But Wait...There's More

The chilly air inside the university’s ice arena took on an ominous energy but sizzled with anticipation as the hockey game commenced. The players, clad in jerseys that bore their team’s mascots, burst onto the rink like hungry lions marking their territory, their razor-sharp blades carving arcs in the frozen surface.

The horn sounded. The puck dropped. The players surged forward in a riot of clashing sticks and thudding skates. The crowd, a wall of bloated faces with roaring voices, became a hand-waving, chest-thumping insurrection, each spectator flashing their team’s colors.

Intensity electrified the air and was tangible. The opposing goalies, masked warriors guarding their kingdoms, locked eyes as the puck hurtled across the ice, a black comet on a guided path. Each player moved with grim determination, a kinematic ballet of skill and brute force.

In the heart-pounding pulse of the game, one player driven by an unseen force, surged forward, his stick cutting through the air with surgical precision. As he neared the net, resolve pulsing through his steely tendons, he unleashed a thunderous shot from the blue line. The puck, a silent bullet, shot toward the goalie with unspeakable velocity. A violent impact reverberated through the arena as the puck crashed into the goalie's mask, sounding more like tolling funeral bells than smashing plastic. At that moment, the goalie crumpled to the ice, the echoes of the impact drowned out by the gasps from a horrified crowd. The puck crawled away from the net and nestled against the wall.

Every pair of eyes in the arena, except one, focused on the downed player who lay motionless on the ice, blood smeared across his mask. A lone player who, rather than rushing to the side of the goalie, skated to the spent puck. A pulsating green glow within the frozen chunk of vulcanized rubber had caught his eye.

While the injured goalie limped off the ice and his replacement took over, the puck donned a shimmering silver glow, and all the players gathered around, their faces twisted with curiosity. In open-mouth wonder, they stared at the puck, now an unfamiliar thing. No one attempted to put a stick on it. Floating above its glistening radiance, the players saw a strange fluorescent bubble with the words…Touch me if you dare.

One player, the designated enforcer, hovered the hosel of his stick above the thing and pressed down. As wood touched rubber the bubble disappeared and the entire rink vibrated, the ice fractured and reshaped the foundation on which the frozen game is played. The next touch changed the entire arena into a snowy wonderland with deformed snowflakes, akin to frozen tears, falling from the ceiling. The puck had transformed into a flaming ball shooting across the ice under its own power, summoning a phantom team from behind the walls. The otherworldly players took to the frozen liquid, gracefully circling the college boys and daring them to a phantasmagorical duel.

The two teams, now one commingled troupe, were enthralled by the incredible visuals all around them. Suddenly, the humans lost their competitive drive and felt light and airy. They began to giggle, not unlike drunken sots waddling home from the pub. In the heart of this strange wonderland, the snowflakes began to bounce up and down looking more like popcorn in a theater’s concession stand, and the phantoms, arm in arm, whistled the traditional lullaby…Sleep Little Baby Don’t You Cry.

As the arena transformed into an otherworldly portal, it sucked the players onto a stage of clownish antics with reactions a player might get if he entered the ice with his uniform on backward. The frigid landscape, now alternating between realism and fantasy, became a playhouse for a hilarious hockey game—one that seemed to be directed by an impish puck, which was more like a pushbutton with a sense of humor as quirky as a dad joke.

The following chaos morphed into a blend of bewilderment and enthusiasm as the players struggled with the dynamic spectacle. The crowd caught up in the frivolity, erupted into a sea of laughter and applause as they witnessed the fantastical twists and turns of the now-friendly combatants. The rink itself seemed to pulsate with energy, and the players, a bizarre collection of humans and phantoms, reveled in the unpredictability of each touch of the puck-button. The atmosphere teetered between moments of uproarious laughter and gasps of amazement as the puck morphed into whimsical formations—be it a bouncing rubber chicken or a disco ball shooting beams of light across the ice.

In this theater of icy enchantment, the players abandoned any pretense of rivalry, and the distinction between friend and foe blurred into a playground of absurdity. The puck-button, a whimsical ringmaster orchestrating the surreal performances, became the focal point of their shared amusement. As the game careened into a realm where reality intertwined with the ridiculous, the humans found themselves part of comical mishaps and crowd-pleasing delights.

The transformation of the puck into a tiny pink pony with a shimmering tail and multi-colored sparkles shooting out of its butt marked the pinnacle of absurdity. The players, whether human or phantom, began roaming the ice like a clan of laughing hyenas. The once-intense battle for supremacy now resembled a quirky carnival on ice, with players twirling and sliding in sync as they followed the enchanted puck-button.

With under a minute left in the first period, the players, now united in a shared sense of exhilaration, gathered at center ice. The rink abruptly transformed from a circus into a stage for a slapstick battle. The puck, now resembling a pulsating disco ball, hovered in mid-air, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the arena. As the first period ended, the collective laughter of players and spectators alike blended in with the absurd spirit of the strangest hockey game ever played.

To start the second period, the puck-button, now a conduit between comedy and nightmare, became a strategic tool for the phantoms. Some of the ethereal players embraced the darker elements, unleashing blizzards of bone-chilling winds and calling for frozen new specters to disrupt their human opponents. Others favored the fantastical, conjuring illusions of dazzling lights and elusive hairy creatures to terrify and befuddle their fleshy opponents.

