Retalings

Finnegans Wake fan fic

The following is extremely unusual and new to this blog. It is fan fiction of Finnegans Wake. Secretly it is about Notre Dame football. Read it and enjoy.

James Finnican has fallen, a slip.

His team the oirish are diving down the Flodden Field. James is their leader - slippery as an eel, crafty as a fox, canny as sardines- quarter-back but full in our huarte of harts. The earth squelches beneath his bestroddering cleets as drives the bohl up and doon the field. Rarely has he been defeated, his stratactics unpariballed. A knute is he for ways worth saban. Old 51, off tackle. Every man to their own and safety left out of place. Twas but a few year ago he'd his start. The pitch was frozen, the oiley rich held to a drip. Their haeneas foe, the Trojans. Thrice hath the Irish assailaded the gates of Troy, once by land and twice by error, incompletions both. Firth a four striched befifth them, the timeout was called. Finnican spoke in hoodle, warning off cold. He said, “You remember our guennesis? We were stout. But not now. We must win by trickery! By the right wheel - doolittle, by the left - rollins! Steal the win!” And he gathered them closer and sayed 'Lads, I want you to gyp one for the winner’”

Allmen. When they could not polka it in, they will waltz across. James Finnican, theotoejam in training,  prayte, a pate-a-pater, for the interceptions of St. C. Bastion, for his lucky pants of leon, and for a head on a swivel, like Denis or Nicasius of Rheims. It is as much as can be done. Here comes the snap.

In late night diners the rumor began, in morning papers, the rumor ran, in field and stream, the rumor swam, and in portable radio, the rumor ham. The ball, ware was the ball? And posessid, by hoom? Tails were loomed - fabric unstretchable - yarns spun - loose, breathable. Explanations, conspiracies, expounded and expanded on AM and PM radio. You are now Listzening to classical WETA - bzz- oh Lord have mercenaries - bzz- and in the final, Dow beats Jones, 28-17 - bzz- two easy payments - bzz- ON A  BAGEL - bzz- the sad defeat of Oirish football at the Battle of the Flodden Field, where James assailied IV and died befour Troyan sbrawn. They knew far wan manth weedle kam, and sat thamsalves in pasitions interegnumable. Finnican, Finnican, ora wai did ye dive! It could not have been done by accident ! - bzz- Buy more? Buy more! - bzz- -bzz - - bzz-  James Finnican had stooped to listen in, but could listen no more. A slip of the whill? He? After all he had done for them?

 He had fallen, a slip.

Lucid for only a second, a prisoner stirs. Chained beast, primordial, ancient, descended. Sait again. In dramatic lore their names are Death, Destruction, Pestilence and Famine. But those are aliases. On Stuhldreher, on Crowley, on Miller and Layden! Black knights flee before black horse hooves. A midwestern typhon swirls on apoloyon Grounds. Crowley off left tackle, good for five. Stuhldreher, noch naeher, to the goal line. The crowd is thrumming and brumming with folk. Childer clamber onter elder shoulders. The peanut hawker has perched. A storm is brooming - Rockne calls the sweep! The field is scythed and barren. Into sundered wound the horsemen ride. The people cry - tummult, pummult, hats disheadeled, strangers embraced, rafters disbeveled. Their names salubrated over pints and cursed over mourning coffee in west point. And in the pressed box the ink speckled spectaculers work scribblelessly on their papers, and might mynths out of boys.

The boo-jim beast turns.

Light cripts over the horizon. Rain pores through the tents where the fighting men are parked. O day of days, dear James, long awaited, anticipated, breath bated, grounds invested and investigated. On flat land Trojan and Celt have agreed to meet. Down below lies the flett wett field. James is dressed in armour - green uniform by mail. He stands in the great swilling mass. They come to combat with flags and crosses and bills and tikes. The armies meet and grapple in the mud. The sward is cut underfoot. James bellered, hollered, swore. Quarter after quarter the armies grow quieter, depleted in sictions. The score was against them. And it is here that interpridizations appear and conflict in our acount. Some say the turf made way beneath his feet; some say his feet met crosswise and put him on his face. It matters not which. Whipped, obliterated. An end to the season of Celt. A long Hiberniriation till the next chance. And James was exposed and exhibited around the world.

What skandiknaverious behaviour. Diabolical, devilrous. Unbefitting even of a steamed member of faculty. Did you learn that in cleretical school? He was roundly chastised and shamed. His family, friends, acquaintances, classmates and television hosts questions about his health, sanity and playcalling. Neighbors are asked and neighing boors speak. His mother was observed drinking tea on a Saturday afternoon and his father cleaning the shed. His brother Shaun Finnican pronounced him on television a shem, a sham, a shedulous shyster, a shoe-shtring shalesman, a shit shooed dishembler, and a right sheshire schat. Shays who? Shays anonceshimus, who whinks and whispers at certain bestial okurences, deeds most monschsternunce. The sausage is made with intube-endo. His humaniliation is disturbated by print and broadcast media. His guilt is reproduced by syndicated calumniests. His silence makes for prima feces evidence. His name becomes byword in contemporary parlance for slop brained foolishness, and pig brained troughishness. Rhymes rhun wild with the children, to hit: 

Silly James Finnican,

He’ll never win again,

Aches, bruises,

See how he loses.

And:

Flailing James Finnican stood on the wall, 

Flailtering James Finnican had a hell of a fall,

All the pope’s horses and all of their kin,

Could not yolk him to the grindstone again.

For it was true - he really was cracked. His egg-old-whits had left him. He expictorated in fury and agitation to the assembled press pool. His eyes darted from side to side, his fingers disticulated agitationedly. He denunciated the media. “There is no truth!” He declaimed, “to the rumors of impropriety and insobriety. I do not collaborate with the enemy. I do not wish my schemes to failure. I do not speak unkindly to small children. I do not cheat on my taxes. I do not covet my neighbor’s wife. I do not covet leaving.” They surge on their feets. “You incriminate yourself!” they clarter in a humdub of contradictation. “There was never any mention of another school! We always knew you were a traitor, black Irish!” “No!” He shouted, standing on the table, “You have it all wrong! I am happy here! There’s no place better! I’ll never leave you!”

James’s hands disappeared. A qleer lightness grew inexecrably, up his arms and across his chest, swallowing him hole, till there was nary a sight or sound of him left.

The door was locked and the room scoured. Seat cushions were torn open, vents opened and probed, the floorboards and wallboards tapped and sounded for hidden compartments. All agreed that, never had he faded when needed so cleanly, or so spectacularly.