Disclaimer: I pretty positive I don't own a damn thing. Ms. Harris and Dodgeballs movie execs get to sleep in the piles of cash.

So on with the show.

"We who are about to die, salute you…"

Waking up in Sookie's bed was so worth my sad, failed attempt at visiting the emergency room. However, I was too incapacitated to fully enjoy the experience. She did change me out of my vomit clothes, cleaned me up, and I got to cuddle with her. HA. So worth the pain of my hangover induced headache this morning. Smirking.

Now, it's time for that God forsaken sorry excuse of lateral movement…absurdly referred to as …the dodgeball tournament. Let the humiliation begin. Yeah, I'm pouting. So. You try dragging your ass to a place you are absolutely certain any remaining shred of dignity will be eradicated. God, please don't let pull a muscle during the fucking game. I couldn't come back from that one. I know some asshole is going to have a camera. Everyone has a video recorder nowadays. Can you imagine the amount of video and photographic evidence of today's events? SON OF A BITCH! I knew I should have prepared a disguise. I was a drag queen a few years ago. I wonder if I can go home and find that wig real quick. I think it was some weird shade of red. It might match the uniforms. Maybe I should call Laf and see what he thinks? Damn it, never mind, I don't think Sookie will agree to let us do a drive-by.

"Eric Godric Northman! Stop whimpering and get your tight ass downstairs, and in the car this instant!" I don't whimper.

I don't want to go. And I can pout if I want to, damn it. It's my God given right. I don't know if 3 dates are going to be enough. Well, maybe, I guess she did make me my 'super-Top Secret-no-on-knows-I-like' Mickey Mouse shaped blueberry pancakes this morning. I still find it amazing that those pancakes are still my favorite even after getting tossed into the Disney World slammer. To this day I maintain my innocence. Fucking Duck started it.

"Fine, I'll get into the car. But I want it on the record that's it's under duress."

We drive the 15 minutes to an indoor football arena near downtown Shreveport. For some reason, probably denial, I assumed our game would be held at some random high school gym. Do we really need all that space? How many fucking rubber balls are involved? An arena, really? Yep, that should have been my first clue. I should have known better. I've been wrong about almost everything pertaining to this obscene event all week. Figures.

This building is fucking huge and there's a shitload of vehicles in the parking lot. This can't be good. For the love of God, please tell me there is a craft show nearby. I think I smell kettle corn. Does that lady have a quilt? They can't be here for the dodgeball tournament. There's no way. That's way too many witnesses. Holy Shit.

I turn to Sookie, "Sookie."

"Yes?" She giggles. Oh, funny is it?

"Four dates and serious groping; I expect to be used and abused. I'm talking borderline felony charges."

I exit the car glaring at the evil woman.

"Sookie, did you just touch my ass?" Good. You better!

As I stand in front of this building, awaiting my doom, I begin to reflect on the events that have transpired this week. I've been shocked more times than I can remember. I'm actually waiting for my first chest pains to begin. Where the hell is the aspirin? I knew I should have started daily doses on Monday.

We walk towards the entrance, sadly, towards the roaring of the crowds looking for our brethren. Oh, there are our fellow "Pam's Bitches", looking suspiciously too eager for my liking.

Our uniforms are navy blue, so we compromised on the team name. And frankly, I do feel like a bitch at the moment.

"Hey guys. Are you ready to do this?" Stan, if I didn't find your geeky exterior offensive at this very moment, I would slowly beat the shit out of you.

"Hell yeah!" Bastards, all of you.

As we enter the building, I can hear trumpets, drums and…flutes? Is there a band? An orchestra?

"Do you hear trumpets playing?" Now we're all looking around, in total confusion, trying to locate the band. My gut was telling me to mentally prepare myself or the first therapy session was going to cost that therapist dearly.

Damn, I must be psychic.

Not a band.

Do you know why a band is not present? They didn't exist in the Roman fucking Era!

Bill has somehow managed to recreate the Roman Coliseum within the confines of the building. That son of a motherless goat. We're no longer in a football arena. We're in a recreation of the Flavius Amphitheatre, wild beats included. Yes, sir, the maniac procured lions, tigers, leopards, a giraffe, and even a fucking elephant. Hey, are those spider monkeys?

He's has to be violating about 100 city ordinances. Where's my phone? I'm calling police or the FBI or the zoo. Someone had to shut this down. Pronto! Before the tournament would be perfect.

Fuck this shit. Four dates my ass! We're going straight to engagement. I think I may have purchased a ring a couple of years ago. Luckily, her ring size has not changed, I checked.

"This is like a Personal Injury attorney's wet dream. The amount of possible liability issues is astounding. Of course that would explain the little Roman guy handing out business cards at the entrance." We all nod our heads at Sookie's statement.

"But at least some of the wild animals are in wooden cages. Very authentic." Poor Appius, he's not coloring with a full box of crayons this morning.

"That's lovely. Remind me to duck when the wooden stake projectiles fly through the air as Simba escapes." Pam makes an astute observation, duly noted.

"Let's take a look. It sounds like an event is about to start. The tournament is not scheduled to begin for another 30 minutes. We need to get familiar with the court; and check out the opposing teams."

You first, Pam.

Who are those two men with swords on the arena floor? Why are there lions on the arena floor? Is that Bill in the box seats dressed like Caesar?

"We who are about to die, salute you." Gladiators. Gladiators? Those crazy bastards are going to kill each other? How do you get a fucking permit for this shit? Fuck! I forgot to record Iron Chef.

A/N The Corp I work for has season tickets to our NBA team. We have great seats; they almost make us feel appreciated. For the life of me, I can't remember who played that game or whether we won or lost. However, I do remember half time. The dancers/cheerleader people were performing their routine to Sugar Hill Gang's, "Apache". But what happened to be the most entertaining part of half time was the guy sitting in the section below us dancing to the same song with a huge glass filled with beer. That mother out danced those women, half drunk and never once spilled his beer. NOW THAT'S TALENT! LOL