I like to think of myself as an emerging writer. Or at least a work in progress writer. After the game, I have been over come by such ravenous emotions after the performance of the Refs, and in combination of recently reading Edgar Allen Poe, I feel the need to write myself a tale, trying to reflect on Goodel and his greed, and what could happen to the NFL. I hope you all enjoy it.
Perhaps a small warning can be in order. I did say I am writing this, after reading a couple Poe stories. lol So I hope it's not too much or anything. =/
Once upon a time, there was a King, who ruled one of the wealthiest kingdoms of the land. His name was King Phillip, who branded himself, a castle made of gold, and wore silk normally too expensive by a standard monarch of his day. The men of his kingdom consisted of shoe makers, cloth weavers, weapon smiths, and luxurious artists. Through these great men of his city, the kingdom prospered, and was the talk of the world.
Yes it was grand, and everyone was happy. Except for the King.
Sitting upon his throne, he watched as the shoe makers create one of the finest in the country, and making considerable amounts of money from profits. With all the decision making the King had, sitting upon his Ivory throne, believed he should be getting more of the profits from the shoe makers. So he called them in, each one, and proclaimed that a third of the profits will go to the King, for he feels that his kingdom is nothing without him. Then King Phillip looked upon the cloth weavers, weaving their exquisite silk, and decreed that a third of their profits go to him, for it was he who is responsible for the amount of trades he has with other countries in relation to the silk. The King, still unsatisfied, turned to the Weapon Smiths, and the Artists.
What resulted, was a King more richer than anyone in the world, and although his Kingdom is still one of the grandest in the land, the quality upon the work's of the city took a deep hit. The shoes were not as lavishing, the cloth not as wondrous and ravishing, the weapons and armor though effective lacked the quality they once had, and the artists had to make due with less supplies to work with, thus Artists began to have trouble producing.
The City took a hit on the market, but the King was happy, and his way of life in the city quite devine while the city began a slow decline. One day, the King, upon his Ivory throne, decided to walk around his golden palace marveling the grandeur and beauty it has. Though as he walked it's halls, passing paintings from all around the world, echoing softly upon floors made of red oak, he wondered how he can make his palace even more beautiful than it is now. Turning back, he rushed down the hallway, taking a sharp right hoping to find his scribe at close hand. Instead, as he turned right, he chanced upon created in this very city, that made him shudder and shriek as he fell backwards pale as the moon. The painting was of himself, wretched and grotesque. A piece of work he has never seen before, but it was there, it's cold, blue eyes (his own eyes), staring right through his soul. He watched as the painting turned, slowly, toward him. Smirking, a wide, unpleasant smile, and the King sees it burn. He watches helplessly on the floor, as he thought he could hear a chant amongst the fire. Doom! Doom! In the fires, your soul shall bloom!
Over and over he hears the chant. Panicking, he shoots upward, and runs down the opposite end where several hollowed knights lined the right wall, screaming for the scribe. Doom! Doom! In the fires your soul shall bloom! Oh how un-fortune! The shoes he bought from the city become un-tied easily in the quick motions of his pace, and he falls upon the floor, the chant still vibrating in his head. Beads of sweat trickle down his head, eyes waving about madly, unable to look past the insanity. He notices shortly after that his falling that he bumped one of the hollow knights he bought from the city with a slight touch, and the halberd it held fell swiftly down, cutting off the King's head clean through the vertebre and muscles, soaking his blood upon the carpet floor. But just before the halberd cut into his neck, he watched the painting of his face, burning gold, silver, and scarlet. Upon the last of his ears, he hears maniacal laughter, and upon his death, he hears the chant. Doom! Doom! In the fires your soul shall bloom!
Well I guess what I try to get out of this was that if Goodel does not get these refs back, the NFL, or at least the integrity of it, will be in jeopardy. It's like almost how the NBA turned into. Questionable calls left and right, not letting the players play, etc. Goodel needs to stop being greedy, and stubborn, and get these refs back.
I'm sure I did not write a well enough portrayal of it. This was just written by me, and I really don't have the time to write a story structure. I just wanted to write what's on my mind, through story. Story may not have made sense, but having these replacement refs will only spell doom for the NFL unless Goodel gets his act together.