The sullen, amber glow emitted from a Symmsian dragonfly was the only thing breaking their silence amidst the darkness of the age-old crevasse. They lay in wait in the cold womb of a forgotten glacier hidden away on the outskirts of Montreal. Muffled steps could be heard from above and crystal-like snow floated gently upon their backs with mesmerizing grace. The scout had returned safely.

They started to shimmy forwards with different, yet stylish movements. Those without poles held the front as they would be able to attack without worrying about breaking their thumbs in the process. Those layered with multiple tall tees acted as damage-soaking shields at the back of the surprisingly uniform group. The gorilla guerillas dragged their knuckles through the snow, hunched down low and ready to pummel any resistance with their powerful reach. The lanky ones had to crouch in the tighter sections of the icy valley, brandishing their long poles with bayonette-like baskets. The gypsies acted as lookouts, listening closely for any strange noises with their well-developed ears, which had originally evolved to spot and avoid anything slightly mainstream.

In the midst of this band of unruly warriors, their leader weaved through the icy corridors with his mind in deep thought. How close were they to actually finishing their quest? What horrors would await them after they ascended from these cold reaches to the outside world, gazing upon the Eternal Flame? Casabon knew that these could be their final hours upon this Earth, but he strode onwards steadfast, unwilling to break his Oath of Style. The line marched on up the slope, while unbeknownst to them; a Head Judge sat silently on the edge of the crevasse, sharpening Its claws against the walls and leapt down to strike.

It had been a long and grueling four years. After receiving E-Dollo’s message from the Brave Courier, B-Dog had become furious, improvising a speech of such style and elegance to his loyal followers in The Summer Camps that even Hall the Anklebearer would have been convinced that this was truly real skiing on real mountains. From groms to recreational skiers, the glacier erupted in their victorious booms and hollers, resonating with such force that even the Big Air Bag exploded in a violent burst of pressure. They had amassed an army of thugs and weekend warriors alike, and swore to honor the Oath dictated by their precious leader. From the mountain tops, they marched forth. Day after day, week after week their army grew in numbers. They carried the will and honor of The Courier, now buried in the stone walls of the once forgotten Sacred Halls of High North. As they slayed their enemies before them and echoed the lamentations of their skibunnies, the Olympic Keeps fell one by one. Vancouver was the first to perish in dust. As they ventured forth, rumors carried by the helis from around the world told of the fall of Sochi, the destruction of Athens and the downfall of Tokyo. Even London was no more. Their heroic efforts had struck the hearts of all being imbued with the Sense of Style, beckoning them to rise against their cruel and zealous overlords. The stories told of Judges, once seemed unbeatable, defeated one by one. The massive lines of Casabon, marching towards the metaphorical First Chair, had gained new and powerful generals who had risen from among their ranks. The spoony bard McMurray often told embellished stories of the heroes’ feats in war.

“Oh, hath thou heard of the masterful Leon Dunny,

once plagued by a situation not too sunny,

being lanky at skiing isn’t funny,

yet no Judge could bear the Style of Dear Dunny.

But open thy ears and open thy hearts,

as Little John Strenio sway heads with his acrobatic arts,

thus lend your fear to the Lord of the Manual;

as no Foe could resist the butters of Vanular.

Now open thy soul to seed sown what you lack,

thy are not prepared to witness the Almighty Imlach;

borrowed from films well Followed and Told,

the grandness of Eheath’s size would Unfold.”

The generals were no mere mortals. They had truly ascended to the level of demigods. Even so, as McFee so merrily sang, not even the combined power of the generals could match the will and fire of their Leader of Innovation, B-Dog the Unique. After traveling across the continent, from West Coast to East, their final plan would be put into place – they would bring down the One Flame of Montreal. Why the Olympic Committee had chosen this location for their most powerful tool of obstruction, they would never know. After a swift Safety Meeting in the Smokeshack of Lore, Casabon and his generals rose from its smoky bowels in an enlightened state.

“Master, what should we do if we run into any members of the AFP Committee?” Downey asked.

LJ scoffed: “Spence is a lost cause. He was once one of the two Rookies of Poor Boyz, but the Flame has ensnared him completely. He won’t be of any trouble to us.”

Vanular was silent. He fondly remembered the times when Spence could kick it with the rest of them.

“We could use one of my creative traps to capture any AFP we come across instead of resorting to violence”, Imlach suggested.

“Enough”, Casabon declared. “We will improvise. We will change up our runs so as to cover our tracks and to battle against repetition. Only true embodiments of Style will be a match against the dangers we will face in the Den of Five Rings. We will possibly even run into Head Judges, although their whereabouts and health are unknown.”

The generals looked worried.

“Do not panic. This is where it all ends. Henrik… might still be alive. I can feel a faint presence of thugs and the silent echoes of a Meth and Red mixtape. It might be a trap, but I’m willing to take that chance. Now, men! Click in, and prepare to meet a new dawn. A dawn for the end of this oppression, and the rise of our call. Our call to honor the Oath!”

“TO THE OATH! YEZZIR, B!” the generals shouted.

They were just about to reach the end of the crevasse road, when the Head Judge crashed upon the skiers. The gypsies attacked with all their might, but their edges were far too dull. The tall tee shields amassed upon the abomination as it hissed and snarled from underneath its ringed cloak. The creature sliced through their bodies like butter. Lieutenant Kiesel used the lankies’ poles as a rail to gather speed and flew over the beast, rapidly striking at its beak with a thunderous, yet elegant tap. Yet he missed and was cut in half from the waist down. It just wasn’t stylish enough to defeat the evil being. The group began to falter and some tried to run with their lives, yet there was one man amongst them who didn’t even flinch. Casabon stood his ground, taunting the beast with his French.

The Head Judge unfurled its cloak, revealing a hideous lump of mass, strewn together with bloodied score cards and medal residue. It stood as tall as Downey, yet seemingly more agile for its size. B-Dog closed his eyes. The mass lunged towards with amazing speed setting up a razorblade of rotations up to 1440 degrees. Only inches away from the Leader, it stopped dead in its tracks. The blood started gushing from its beak and it screamed in bellowing agony. It didn’t see it coming. Casabon had finished it off with a stylish one-footer, slicing its grotesque form open like a sack of giant slugs. It fell. The skiers still alive huddled around their Leader, waiting for his commands.

“Tomorrow… Freedom will flow once again!”

The crowd cheered and pulled their lines back into formation. Casabon stepped outside from the crevasse, vanishing into a beaming light with no certainty of the future ahead of him.

Soon, it would all be over.


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