[CLASSIFICATION: ANOMALOUS BIO/CRYPTOZOOLOGY] [LOG ID: #TML-LAKE-UNAGI-GIANT-EGGS-01] [STATUS: RESTRICTED // PART 1 OF 4] [SUBJECT: LAKE-UNAGI-GIANT-EGGS]

✧ Piece together the shards.

✦ Not every story wishes to be found.

Navigate the shards... https://www.endless-chronicles.com/shards

Prehistoric boredom: no internet, no wheels, no paragliders. Just dinosaurs – and you can't even ride them: pterodactyls crash, ichthyosaurs eat your ankles, velociraptors pretend to be magnolias and bite your butt.

And yes: "veloci-" in Russian means "bike". So velociraptor = "raptor on a bicycle". The pun dies in translation.

Full spoiler (and the campfire song) – in my blog (link in description).

Nightly chronicles of a dog that moved like a cockroach.

Once upon a time, there was a dog named Crocodile. This dog had the peculiar ability to move like a cockroach, speak like a human being, and behave like a complete slacker. He loved soda and spending hours sitting in front of his PC.

One day, like any other, Ricky Mendoza, his buddy, came home from work and said:

“Baby, how are you?”

And he replied:

“I’m rrurururruubius.”

Ricky Mendoza looked confused.

“What is that? A YouTuuuuber?”

The Crocodile Cockroach answered:

“No, gayman, that’s not it. I just got tongue-tied, for fuck’s sake.”

The truth was that Ricky Mendoza was going through a structural change. He had been diagnosed with AIDS and could no longer enjoy his humid and sensual nights. Because of that, he would return from his party arty fiestas and wanted to talk with Daniel, who in this case was the Crocodile Cockroach.

Daniel replied:

“You know, I’m tired. Today has been a long day. I want to drink a little soda and listen to some emotionally charged music.”

Ricky Mendoza nodded and said:

“Alright, Willy Wonka. I accept it. I’ll leave you alone.”

To which Daniel replied:

“Alright, Riki. Keep dancing naked like a popsicle, you bastard.”

The nights continued to be very turbulent in the life of the Crocodile Cockroach.

“Shit,” he would say, “today has not been my day. I must dance like a crab, dedicate phrases to life, and mess around in Half-Life for a while. Well, well…”

At that very moment, Ricky Mendoza appeared and let out a fart.

Immediately, Daniel exploded and shouted:

"Can you get me a beer, little brother?"

Older siblings never miss an opportunity to remind you. Patrick was no exception.

I worried about my curse. Whenever I left the room, I always missed a goal. Still, I got up. It was the last match on our bet and we only needed one goal. We stood to win a decent amount of money.

I ran to the fridge and grabbed more beer. Then I hurried back to the living room.

No goal had been scored while I was gone.

"Unbelievable. Not a single one," I said as I handed him a beer.

His eyes lit up.

"We've still got a few minutes left," he replied.

I needed the winnings more than Patrick did. I didn't let it show. I chewed on my nails and sat back down.

My eyes drifted to the red jerseys again.

"Manu is going to look ridiculous in those if this works out," I said.

"That's because you know him so well. To me, he'll look like anyone else."

The clock kept ticking and no goal would come.

Every chance, no matter which side it was on, made me jump to my feet. I yelled at both goalkeepers.

Much to Patrick's amusement.

I tried steering the conversation back to Manu.

"Am I even allowed to bet if Manu gets the contract?"

"I don't know."

I had spent my entire childhood with Manu.

We scored our first goals together on the dirt field in our housing project.

We mourned his mother together.

This was his deserved breakthrough.

"GOAL!"

Patrick cheered and looked at me.

I bumped into the table and our beers spilled everywhere.

That would've gotten me through the month.

"Wait..."

Patrick pointed at the referee.

A whistle.

The goal didn't count.

"That son of a.."

"Language."

I lost hope and watched the clock mercilessly count down.

My phone rang.

Manu.

I stepped out of the room and answered.

"Manu?"

Silence.

"Manu! Come on, say something. Whatever they told you, you're going to make it."

"I turned it down."

"What?"

"They wanted me. But I turned it down. I don't know what to say."

I grabbed my forehead.

"Why would you do that?"

"Listen. We need to meet in person later. I might have to disappear."

"What are you talking about? Is everything okay?"

My heart started racing.

There was trauma in Manu's voice.

I had never heard him speak like that before.

