There are few pleasures as sweet to a boy of twelve as sleeping in on a Saturday morning. Getting the high score in Call of Honor and finally getting to the center of a big, fat jawbreaker come in a close second, but it's really no contest. Johnny loved getting to skip the early morning hustle and bustle of the dreaded Weekday and no waking up to the obnoxious cry of the alarm clock. On Saturday mornings, he got to wake slowly and languidly, drifting up from the depths like a piece of flotsam bobbing in the swell. This Saturday morning was no different, except for some strange reason, his mind started the process a little early. Normally, he'd roll out of bed between eight and noon depending on how late he stayed up Friday night. Today, his eyes fluttered open just after 6:30.
Ugh.
He rolled over, snuggled up with a wad of blanket, and tried to fall back asleep, but the light of dawn spread through his mind and he came rapidly to the surface. Finally, he sighed and resigned himself to being alive before 7am. Lincoln, Mom, and Dad would all be asleep for hours yet, and the only thing on TV would be infomercials for juicers and holy-rolling religious shows where some smarmy guy in a suit wiggled his little finger and his entire congregation fell out of their chairs. Facebook would be dead, none of the homies would be on Snapchat - Saturdays are great, but Saturday mornings are a barren wasteland.
Desperate to avoid the blasted tundra called Saturday morning, Johnny squeezed his eyes as tight as he could and tried one last time to drop back into the warm bosom of sleep.
It didn't happen.
Okay, okay, I'm up.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, yawned, and scratched the back of his neck.
It took him a few seconds to realize that Lincoln's bed was empty. The pillow lay off to one side and the sheets were messy. Huh. Lincoln usually made an attempt to make his bed before starting his day. He was probably peeing or something.
Johnny got to his feet, stepped into his bunny slippers (they lit up, which was awesome) and went downstairs to cook some hot chocolate.
Yes, that's right, cook. Johnny did not simply boil hot water and dump powder mix in. Oh, no. He added cinnamon, nutmeg, Mrs. Dash, a splash of hot sauce, some Monster, and beef broth, then he brought it to a boil on the stove. It was, like, a full breakfast in a cup. It tasted awful but so did raw eggs, and tough guys ate those in the morning. He wasn't trying to be tough, though. He just wanted something to wake him up and fill his belly with energy, and if a witch's brew of beef water and chocolate Monster doesn't do that, you must be dead.
In the sunny kitchen, he got a pan down from the cabinet and stopped to listen. Faint music drifted in from the garage.
What the?
Maybe there was a killer out there.
Or worse.
Ronnie Anne Santigo.
Johnny gulped.
Grabbing a butcher knife, he crept to the door, eased the handle open, and, with a high-pitched battle cry, jumped across the threshold.
It wasn't a killer.
And it wasn't Ronnie Anne.
Lincoln, dressed in nothing but a pair of cut off sweatpants, was on the concrete floor. It looked like he was trying to do pushups but failing miserably.
High-octane rock and roll blasted from a nearby boombox that looked old enough to collect social security.
HERE I AM, ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE!
HERE I AM, ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE.
"Dude," Johnny said.
Lincoln flopped to the floor and looked over his shoulder. Sweat glistened on his flushed face and his white hair was matted with perspiration. "You're doing them wrong," Johnny said. "That's how a girl does push ups."
"No it's not," Lincoln said.
"Watch."
Johnny dropped and did a bunch of perfect pushups because Johnny's the man. He can do anything. He can probably even fly and cure cancer, idk. "Wow," Lincoln said. "Those were great push-ups...now frick off and die." He got back on hands and knees.
Oh, young, naive Lincoln.
"Why are you doing this anyway?" Johnny asked.
Lincoln sighed and rocked back on his knees. "When that psycho explorer guy attacked you, I couldn't help you. It made me realize what a weak, sniveling little punk I am."
"Well, I'm glad you finally got some self-awareness," Johnny said.
Lincoln shot him a dirty look. Whoops, was I supposed to try and make you feel better about yourself?
