A bear, a wolf and a serpent were in the crowd the day the Mad Dragons lost to the Spartans.
The bear, a man who towered above the other two, held their drinks and scoffed down food as if it were going out of fashion. A hot dog, a burger, crisps, all disappearing in due cause into the churning maw of his mouth. Watching him fight his way through to seat 15-H in the South Stand was like watching toothpaste leaving the tube, a very large mass squeezing through a very small space.
I watched one man spill his drink as the bulk passed him, something that man immediately wanted to have rectified. I watched him turn, see what had actually caused him to spill his drink, then swiftly face forward again in the hope that the walking mountain clad in a band t-shirt wouldn’t notice him. He sipped gently at the dregs of his drink, a look of abject sadness crossing his face, before sitting back down.
The wolf came next, a grizzled man wearing a black eye-patch over his left eye. His armour of choice was a black leather jacket, though I doubted he had ever even sat on a motorcycle. I actually passed him on the way to get a drink of my own and raised my hand to say hello. He growled, baring pointed canines and stained incisors in a grimace of anger.
I swiftly put my hand back down.
As he moved through the crowds towards his seat, the bear nodded to say hello then passed him a pint of lager. The pint was snatched from the bear’s hand, sunk in one large gulp, then thrown at a man a few rows ahead.
Even so, these men weren’t actually scary until the serpent came along. A small man in a shiny suit, thin as a rake and almost as sharp, he slithered through the crowd, leaving a trail of people behind him that all felt as if they suddenly needed to cleanse themselves. When I saw him, he was in furtive conversation with the wolf and the bear, the wolf getting angry and shouting and the bear simply sitting behind them, piling food into his face and nodding occasionally.
These three men were out to cause trouble.
The Idiot in Tin Foil