He was practically born for football interviews.

"Do you remember when the scout came to see me after that tournament? How he took notes after every goal I scored?"

He started stuttering.

"You got me tickets in the front row."

"The tournament was fake. All of it. Every goal was planned. I never saw any of those teams again."

"How would you even know that?"

"I was offered a deal today. It's all fake. I don't know since when. Maybe it's always been like this."

"You're messing with me."

"I've already said too much. Meet me at the usual place, at the usual time. I need to get out of here as fast as possible."

The call ended.

He probably meant the billiard hall at nine o'clock.

I lowered the phone and stared into space.

Slowly, I walked back into the living room.

Patrick looked at me.

"Why so pale, little brother? While you were gone, the goal finally happened. We won!"

I looked at the clock.

3

2

1

Full time.

I waited hours for Manu.

After twenty unanswered calls, I considered going to the police.

People in our city had feared the worst. Why hold the summit here? In the exhibition halls right in the middle of the city. The last summit in our country had taken place far to the south in the easily secured mountains.

When I arrived at my office near the airport that day, the workplace was quieter than usual. We had all stared at the television the day before, watching the leaders of this world arrive in our city. They stepped out of their planes. One looking grimmer than the next.

Push notifications vibrated throughout the office.

Cars are burning in the wealthy districts, people said. The videos proved it.

Around noon, they let us go home to our families. The buses had stopped running, so I started walking back to the apartment I shared with my elderly mother. Not far from the exhibition halls.

She knew nothing about any of it. Too much for her weak heart.

When I got home, I dropped my keys by the door.

"You're home already? We're out of milk. Can you get some?"

That damn milk. She always drank it far too quickly and forgot I had already gone shopping.

I pulled on a black hoodie, grabbed my keys, and headed back out.

On my way to the supermarket, I heard a faint rushing sound.

At the next corner, I saw what was causing it.

From the direction of the housing projects, I saw men dressed in black running toward me. I expected the worst, but they ran right past me.

The milk wasn't important enough. I turned around.

More and more black-clad, masked figures poured out of the housing projects. Before I reached home, they had formed into a mob on the main road, moving toward the exhibition halls.

A push notification reported that a supermarket had been looted.

From the back of the crowd, all I could do was watch as Molotov cocktails were prepared.

I couldn't get through.

Not a word came out of my mouth.

If they realized I lived right next to their projects, what then?

I had to get back to my mother.

I called her.

As always, she didn't answer.

Sirens approached from the opposite direction. Accompanied by a gigantic blue vehicle.

The people in the front rows unfolded a banner.

The blue vehicle spoke.

"Leave the danger zone immediately."

The sirens started.

"Come on then! Protect the warmongers!"

"Final warning."

Molotov cocktails flew from the crowd.

"Go to hell!"

The vehicle spat water.

It tore through the banner and threw the front rows onto the pavement.

Knives appeared beside me.

I tried to move closer to the housing projects, staying out of range.

People kept grabbing at my sleeve.

The chaos worked in my favor.

Among everyone else, I didn't stand out.

Ahead of me, burning trash cans flew toward the police.

That wall of shields.

Slowly advancing toward the crowd.

Led by the blue vehicle.

Some protesters tried to climb onto the water cannon.

The water cannon shot them back down.

Most of the masked men stayed on the ground.

I kept watching.

A gap opened up between the front rows of the crowd and the police.

"Final warning!"

Through the opening, I could see our front door.

In the crowd, a man screamed in pain while one of his eyes hung out of its socket.

I lowered myself into a sprinter's stance.

But I couldn't wait for the shot.

Like I had been struck by lightning, I sprinted through the gap.

Past the police.

Past the Molotov cocktails.

Had I started one second earlier, a stone would have struck me in the head.

On the last stretch, I ran through a mist of spray from the water cannon as it blasted into the crowd, turning the water red.

I kicked the front door open and stumbled into the stairwell.

Taking the steps three at a time, I left a trail of water behind me.

At the top waited the apartment.

"Mom!"

My mother wasn't sitting in her chair in the living room.

She was smoking a cigarette on the balcony, watching the spectacle from above.

I had been sitting in this interrogation room for hours, accompanied by that unbearable humming.

Finally, the dark haired man walked in.

He greeted me the same way everyone else did.

"Mr. President, sir."

My handcuffed hands rested on the table.