"I almost...you know...lost you," Lincoln said and looked down at his lap, embarrassed. "I wanna be stronger so if anything like that happens again, I can do something."
"Dude, that was a grown man with a gun," Johnny said. "He was psycho too. I couldn't take him either."
"So I have to be strong for both of us."
Johnny opened his mouth to argue, but that was a good point. Johnny thought he was the biggest, strongest, most awesome guy ever, but, let's face it, he wasn't. He got his butt handed to him on a silver platter by everyone, including those little Loud girls across the street. Everyone he knew was stronger and tougher than he was, even the females. He was tired of being weak and defenseless. If Lincoln got stacked, no one would ever mess with them again. Johnny envisioned a giant, bulging wall of muscle with Lincoln's face...just freaking towering over everyone, so big and cut that Vince McMachon wanted to sign him to a 50 year WWE contract.
And straddling his shoulders, in a cool spiky helmet and shades, was Johnny. Who runs Bartertown? Huh? WHO RUNS BARTERTOWN?
That was the future Johnny wanted.
But how did he and Lincoln go about achieving it?
An idea hit him.
"I know," he said. "If you want to work out so badly why not workout with Lynn. I mean she plays everything and she's probably the healthiest person in the universe."
Lincoln's eyes widened. "Uh...I dunno about that. Lynn...uh...she goes hard."
"No pain, no gain," Johnny said and whacked Lincoln's bare back with a meaty slap.
Lincoln winced.
After breakfast (Johnny opted for cereal over cooked hot chocolate), they went across the street and knocked on the front door. Lori answered and when she saw who it was, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you guys want?"
"We're here to see Lynn," Johnny said.
Lori lifted her brow as though she thought they were lying. Ever since the thing last month where Lisa crashed them on a desert island, Lori had been acting funny toward them like it was their fault, and if she didn't keep an eye on them, they'd drag her little sisters into another horrible misadventure. "She's in the back," she finally said.
Johnny tipped his paper bag.
Around back, Lynn was over by the tool shed in a pair of red shorts and a white tank top. She hit a standing punching back with a wicked kick, and it weebled and wobbled but didn't fall down. She punched it, slapped it, then grabbed it and started shaking it back and forth with a high, frenzied scream. She looked like she was going insane.
If Johnny knew Lynn Loud Jr., something was bothering her and when she got mad, she got violent.
He almost noped outta there, but he was fundamentally a good guy and Lynn was his friend, so he went over to see what was up. Lincoln turned around and tried to sneak off, but Johnny grabbed him by the back of his jacket and dragged him after. "Come on, Linc."
Lynn jumped back and hit the punching bag with a sick spin kick that knocked it over. To lighten the mood, Johnny straddled it like a cowboy. "You just got knocked the bleep out."
Flashing, Lynn punched his paper bag off his head. "Get off," she growled. "He's mine." Johnny jumped off and Lynn hit it with a flurry of kicks and stomps. It looked like American History X only not as racist. Lynn panted, fumed, seethed, and hissed through clenched teeth.
"Whoa, calm simmer down there, killer," Johnny said. "What's the matter?"
Lynn gave the fallen punching bag one last kick and paused to catch her breath. "I'm mad, that's what's the matter."
"Why?" Johnny asked. "One of your sisters do something to you? Trust me, I know all about annoying siblings."
Lincoln's face darkened.
"No," Lynn said. "I'm mad because there's no girl's football team. That cucks me out of completing FLIBBR."
Johnny blinked. "Huh? Flibber? Wasn't that a movie with Robins Williams?"
"No, you're thinking of Flipper," Lincoln said. "It was about a killer shark eating people."
"No, dude, that's Teeth."
Lincoln's brow furrowed in confusion. "I thought that was the one where the guy has teeth in his butt."
"No, that's -"
"Will you shut up?" Lynn asked, and they both fell silent. She made a fist with her right hand and held her arm up like she was going to sneeze in the crook of her elbow. The outline of the letters FLIBBR were written across her flesh in magic marker. "It stands for football, lacrosse, ice hockey, baseball, basketball, and roller derby. I've won a championship in all of them...except for football. This stinkin' sexist town doesn't have a girl's football team, so I can't get F. I'm doomed to only be a LIBBR. I don't wanna be a LIBBR. I wanna be FLIBBR."
