New letter from Tubby, written on a wad of bar napkins and jammed into an envelope. As usual, this is my best attempt at translation of his gibberish. Some details may have been mangled in transit.
Seems it’s finally dawned on him that he may have helped me create the worst fantasy football team in the history of the sport. Modern history, anyway.
Caesar never played fantasy football.
Which is probably just as well. If the Celts or Germanic tribes ever confronted him with the backstabbing and overall treachery that I’ve gotten from this rotten pack of so-called players rounded up by that demented moron Igor, he’d have massacred the lot of them. Rome would have ruled for 2000 more years, and there’d still be pasta and poorly engineered cars from Rome to Scotland.
I wrote that bit two days ago, before lurching into a short but energetic bout of drinking, and have since been informed that Caesar was in fact stabbed in the back, and front and sides as well. Consequently I’m reassessing my original stance, and my theory is now more aligned with the idea that he was likely playing some embryonic version of Fantasy Gladiator, and those treacherous sword wielding bastards were undoubtedly other members of his league.
History is a fascinating subject, and it gives me some comfort knowing that my exploits shall be studied, in depth, wallowed in even, and that some class time, maybe 15 minutes or so before the bell, will be devoted to the day I finally dropped a goddamn anvil on Igor’s head.
None of those miserable Romans ever did to Caesar what Igor did to me. None of them stuck him with Brian Quick as a starting wideout, or traded a crippled and lifeless CJ Anderson for 15% of my entire budget. If they had, even Shakespeare would have forsaken them. No one would voluntarily write about such treachery.
No one except me.