He sat down across from me, left his briefcase on the floor, folded his hands, and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Mr. President. I'm Mr. L. Your attorney sent me from home."

I shook my head.

"You can call me Bruce. Heads of state usually drop the formalities around here. Helps with the adjustment."

"Okay, Bruce. You know you can't participate in the tournament while wearing handcuffs. Your attorney negotiated something with the MRG."

"Why isn't he here?"

"He wasn't granted a visa."

"Ha!"

I slowly turned toward the guard and grinned.

I knew he'd seen it.

"Bruce. Please. We don't have much time. Haven't you given any thought to the handcuffs?"

"Of course. But I'm finished either way. Whether I get knocked out in the first round by Roland I. of the Damnshit Fields or not."

"The Mammoth Fields. They have.."

"I know what they have! What did the MRG negotiate?"

"You're allowed to participate."

"I didn't ask for that. They can go to hell."

"But they discussed your trial back home. And you're allowed to participate. Therefore, you must participate."

"I know. Put enough heads of state in one place and it does things to your vocabulary. Shit. Sorry."

"The MRG has ruled that your nation will receive no anthem for the next two tournaments. In exchange, your handcuffs may be removed when you're escorted to the table. However.."

"What is it? Do I have to tape my balls to my leg?"

"No. You have to play wearing this mask."

Mr. L pulled out a hockey mask.

"For security reasons."

I stared at it.

There was no way I could appear before billions of people wearing that thing.

"With this? My case doesn't even involve anything like that. We're not in the damn All-Eater Regions."

I shook my head and slumped forward.

Mr. L watched me.

"You know, I'm being paid for an hour. Whether I spend it here or somewhere else."

My head slowly lifted from the table.

"At this tournament, world leaders show up wearing the most exotic outfits imaginable. What's one mask? You won't even stand out."

Now I looked him directly in the eyes.

"You've got some nerve."

"Listen, Bruce. I'm not only here professionally. I'm a huge foosball fan. Back home. Twenty years ago I was in a car accident. I spent a long time in a coma. A very long time."

I shook my head.

"When I woke up, I couldn't move. I couldn't make anyone notice me. I was just there. Staring at a television. The nurse didn't even realize I was awake and turned it on. The tournament happened to be on."

I remembered.

"That must've been during the streak. We came close three times in a row. I wore that military uniform and carried the sword. Man, those were the days. I beat the Sultan of Tretonia in twenty minutes. I still remember that."

"Yeah. It was that exact match. I was motionless. Broke. I had no idea how I was going to pay my bills when I got out of the hospital. I was at rock bottom."

Then he smiled.

"But you. You just kept going. Every time you fell behind, I thought: No, Bruce. Keep going. Keep going. And you did. No matter how hopeless it looked."

"That Sultan was unbelievably fat. But he could play foosball."

Slowly, I felt a lump forming in my throat.

"In that hospital room. Watching you tear that fat Sultan apart. That's when I found my voice again. You saved my life, Bruce."

The memories made me want to rip the handcuffs apart and challenge all of L'Azurien to the table at once.

"You're going to put on that mask. Then you're going to show the entire planet what's still inside you. If you make a deep run, people will still be talking about it centuries from now. Let your attorney handle the mess back home. You focus on foosball."

The handcuffs were removed.

I put on the mask.

The guard escorted me out of the room and down the hallway.

The humming grew louder.

As the door at the end of the corridor opened, the sound transformed into the roar of 120,000 spectators.

In the center stood the legendary foosball table.

When I entered the stadium, the anthem of the Mammoth Fields had just ended.

Because our anthem would not be played, I walked the fifty meters to the table in complete silence.

The crowd froze at the sight of me.

Roland I. watched me approach with wide eyes.

The stadium was so quiet that the echo of my footsteps seemed to reach every corner of the world.

I took my place at the table.

Roland swallowed.

The referee raised the whistle.

We understood the ominous nature of the tradition.

But no matter how dark the times became, we always looked forward to it.

Months before the tournament began, we were already wondering what our president, Maraan, would wear. The world was unforgiving when it came to fashion at an event that only happened once every four years and involved half the planet.

During prime time, we sat in front of our televisions with chips and popcorn. If the broadcast lagged, you could hear neighbors and entire crowds announcing goals before they appeared on screen.

But we cared far more about the faces.

The opening match took place in the capital of the host nation.

Every anthem was sung before kickoff.

When our turn came, we sang ourselves hoarse on the couch.

