the gate loomed large. It had to be over 200 feet tall. The gate itself was over 20 feet tall, made of thick sturdy wood and fastened with steel. It did not appear to have been opened in years. Above the gate was a look out post that appeared to be manned by no one.
When we reached the foot of the doors, Davy called up to the post, "Hey, you up there. Get your lazy selves down here and open this door!"
Nothing happened. Davy and I look at each other with a "now what?" look. A few seconds later, I see what looks like a man with a mohawk poke his head over the edge of the lookout post.
"What is you're name?" called the look out.
"I'm Davy Crockett, and this is formerlyanonymous," replied my guide.
"You're not Davy Crockett, you're John Wayne! And who the hell is formerlyanonymous?" returned the man from above.
Davy turned to me and whispered he'd be right back. Davy then floated on up to the look out post and disappeared behind the ledge. I waited for something to happen, and after waiting two or three minutes with nothing happening, I started to lose hope.
All of a sudden, I hear a yell and see the mohawked man falling from the ledge. When he reaches the ground, I realize it's Sparty, and man, does he have one hell of a black eye. Crockett comes back down from the ledge, settles down posing like Captain Morgan over the Michigan State mascot.
"Sparty, no. I'm Davy Crockett. You are going to open that door," says Crockett with the expression John Wayne would always would have at his characters' smuggest moment of any of his movies.
"Well you're out of luck, brah. I own this gate. I'm not opening this door without divine intervention," replied the Spartan. And like clockwork, a light shined through the darkness above. Out of the godzillatron, a voice as sweet as candy spoke:
"Little bro, this is Ufer. You'll open that gate right now."
Sparty reluctantly answers, "Yeah, brah. I'm on it."
And Ufer said unto Sparty, and "bow down to the Michigan fan as he passes."
The light faded back into the godzillatron and everything went back to normal. This was awesome. Sparty got up and started pushing open the door to let me pass. As I walk through the door, he bowed down.
Right as I pass through the threshold of the door, Sparty called me "scUM." Before I could even insult his typically Spartan, weak insult, a lightning bolt came from above and punished the Spartan. Life was good.
As we passed through the gates, we entered the 6th ring of hell and the city of the extremely not cleverly named city of Columbus, where the true villains of Michigan football exist.