A pale darkness has descended on the town that nestles itself in the crook of the Red River. As the first snows of winter dust the lonely streets, foulness permeates the air. The good folk have locked their doors and shuttered their windows, leaving only Jets fans roaming the lonely streets. They walk as the un-dead do in their tattered jerseys, eyes blankly staring into nowhere mumbling curses of the western conference and all that play in it. A voice cry’s out in the night “It could be worse we could be Buffalo”. A pack of the Jets un-dead break away from the rest and the last screams of positivity are squelched forever under the Halloween moon.
As the dark moon rises the, lords of hockey assemble in the towering keep of the MTSC. All is not right in the house of Chipman as the generals converge over tattered battle plans and pray for divine intervention that they know will never come. They argue amongst themselves. Shouts of menace and pained consternation cannot drown out the sound of long knives being sharpened as grinding echoes through the lonely passageways.
But there is one missing …. “Where is Noel!” Screams Cheveldayoff the impaler .
Floors below in Claude’s coven, he hunches over the depth chart as an alchemist trying to spin gold from lead. He cocks an eyebrow and brings his fist down on his oaken desk “The Lines” he screams “The Lines! , The combinations! The answer must be here …. Must be … here” but amidst his mad sobs the Jets un-dead have gathered in the streets.
Shredded Jerseys with the names “Wellwood”, “Glass” , and “Brumistrov” emblazoned on the back. They walk down portage, and then quietly at first, like the slow hiss of air out of a tire they chant;
Give us Noel …..Give us Noel….. Give us Noel
Soon the chorus is at its crescendo and the loud roar of their demand vibrates through the homes of the good citizens in the provincial capital. A young Jacob Trouba strains against his neck brace to see the commotion in the streets outside his home. He looks to his companion with terrified eyes “What is that uncle Bogo?”. Wearing a cammo hat, axe in hand, nervously waiting by the door Bogosian replies “Jets fans son… Jets fans..”
Give us Noel….Give us Noel…
In the locker room the lights are dim. Enstrom kneels praying at his stall, tears streaming down his face, repeating his mantra “I shalt not take penalties in the third, I shalt not take penalties in the third. I shalt not take penalties in third”. Jokinen clutches his stick in the corner like a child desperately clinging to a stuffed toy. He rocks back and forth whispering to it ” It’ll be ok, It’ll be ok..”. Ladd prepares a bonfire of sacrificial sticks, all the while the moans of the Jets un-dead fill their ears.
Give us Noel….Give us Noel…
Outside the march of the “Wellwood’s”, “Glass”, and “Burmistrov’s” continues and then slowly but surely the “Santorelli’s” join in with pitchforks and knives. Deep in his lair Noel prepares for the final battle.
“A new line!” he screams from his madness.
“Ladd, Wright and Wheeler!”
But just then the claxon of doom shrieks through the thick air of Noels cave. … Its line 1
“Claude we need to see you in the board room”
Give us Noel…. Give us Noel…. Give us Noel…..