The host nation's president, Monteney, appeared in a light blue suit. A cap bearing the word FREEDOM sat atop his head in the colors of L'Azurien.

Monteney cut a ribbon and nervously rubbed his hands.

"My dear friends," he said into the microphone.

"Like my legendary predecessors, I welcome you to the greatest foosball nation in the world!"

He raised his arms and whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

"Let the Games Begin!"

Fireworks roared above the stadium.

A blue cloud settled over the stands before fading away.

Foosball was the national sport, and L'Azurien remained the record champion.

As Monteney approached the table, the crowd celebrated him.

It was his first tournament.

Large shoes to fill.

His opponent emerged.

A small man in a yellow jersey from a tiny country whose name I couldn't even pronounce.

The world knew what was coming.

Just as it had twelve years earlier, when we lost the final to Monteney's predecessor.

Matches could sometimes last hours.

Until someone reached ten goals.

The opening match lasted only minutes.

Monteney simply had a rough start.

After scoring an own goal, he recovered and blasted the other president out of the stadium.

The small yellow section continued cheering for their defeated leader long afterward.

Then he returned home.

Our president, Maraan, faced the Prince of Tirandes.

The king himself was dying.

The prince approached the table wearing golden bracelets and took his time.

Maraan arrived in jeans, sneakers, and a cap that read:

EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE.

He placed it beside the table and the match began.

The prince made things interesting near the end.

Maraan won narrowly.

The celebration could be heard from fan zones and even churches.

I watched Monteney rub his hands again before facing his next opponent.

Losch.

The thirteen year old spiritual leader of the Ivory Realm.

His table handles had been decorated with ivory.

The much taller Monteney spun the rods once.

The whistle sounded.

Now he played exactly like his predecessor.

He performed a seemingly endless passing sequence.

The ball danced in every direction.

10:3.

"Never had a chance, kid."

Monteney danced with his coaches while the stadium clapped along.

Losch was carried back to his homeland.

As the tournament continued, I repeatedly noticed Maraan's coach whispering in his ear.

Every time, he pointed at Monteney when he rubbed his hands.

During one of the breaks, Monteney was speaking with a head of state from the United Tribes.

A man dressed in green robes suddenly grabbed a microphone.

"Brothers! This is madness! These games can provoke anger among our people. Over something so trivial.."

Security removed him before he could finish.

Monteney rubbed his hands and glanced into one of his palms.

"There's always one, isn't there?"

The crowd erupted with laughter.

For a brief moment, I saw concern in Monteney's eyes.

The most expensive tournament in history.

Hosted in L'Azurien.

As the tournament progressed, Maraan became the dark horse favorite.

Even the hosts liked him.

His patience and unprecedented goalkeeping carried him into the knockout rounds.

The heavyweights waited there.

Lataria. 10:9.

Croixgirouche. 10:5.

Then came the semifinal.

Monteney.

In his previous match, Monteney had defeated none other than the Shah.

The Shah was famous for ending rallies quickly.

Standing before the winning goal, Monteney leaned forward.

"Your courage won't help you here."

He slammed the striker rod forward and stared directly into the Shah's eyes as the ball entered the goal.

The stadium.

The televisions.

The entire world.

That moment had been preserved for centuries.

At least for a while.

We gathered in front of our televisions.

Others crowded into bars and fan zones stretching for miles.

July 8th.

The year depends on which calendar you're using.

Monteney entered wearing a light blue coat.

Maraan entered dressed head to toe in red and black denim.

Monteney discreetly looked into his hands.

The two men stood across from one another.

Hands on the rods.

The crowd counted down.

Maraan stopped the referee before kickoff.

"Ah. Ah. Ah. Show me your hands."

Monteney folded under the pressure.

He opened his palm.

Inside was a photograph of his predecessor.

The stadium.

The world.

Everyone saw it.

All of L'Azurien cheered at the sight of their former champion.

As the crowd celebrated, Maraan leaned across the table and whispered:

"He's watching you."

The cameras captured Monteney's boiling red face.

The whistle blew.

1:0

2:0

3:0

4:0

5:0

The match lasted seven minutes.

Seven minutes in which pure disbelief swept through the stadium.

The traveling fans from our country rubbed their eyes.

The world checked their televisions.

L'Azurien has not won another tournament since.

I thought I was about to wake up.

When even the host nation's fans began applauding, I finally understood.

Maraan had been right.