(( Authors note: Format change. Why? because the only thing I have on my computer with a spell checker built in is Dreamweaver. Eat HTML, boys and girls. Nothing fancy, this is all about content.))

Battles were scheduled twice a month.

Sometimes there were three or four a month, but there was always a minimum of seven days between gatherings. Time for cover-ups, getting rid of bodies, a bit of training or looking for someone new. There was no mandatory attendance, no roll call, nothing. You either came to the battle or you didn't. There wasn't an in-between.

Every 'Blood Bowl' that was scheduled happened the same way. When a trainer had a Pokemon to test, some free time, had to get away from it all or any number of other reasons, he'd let the others know. Never aloud, when the police could be on every corner listening, or in any way at all obvious. In fact, the process was all a little ingenious.

The 'Warriors' that fought in the underground battles were kids to every day people. Waiters, construction workers, road workers, an aide at the poke centers, lock smiths, artists, baby-sitters, criminals, you name it. The only person that was really in charge was the one who could keep constant contact with all of them and no one would be none the wiser.

Grant wasn't one of the leaders because he was old and experienced. Far from it. He was that guy who sat at the phone company and sent out bills to everyone in the town he lived in. He didn't tap phones, send couriers or do anything even slightly illegal, so he couldn't be caught or even suspected.

He was the guy that put the odd numbers of change at the end of the bill.

Everybody received these bills all the time. There was no one who had a perfectly rounded bill, ever. There was always at least one cent off. Mr. Batashu received a bill of 33.54 last month. This month Ms. Rosa received a bill of 76.21. Hmm, lots of phone calls out of her district range. So-and-so got something-.63 or such-and-such got something-.92. You get the idea.

Unknown to anyone on the outside of the organization however, was the special payment plan. When someone wanted to fight, a very small transaction was made. Ranging anywhere from thirteen cents, to a few dollars and just a few pennies short of the actual bill. In his little office, Grant had three lists, two on paper, one in his head. The first list was of the people who were send bills and how much. The second list was of who paid, and how much. The third list doubled in his head with the exception of knowing exactly who was a 'warrior' and who wasn't.

Whenever a challenge was dropped, a rash of telemarketers went from calling once every twenty days or so, to calling every house three times in one day, hassling households to switch over to their specific phone plan. Everyone was bothered when this happened, so the police wouldn't notice. Unless a lawsuit was pressed against them for calling the house of a rather quiet family too many times by accident. It had only happened once though, and the company was sued rather than the lonely telemarketer who'd made the mistake, deep within the bowls of the corporation.

The meeting place was always the same. There were a few city workers in their ranks some time back who had helped start it all, showing them where the least used or even completely shut down sections of the sewers were and how to navigate them. Everyone who needed to know, knew how to get through the system from any one of the hundreds of ways to get inside, and scuttled through the tunnels like rats before arriving at the Bowl. You never can be too cautious when you were doing something that wasn't illegal yet, just hated by most the community.

Well, the fights themselves weren't illegal, it was mostly the ridding of information leaks that was illegal. Not that shooting someone in the head and dumping them in an unlabeled grave, river or forge was ever legal, or could ever be possibly legalized. It wouldn't even be necessary if the community had just embraced it and the cops hadn't gotten involved.

No one knew who started the 'Blood Bowl'. Not anymore anyway. Too many people had come and gone, through this city to another, shot or quit. A few years ago, it was four or five guys who'd come together to talk about local news and thoughts towards the current masters of their Pokemon world, the final four.

The story went that a stranger had joined their table, fitting in easily to the conversation, telling what he had heard in the next town over, or from his home town or from any other source. The story changes from person to person, but it always had the same result.

The stranger convinced them to follow him outside, and get into a trainer battle, with a few different ground rules. The stranger had appealed to the dark sides of the men he'd approached and chilled as well as thrilled them to the bone. As far as Traik knew, when one of the rules was broken by one of the original 'warriors', the stranger had jumped him and beaten him into the ground, barely leaving him alive. Terrified, the men had lifted their buddy and rushed him off to a hospital.

This stranger was never heard or seen from again. But over the years, other cities started having problems with a 'higher crime rate' and 'Pokemon maulings'. There had even been a few reports of Pokemon becoming so pumped for battle that they'd maul a person or even their own trainer. That had been put to a stop relatively quickly by spreading word, discreetly, for every 'warrior' to have two different sets of battling Pokemon. One or two for the fights, and the rest to be normally trained and fought with the rules set by the rest of the world. Even the Pokemon that participated were sworn to secrecy.

Traik filled out a check for 24.51 and sent it to the phone company. His bill was actually 24.33, but he had decided to be the prime event for the next fight. No warm-up newbie battle. As he licked the envelope and folded it over, the gears were still turning in his head. He had a plan, and he knew exactly how to execute it.

The envelope hit the bottom of the empty blue mailbox on the side of the street and he went home after a hard day's work.

---

"Sir, would you be interested in a free cell phone with our Norkia lifetime guarantee?" The chipper telemarketer said at the other end of the line.

"Yeah, sign me up, lady." Traik spoke into the phone the next morning, at 3:17 in the morning when the message had started to go out. The calls were totally legitimate. No made up companies, no false advertising. Real calls from real people. He stood there and listened to the lady prattle on and on about the specifics of the phone, the plan, the traveling fees outside their basic network, everything the customer needed to know, spewed into their ear at the wee hours of the morning when most consumers could barely think, let alone figure out what was being said. Someone had done a study a while ago that proved at three in the morning, most people would agree to anything if it meant they could just go back to bed.

Spicing the conversation with a few 'uh-huh's and 'yes, please' as he lay in his white sheets, under his down comforter, eyes closed as Pokemon danced in majestic moves and beat each other into sacks of goo in his mind's eye. In his mind, he lead a triple life. He was Traik, city road worker. He was Traik, Blood Bowl participant. He was Traik, the man no one knew.

After nearly forty-five minutes on the phone arranging for the phone to be delivered to his house, giving his credit card number, signing over his soul and promising them the rights to his first born son, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

Lifetime guarantees were usually only offered when they expected someone to come out in a box.