Oh.
Okay.
Kind of dumb, but she was obviously passionate about it.
"Why not just join the boys team?" Johnny asked. "I mean, you look like a straight-up guy, so as long as they don't check under the hood -"
Lynn wound up and kicked him in the nuts as hard as she could. Johnny's feet left the ground and he almost fell over.
But didn't.
Lincoln gaped at him in horror.
Smirking, Johnny patted his crotch. "Joke's on you, Lynn. I happen to be wearing a cup right now because -"
Lynn hit him in the stomach with a deadly uppercut. Pain exploded in Johnny's middle and his knees gave out, spilling him to the ground where he curled up in a fetal position and tried but failed to suck air into his bursting lungs.
Standing over him, Lynn balled her fists threateningly, and Lincoln fell back like a cowardly vampire from a cross. "SEE WHAT YOUR SMART MOUTH GETS YOU?" Lynn yelled.
"I see," Johnny groaned.
"Actually," Lincoln said, "that's not a bad idea."
Lynn swung around and reared back for a kick to nards. "No!" Lincoln screamed. "I mean...sign up. It's 2020, they pretty much have to let you. If they don't, just cry sexism and heads will roll like that girl from Cemetery Man."
"Good movie," Johnny quivered.
Lynn opened her mouth, then thought better of it. "You're right. If I make big fuss, they'll get scared of being canceled and give me what I want." She mulled Lincoln's idea over for a moment then beamed. "Nice one, Stinkoln." She punched the beep out of his arm...but in a friendly way. And the tears that sprang to Lincoln's eyes? Tears of joy. "What did you guys want anyway?"
"I need help bulking up," Lincoln said.
Humming, Lynn pinched one of his arms between her thumb and forefinger, then let it go.
It fluttered in the wind like a ribbon.
"I know," Lynn said, "why don't you join the football team too? Football's a great way to get in shape. The training gets really intense. It'll make you tough and mean too.
Lincoln didn't see how catching balls and throwing passes would help him get muscular, but he was all for being tough and mean. You don't have to be the biggest dude ever to fight well. Look at CM Punk. Dude's tiny but he routinely hands much bigger guys their butts on silver platters.
"You know what? Yeah. Let's do it."
"My man," Lynn said. She looked down at Johnny, who still lay on the ground in a pathetic heap. "You should sign up too so you can defend yourself."
Johnny pushed himself to a sitting position and swayed drunkenly from side to side. "Okay. But only so I can replace the stomach muscles you just gutted outta me."
Like three merry elves (or two merry elves and one crippled old guy who could barely walk because he just got blasted in his stomach for running his mouth), they went down to the school and signed up that very afternoon. The guy behind the sign-up table looked at them funny, but didn't say anything. They were a girl and two black guys (though Lincoln's pasty white bleep didn't look it). If he said no, BLM would be all over this place before the sun set.
Their first practice was three days later. Johnny, Lincoln, and Lynn reported to the football field where a fat guy in a baseball cap and polo shirt lined up all the players on the sidelines and marched up and down the ranks like a drill instructor welcoming his troops to boot camp. "The next three months of your lives will be the most grueling, gut-wrenching, brain blasting experience possible. I will tear you down and build you back up. You will sweat, you will shake, you will pray for the sweet release of death, but you will reach meteoric highs that you never thought possible. You will drink from the chalice of victory, and your worthless little lives will, for one glorious season, have meaning and purpose." He stopped in front of Johnny and leaned over him. Johnny flashed an anxious smile. "You will look back on this period for the rest of your life as your peak...that is...if you survive my training."
Johny gulped.
Maybe this was a mistake.
"Now start running drills."
It was too late to back out, so Johnny did what he was told.