The period devolved into a malicious spectacle, a comedic show of icy magic and surrealistic athleticism that would make even a snowman with a carrot for a nose guffaw. The enchanted puck-button added an unpredictable punchline to the game, and all the players found themselves navigating landscapes that shifted from scenes of groveling zombies to a beach covered in dead fish, each altered state more grotesque than the last.

Suddenly the puck, wearing a propeller hat and sporting a monocle, hovered above the ice in the center of the rink, seemingly unsure of what to do. With a unanimous nod and a collective snicker, a phantom player whacked the puck-button in mid-air. The wonderland erupted in an uprising of terrifying screams with blinding lights emanating from below the ice as the phantoms belly-laughed their way around the rink. The humans scattered in horror. The milieu escalated into a shocking climax with a new level of aggression between humans and nonhumans—such as a snowball fight at a funeral.

The second period ended, and the chaos subsided. The humans, standing amid the now serene and icy landscape, exchanged mystified glances. Their eerie competitors, a mix of spectral beings and nightmarish creatures, glided across the frosty surface to the far end, leaving ribbons of snow in their wake.

The interlopers, huddling in the corner, had written a message in the middle of the rink…But wait, there’s more.

The humans didn’t see the message right away. To a man, each player thought the ridiculous event was over. Exhaustion overcame them and they lay on the snow and ice, each one curling into a tight ball. From the stands, they appeared to be a pack of Malamute sled dogs after a long pull. The arena quieted down as the human players slumbered.

Suddenly, the horn blew, starting the third period.

The astonished college boys jumped up and saw the phantoms marshaled at the far end of the ice. The humans, now a unified collection of the original two teams, chose five players and a goalie to face the phantoms. The audience, with fans clad in either white or red jerseys, coalesced into a mass of pulsating pink. In one voice they began hollering a rafter-splitting cheer—city water, city gas, kick the phantoms in the ass.

The period began in earnest with a mighty collision that sent helmets flying, a testament to the raw physicality of the contest. The crowd gasped as the once semi-friendly competitors tore at each other like rabid dogs, and the tang of testosterone saturated the arena. Yet, in the pandemonium, the puck-button continued to dance, a small black disc that held the keys to victory for both sides.

Skates engraved deep cuts into the ice as players maneuvered with lightning reflexes. The sound of sticks against sticks, a nonstop percussive clatter, underscored the urgency of both teams. Bodies slammed into the boards, and the clash of helmets reverberated in the air like drumbeats.

In the first minute, the ebb and flow of the game unfolded, a frozen fracas played at breakneck speed. Each shot carried the team’s aspirations and hopes. The goaltenders, defying gravity with acrobatic stretches, made miraculous saves as they held the final line of defense.

Then the referee raised his arm, signaling a tripping penalty. The humans, down by a man for the next two minutes, had to hold off the phantoms. The handicapped college players, a whirlwind of motion and emotion, killed the penalty without allowing a goal. The exhausted shift retreated to their bench, chests heaving, faces etched with determination, but willing to dive onto the icy battlefield for the next chapter of the mind-blowing combat.

As their replacements jumped the wall and hit the ice, the fans erupted in a symphony of cheers and applause, recognizing the toughness of their human team. As the penalty box door swung open, liberating their brother, a renewed sense of energy surged in the team. The humans, skating with a wave of madness in their hearts, sought to turn the tide. The puck danced between flashing sticks while the crowd held its breath with each heart-stopping shot. The tension in the arena reached its peak, and the clash between these two forces continued to unfold on the snow-covered battleground, setting the spectators on the edge of their seats.

In the heart of the arena, where snowflakes fell like ice shards and phantasms whispered stupid lullabies, a mysterious new portal opened. The specters upped their game. Each unearthly entity kicked into a new gear with a velocity that far exceeded that of human beings. The phantoms were moving so fast that their bodies blurred into solid lines, zigzagging across the ice in dark but luminous streaks. They scored goals so quickly that the scoreboard, a monstrosity hanging above the ice, began to smoke with green flames shooting from the top. In a short moment, the scoreboard overheated, and a cable snapped. The blazing box dropped, now dangling from a single wire, swinging back and forth like a pendulum…but the clock kept ticking.

As the seconds dwindled in the third period, the score remained an enigma, but the puck had transformed into a swirling vortex of energy, hovering just below the dangling scoreboard. The college boys, thinking the game was surely over, skated to their bench. But one of the phantasmagoricals, with an impish wink and nod, swatted the puck-button out of the air.

The horn sounded again. The human players, like a pack of Pavlov’s dogs, responded with sticks held high. Then they saw a new sign on the ice...

But wait, there’s more.

A flash of dazzling blue light filled the arena, blinding everyone including the phantasmagoricals. A long moment passed as silence ruled. Then sight returned. The rink had been restored to its original condition, but the phantoms were gone, and the college teams were set and ready to face-off…again.

The chilly air inside the university’s ice arena took on an ominous energy but sizzled with anticipation as the hockey game commenced. The players, clad in jerseys that bore their team’s mascots, burst onto the rink like hungry lions marking their territory, their razor-sharp blades carving arcs in the frozen surface.

The horn sounded. The puck dropped. The players surged forward in a riot of clashing sticks and thudding skates. The crowd, a wall of bloated faces with roaring voices, became a hand-waving, chest-thumping insurrection, each spectator flashing their team’s colors.