[Chief Rum]

August 7, 2002

Peter awoke with a start and a yelp, breaking the stony silence of the darkness around him.

He breathed hard, his thoughts still possessed by the events of his dreams. They were so real, he thought.

Gradually, a dull pain in his head began to seep through his stupor, burning it away and gripping his temples in a vice.

"Ooowww...", he groaned, reaching his hand to his head. He noticed he felt hot and clammy, and that the air was suffocatingly stuffy. His mouth tasted foul, like he had been asleep for days.

He recognized the symptoms right away--he was hungover.

"Good Lord," he muttered under his breath. "This musthave been quite the ringer..."

He swung his legs out from what he determined to be a couch, and settled his feet--still wearing his shoes--on the carpet below. The very motion made him feel a little sick, although he had been drunk often enough to know that his time for worshipping the porcelain god was past.

All was dark, but he finally began to pick out the details of the room he was in, including a steadily brightening line of pink dawn out the window at the far end.

He was in Andy Trellis's den. He must have passed out here.

Suddenly, the thought of Andy screamed at him through the veil of slumber.

"The Poppies!", he gasped. He leapt to his feet, bringing another wave of nausea and sharp stabbing pains to his head, but he ignored them as he rushed int he direction of Andy's bedroom.

"Andy," he whispered harshly to Andy's closed door as he approached it. It did not open, but it had been left slightly ajar. He pushed it open lightly and peeked inside. He could just make out the form of his friend in his bed. Peter steadied himself on the door jamb as the effects of the alcoohol swarmed over him again.

"Andy!" he whispered again.

The mound moved with a groan, and Peter knew he had been heard.

After a few seconds of twisting on the bed, his friend Andy finally peeked out at Peter from under the covers.

"Go to bed, you arse!" he said throatily. "It's hours yet until ee must be up."

"I'm sorry, Andy," Peter whispered, though he knew not why--Andy lived alone. "I had a weird dream and I need to ask you some things."

The mound gave out another muffled groan of despair, before a hand snaked out and turned on the small lamp on Andy's bedside table. For all its compactness, the light had the glare of the sun to Peter's eyes, as he squinted against it and the waves of pain it sent rolling through his skull.

He steadied himself a moment again, as Andy through back the covers and moved up into more of a sitting position.

"Peter, this better be bloody important, or I'm gonna fetch my cricket stick and break it on your arse!" Andy warned. It was patently ridiculous, of course, since Andy is a smallish lout of a man, but Peter knew him to have a fierce enought emper when he got going.

"Well, I don't know tis all that important but I have need of ease of mind," Peter said. "I dreamt of the Poppies."

"What a shocker," Andy replied mockingly. "Was it the Champions Cup one again, or the one where you lead the Poppies to promotion to the Premier with an extra time win over Rushden?"

"Neither," Peter said, solemnly. "This was far more real. Or it felt like it, anyway."

"Well, then, get to it," Andy said. "What happened?"

"Well, I dreamed a month or two, it felt," Peter started. "It wasn't a day-in, day-out thing, but more of a leaping vision of all things Poppy. I dreamt of four friendlies and other things."

"The Poppies have played six friendlies," Andy said. "The last one was last night, after which we both got blithering drunk, remember?"

"Well, sorta...", Peter admitted. "Who did we play again?"

"Did you just drink the Bass, or did you slip something heavier into that mix," Andy asked. "You have been wiped, I think. We played Leyton Orient, last night, and we lost 2-0. It was a bloody horrific match."

"2-0...ah, yes, that is coming back to me a bit," Peter admitted. "Did we allow any goals int he other friendlies?"

"Well, of course, we did, Peter, don't be daft," Andy remarked. "You don't get through two Level Four, two Level Three and a Level Two side without giving up some goals."

"Hmm, in my dream, we didn't give up a goal, and that was to some strong opponents as well," Peter said, lamenting his loss.

"Well, then you know it was a dream, don't you?" Andy asked in frustration. "No way in hell we get by without allowing a score in six or four friendlies."

"Did we perform well?" Peter asked. "I am befuddled at the moment, and cannot recall."

Andy rolled his eyes.

"Well enough, I suppose," he said. "The defeat last night was a bitter pill, but we came through the rest with a draw and four victories, for what good friendlies do ya. Tenford, surely you recall the Derby match?"

Visions of swarming masses went through Peter's head as he thought of that one.

"Yes, I think I do," he said. "Last week, Derby came down to the Rock, and the place was swamped, as it generally will be when the a D-One side comes to town. Standingr oom only in the terraces, and Randy complaining all that team that that bleating whore in front of us kept standing up during the match."

"So you do remember," Andy said, grinning for the first time. "I was beginning to fear for your sanity. That was a good win for us, friendly or not. And you The Mallingerer had to be happy with the box recepits on that one."

"Aye, true," Peter said. "Is Inman well? And what of Brien?"

"Inman? The Irish on the wing?" Andy asked, eyebrows going up. "What of him? He's fine enough, although i think he should be playing harder than he has. And who the bloody hell is Brien?"

"So Inman isn't sporting a broken wing," Peter asked hopefully. "He isn't done until past the festive season."

"No, you fucking twit," Andy said. "He's just fine. Now who the hell is Brien?"

"Tony Brien, the Irish assistant," Peter said.

"What is it with you and the Irish, Tenford," Andy asked in exasperation. "I have never heard of a Brien. Our assistant is the old defender Steve Thompson. A fine enough hire, I suppose."

Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm finally beginning to believe all this, Andy," Peter said. "I feared I had lost my wits."

"I'm still fearing it," Andy asked suspiciously.

"I'm just glad we aren't coached by some bloody nobody from the States," Peter said, ignoring his friend. "That was the most unbelievable part of it all."

"Peter, have you lost your mind," Andy asked. "We did hire an American, or an Englishman who emigrated there anyway. Does the name Matthew Kieta ring a bell?"

Peter stared at his friend in horror for a moment before responding.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"