Day in and day out, he did push ups, sit ups, pull ups; he ran, jumped, leapt, dove, and rolled. He ran through fields of tires, climbed frayed ropes, and took tackles out the wazoo. He went from fumbling every pass to catching each one, if only barely.
The first game was on September 25. The Elk Park Eltons - whose mascot was a giant and flamboyant Elton John who shook his butt at halftime - came into town. Johnny, Lincoln, and Lynn gathered with the other players in a huddle. "Alright," the team captain said, "Loud, you run the ball. You're fast. Johnny, block that big SOB with the dip in his lip."
Johnny blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Lincoln, I'm gonna fake throwing it to you, then hit it to Loud. I want you to stay open in case she can't take it, alright?"
"Right," Lincoln said.
The guy Johnny had to block was, indeed, a big SOB with a wad of snuff in his lip. Dude was a good seven feet tall and built like a bunker. "Dude...are you even a kid?" Johnny asked before the snap.
"Don't worry about it," dude said.
When the game started, the guy ran through Johnny like a freight train through wet tissue paper. Lynn was blocked and couldn't get away, and Lincoln was free. The captain threw the ball and Lincoln caught it, fumbled, almost dropped it, then steadied himself. A dozen guys rushed at him, and screaming, he ran toward the goal, making it halfway before someone dove into his legs.
The next play, Lynn got the ball and ran it all the way to the end zone, where she spiked the ball against the ground, shook her butt, did a backflip, and yelled "SAY MY NAME!" at the top of her lungs.
She got red flagged for excessive celebration.
Play number three had Johnny twisting his ankle, Lincoln splitting his pants, and Lynn running the ball again but getting tackled. The other team came hard and fast, like an ax murder, and by the fourth quarter, the score was tied and Lynn, Johnny, and Lincoln were on the ropes. Johnny was achy, sore all over, and could barely walk.
With twenty seconds left on the clock, the team captain came up with an ambitos play. He would snap the ball to Johnny, who'd in turn hand it off to Lincoln, who'd throw to Lynn. At the whistle, Johnny got the ball...only to be tackled into the dirt.
"New plan," the captain said in the next huddle, "Lincoln, pass it to Lynn."
The whistle blew, Lincoln got the ball, and threw it just as someone plowed into him. The ball spun through the air like a bullet, wobbling and passing just above the heads of clashing players below. It hit someone's helmet and bounced off, almost landing on the ground. Lynn dove, grabbed it, and did a 180 mid air, and landed on her feet. She ran to the end zone and got there just as the game ended, scoring the winning touchdown.
Cheering, the team swept her up on its shoulders and she pumped her fist in the air.
The season that followed was full of late afternoon practices, home and away games, and lots and lots of injuries. Lynn sprained her ankle twice, Johnny lost three teeth, and Lincoln got speared so hard at one point that his helmet flew off. Lynn got flagged at least once a game for holding someone's face mask or twerking in the end zone. She finally got suspended and had to sit out three games. The first one, the Roosters got creamed. The second one, they creamed the other team, and the third went into double overtime before the Roosters lost.
Late summer turned to early fall. The days got shorter, the sunlight weaker, and the leaves changed colors and fell from the trees in brown and red showers. The Roosters won more games than they lost and went all the way to the state championship because of course they did, they had Johnny on their side.
The state championships were held in Ann Arbor on December 15 at seven in the evening. It was cold and dark and snow flurries swirled in the big lights illuminating the field. The Loud sisters from Lucy down to Lily, had somehow made their way to the sidelines dressed like cheerleaders in maroon skirts, even Lana because maybe she wanted to get in touch with her feminine side or something. Lucy, with her hair done up in pigtails, stood there while Lola shook her pom-poms. "I feel like I'm being exploited and fetishized," she said.
"Will you just shut up and not be miserable for two minutes?" Lola asked sharply.
The other team, The Chippewa Falls Chainsaw Killers, was big and mean. Their mascot, a guy in a yellow apron and a mask made of fake, rotting human flesh (at least Johnny hoped it was fake), shucked and jived with a live chainsaw, much to the delight of the crowd.
