Chairman How's Glorious Army
Significantly Lowering the Bar Since 2008.

Note: This is the third and final installment of the story of our trip to the Quebec League. Parts one and two may be enjoyed — with video! — in the previous two posts.

The game was over, but the fun was not. The King needed to talk to his brother, who was in the locker room, counting the gate money behind locked doors. To pass the time, Naitch and I checked in with a couple of the boys on the team. One of them was willing to suggest a postgame activity.

“Take ‘em to Top!” he told His Royal Highness.

“The fuck is Top?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“The rub n’ tug,” came the reply. “You guys could get a freebie, just tell them you’re with us.”

I was pretty sure someone at home would be rather upset at that, so I declined. The Clap isn’t exactly what one wants to declare at customs. Besides, between myself, Naitch and The King, we’d put down four racks of beer during the game, and even if I’d wanted to dip the wick, I was sure it wouldn’t be in working order. Instead, we opted to take a pass and head back to the empty condo for the evening. We had a long road trip ahead of us the following day for a road game, and we needed some sleep. I grabbed a beer for the road and we headed outside. On the way out, we were greeted by the sight of a couple of the boys toking a joint in the parking lot. What a fitting way to end our first Quebec League experience.

I’d like to tell you that the following night’s game was another wild affair, complete with more mayhem and offers to visit another pit of vice. The truth, however, is a little more tame. The Chiefs racked up plenty of suspensions for the brawls and scrambled to find enough random guys to ice a team for the game in Saint Georges that night. It got so desperate that at one point, I offered to sit on the bench. Thankfully, no one took me up on it, as it had been a while several years since I’d been on the ice. And, you know, I was still feeling it from the night before and didn’t feel like getting my ass kicked. Incredibly, the Chiefs didn’t drop the gloves once that night, and lost with a depleted squad by a score of 5-2.

The most remarkable moment of the night was hearing one of the boys take a call on his cell from a former teammate in another city (I’m not naming names, but believe me, it was awesome) to ask the name of the puck bunny he used to bang when he played in that town. Whether the guy on the other line ended up doing the do is anyone’s guess, but the smart money says that he did. Shortly thereafter, we piled back in The King’s Ford Taurus (we found out at some point during the weekend that he made a living by rolling back the odometers on Fords for a local dealer) and made the four hour trip back to Montreal. I volunteered to make part of the drive back, since His Majesty had given Virgil the night off, as he had a football game to play in for Vanier that night, and The King told us he sometimes fell asleep at the wheel. We pulled into his neighborhood around three in the morning, and I stopped at a stop sign.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snapped, “Nobody fucking stops at stop signs, roll through! Go!”

I hadn’t seen another car for about an hour. What the hell was I going to hit? I brushed it off and pulled into the parking lot. Soon enough, we were upstairs and passed out.

We left early the next morning, before The King woke up. I’ve not seen him since then, and I have spoken to him maybe once or twice via email. Nevertheless, he has become this mythical figure among everyone that has heard this story over the years, and like any myth, his legend grows over time. He was a pathological liar, a borderline sociopath and looked like Steven Page, but he’ll always be The King.

VIVE LE ROI!

Enjoy Last Call, folks! The comments are open, the bar is stocked, and the condom machines are ready for your business. US quarters only, please.

Let’s get the party going: