Joe Faustus
by Michael S.
Collins
Joe Faustus
sat in the manager’s office, head in his
hands. Worst season ever. Worst football season
ever too. Lowest points tally ever. Worst manager
ever. Crowds baying for his blood. They
weren’t vampires, you know, that’s just
what the crowd do. Team in disarray. Sponsors
leaving like drops of wine off the Titanic. It
wasn’t a very good season. Hadn’t been
very good at all, actually. He was just waiting
for the sack.Because, you know, if he waited for
the sack he would get a nice severance package.
At least something good would come out of it.
“OH
dear”, he thought to himself, “I wish
something could happen that would put me in the
record books. Something that would save Thistle
from this certain relegation.”
There was only
seven weeks left of the season.
“In
fact”, said Joe, “I would go as far as
to say, that I would sell my soul to the Devil,
to keep Thistle in the Premiership.”
A crack of
thunder. His mobile phone went off.
“Hello”
said Joe.
“Hello”
said a crackly voice at the end. It sounded like
hellfire and brimstone stuck in someone’s
throat. It was the chairman.
“You
going to come up to my office? I’ve got
something to say to you.”
And soon he
was sitting in his chairman’s office. Mr
Mephistopheles. Ten years ago, that’d have
been a strange name for a football chairman.
These days, you never know with all those foreign
investors.
“Joe, I
have a proposition for you.” Said the
chairman. “You’ll go down in history,
and the team will stay up. All you need to do is
sign this bit of paper pledging me your soul.”
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