Category: , , , , , , , By Glamour Diva & galaxyMafia

As many of you readers know, galaxyMafia likes to write fiction. Last year, she spent most of her time writing about Wentworth Miller but, he grew to bore her so she had to find new grist for her mill, so to speak. Fortunate for her then that she is now (for the time being) interested in New Zealand rugby players. The blokes work better than old Stinky Miller because there are a lot of them to poke fun at, and they led odd lives that can be easily exploited.

Now that the preamble is out of the way, galaxyMafia got a wild hair and decided to write some "fan fic" about the team she hates to love, the Wellington Hurricanes.

In this serialized account, you'll find the gorgeous Christian Lome Fa'atau battling an evil force that threatens the very existence of the entire Wellington Rugby Union!!!

Anyway. . .basically, it's some tripe galaxyMafia wrote in between customers at her dead-end job nevertheless, she does hope you enjoy. . .


Chapter 1
"Something wicked this way comes. . .into the Wellington locker room. . ."

Lome Fa’atau, the leading try scorer during Super 14 2006, stood in the Wellington Hurricanes’ dressing room, absently wrapping tape around his wrists.

It was week eight of Super 14 2007, and many of the Hurricanes' star players – Jerry Collins, Chris Masoe, Piri Weepu and the like – were back from their stint in the All Blacks reconditioning program.

Graham "Ted" Henry, the ABs strict, Draconion coach had twisted arms to get 22 of New Zealand's best players pulled from the first seven weeks of Super 14 in order to get them rested, and ready for the 2007 Rugby World Cup. Fans, sports pundits and especially sponsors decried Ted's decision but the crusty old turd gave not a tinker's damn and went ahead with his scheme to transform those 22 players into, hopefully, world champions.

Some people seemed to think the reconditioning program was Henry's diabolical plan to turn the boys into faster, better, stronger robots, and Lome had heard rumor of strange goings on in the camp at Christchurch, bizarre tales of players hooked up to electrodes while suspended in jelly but, that seemed like so much foolish science fiction to him.

Lome was glad to see his teammates again – the replacement fellas were still having problems getting stuck in – and yet he felt a mild unease creeping up his spine which had nothing to do with the opponents they were about to face in the next few minutes, their dreaded rivals, the Crusaders.

As he secured the tape, Lome glanced around the locker room, surreptitiously glancing at the boys, wondering why he suddenly felt so cold.

There was Cory Jane, sporting bizarre blonde dreds, listening to his iPod, probably R. Kelly.
Piri Weepu was glancing down over his shoulders, no doubt mentally measuring the expanding width and volume of his gelatinous ass. For all his work in the conditioning program, Lome mused, Piri was still packing too much junk in the trunk.

Jimmy Gopperth was meticulously oiling his legs, lovingly slathering them with a special formula that smelled suspiciously like day-old chicken grease from KFC. Yet, Lome knew all the attention Jimmy paid to his sleek muscles would be for naught. At the end of the try, Jimmy would no doubt miss the conversion kick.

Over in one of the corners, the “Wellington Mafia” congregated. That trio consisted of Jerry Collins, Ma’a Nonu and Neemia Tialata. More than once, those boys had tried to seduce Lome into their ranks but he had no interest in their weekend trolling and frequent jaunts to Rarotonga to engage in wanton, lascivious activities with local prostitutes.

Jerry “the Hitman” Collins was measuring his biceps while fastidiously tucking in his shirttails.
Nonu had a small, pink compact open, and was preening at his image in the small, round mirror.
The big, burly prop Tialata was licking the last bit of corned beef from a small, tin can.

As Lome stared at them, an icy sensation seemed to blow across him, hovering around him, seeping into his bones.
A desperate, malevolent cold seized him.
Startled, Lome looked around at his teammates, his heart beating wildly.
The cold was ancient.
It was deadly.
It was undiluted evil.
And, unfortunately, it was too damn familiar.
Shit, Lome thought, shaking his head, trying to discern where the evil was coming from, peering intently at the boys, looking for the signs which he would sense more than see.

He searched for the centuries-old mark, like the one Cain was forced to bear upon killing his brother, the symbol that would show him who and, hopefully, what he would have to contend with.

But, as he glanced from Cory to Piri to Rodney to Tamati to Jerry and so on, he found his senses clouded. . .

The evil had a source, a conduit, a point of origin but, for some reason, it wasn’t clear.
Muttering a silent prayer, Lome forced himself to concentrate. He had to find out the source of the evil, and hopefully before the boys went out onto the pitch for the first half.
He needed to find the evil, and destroy it before it had a chance to take over.

The cold was icy but not bitterly freezing so Lome knew he still had a chance. Whatever the evil was, it had just entered the vessel, and therefore could be evicted. . .

If I can find who it’s residing in. . .

Frustrated, Lome looked at his teammates again. Still, something was preventing him from figuring out where the evil was, some sort of dark magic had a shield up. . .

Which could only mean one thing.

Dread settled upon Lome, tangent, malignant, as powerful as the evil permeating the locker room.

As he looked around, he frowned as he suddenly realized what kind of evil he was dealing with.

One of these hamos is a damn vampire!

copyright 2007. . .galaxyMafia. . .just might finish this story if she gets bored enough at work.

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