The game opened with an intricate play in which Johnny wound up with the ball. Lincoln ran behind him to keep the other team off, but someone came in from the side and speared Johnny into the Stone Age. The next play, Lynn got the ball and instantly had ten guys on top of her.
By the second quarter, three Roosters were out with injuries and the spare players sucked. First down, bottom of the ninth, someone grabbed Lynn's face mask and they got into a fistfight. She ripped his helmet off and punched him, and he responded by body slamming her. The other players joined in and soon it was a melee. Johnny got so mixed up in the confusion that he wound up slapping Lincoln by accident, and Lincoln tackled him.
"Aw, my Gawd," the sportscaster cried, "he's whippin' him like a government mule!"
Everyone got a red flag.
At half time, a local rock band played the national anthem then launched into a discordant cover of "In A Gadda da Vida" that lasted forty-five minutes. Everyone started getting bored until chainsaw guy started poppin and lockin with his saw.
The score was 10-3, Roosters down. The captain came up with a play on the fly that involved Johnny blocking for the quarterback on the Mannerheim Line. It was tricky but Johnny managed to keep the other guys off him for the goal. Later on, Lincoln punted the ball from the three point line and the score went up by four.
Fourth quarter, Johnny was starting to flag. His energy was gone, his body hurt, and that snow patch on the sidelines looked really comfy. The score was eight to ten and they were close to winning, so he had to power through.
Then disaster struck.
Lincoln didn't keep back the offensive line like he was supposed to and someone tackled the team captain so hard his leg came off.
The entire crowd went silent.
Except for Johnny. "Noooooooo! We need him to tell us what to do!"
Paramedics carried him off on a stretcher. Before he went, he grasped Lynn's hand and, shaking and verging on death, he rasped, "It's up to you now, Loud."
Then he was gone.
"I don't know how to be a captain!" Lynn said.
But she had to try.
"Alright, slap nuts, come here," she said and motioned everyone to huddle around her. "I'll throw the ball to Johnny. Johnny, throw the ball to Lincoln, Lincoln, throw the ball to me."
The play started, Johnny went long, Lincoln went left, both got tackled. Lynn, not knowing what to do, lowered her head and charged down the field. The clock was counting down, it was almost over, she had to hurry or the Roosters would lose.
A wall of muscle came at her from the left and she dodged around it. Another came from the right and she slid between its legs. She did a front flip over a pile of fallen players, landed on her feet, stumbled, and ran headlong toward the end zone. The crowd started counting down the clock. "5, 4, 3, 2…"
Someone grabbed her helmet from behind. She slipped out of it and jumped into the end zone just as the clock struck none.
CHECKMATE!
The entire stadium exploded in raucous cheers, chainsaw guy did an angry dance of defeat as though he'd just watched his victim climb into the back of a pick-up truck and escape, the other team fell prostrate in grief, and the ref ripped his shirt off and spun it over his head like a helicopter. The Loud girls kicked their legs and cheered, fireworks burst overhead, the marching band came out of nowhere playing that Sweet Victory song from Spongebob that everyone got butthurt wasn't played at the Superbowl (better luck next time, kiddos), and Lynn excessively celebrated but no one flagged her because a win this epic, this amazing, this storied, this cool deserved all the celebration it could get. Johnny, kept together only duct-tape and Elemer's glue, crawled into the end zone, got shakily to his knees, and smiled, revealing the last three teeth in his mouth. Lincoln.
"We did it!" Lynn cried. "Yay! I'm a FLIBBR now."
"Wahoo," Lincoln said from the ground.
Lynn grabbed both of them and the crowd surged out of the stands to pick them up on their shoulders, whereupon they bounced them around like three beach balls at a boomer concert.
SWEET, SWEET VICTORY!
Johnny basked in the glow of Lynn's accomplishment and Lincoln waved to her adoring fans. He wasn't the biggest or the most muscular, but he was tough as nails now and could handle any enemy who came along. So could Johnny.
Now their fights were apt to be even more brutal than before.
THE END
