It’s Superbowl Night.

     Silence fell over the living room as the three men in the room settled into armchairs and couches. Bottles of speciality beer, (i.e. Budweiser mixed with type A), were passed around. Each man wore a jersey, each man’s eyes were focused on the massive flat screen TV hung on the opposite wall. They all looked at the clock: 10 p.m. Their eyes then turned back to the clock, and they all sighed in unison.

     "Steelers are going to whomp your precious Seahawks," Nathan taunted, looking at Jack. He proudly flipped his ponytail off of his Randall El jersey, straightening the silky fabric. Jack simply looked down at the teal fabric he wore, and snorted. Slate, who was sporting (oddly) a Houston Oilers jersey, grinned at both of them.

     "Either way, I win," he said. "Told you that having Bertram tape the game was a good idea."

     "We could have just done pay-per-view," Jack muttered, tapping the remote. Slate chose to not listen, and settled into the ass-groove of his battered leather monstrosity of a chair. (Luther always averted his eyes when walking into the living room.)

     "Just shut up and enjoy the game, Jack." The Lasombra grinned as he pushed ‘play,’ leaning forward slightly. "It ought to be good."

     What follows is exerpts from the -long- conversations which occured during the game:

 

     First Quarter:

     "What the hell kind of pass was that?" Nathan pitched an empty beer bottle at the wall. "He can’t fucking throw anything!"

     "Shut up!" Slate growled, thunking Nathan on the head with another empty bottle. "There’s still no damn score!"

     Jack grinned. "And the Steelers are playing like crap.

   

     Second Quarter:

     "What was that about the Steelers sucking?" Nathan puffed. "Who had the first touchdown?"

     "They should have reversed that call," Jack grumbled. "The ball did not break the plane. It was his fucking head that broke the plane."

     "And even we couldn’t see where the damn ball was. Stop bitching about it, Jack." Slate rolled his eyes. "But the refs sure don’t seem to like your team tonight."

     Halftime:

     "Hey, Slate. Didn’t you see the Rolling Stones when you were still mortal?" Jack, hanging upside down from the couch, turned to look at his ductus.

     "Sure did. Still got the t-shirt from that concert, too."

     Nathan sighed. "Hell, I liked halftime better when there were boobs hanging out."

     Third Quarter:

     "YES!!! GO! GO! GO!!!! YEEEEFUCKINHA!!!!!!!!!!" Nathan leapt around the room, laughing hysterically. He whacked the sulking Jack on the head with another beer bottle and did a cartwheel.

     "Oh shut the fuck up," Jack growled. He crossed his arms and sulked. Slate simply smirked and popped open another beer.

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     Fourth Quarter:

     "Why even bother? I already know who won," Jack said. He threw a bottle to shatter on Slate’s boot, earning him a growl.

     "Cause I want to see your total and utter defeat," Nathan smirked. Slate opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut. All three men sat up, their eyes wide as they stared in horror at the screen. Nathan croaked something unintelligable, and Jack squeaked. Slate’s eyes darkened, and he rose gracefully. Together, the three vampires stalked out the door, Jack pausing to pull the tape from the VCR.

     Honoria and Black Robin stood on the porch steps of Hearth Home, gazing overhead. Honoria shook her head as Robin muffled his laughter in her shoulder. The troll hung from a tree, tied with what had recently been the tape in a VCR cassette. The hard plastic shell had been stuffed sideways in his mouth, and he swung gently in the breeze.

     Honoria looked at Robin’s face pressed into her shoulder, then sighed quietly. "I told Bertram using that tape to catch the last half of ‘All My Children’ was a bad idea."