VETO RESPONDS TO URQUHART'S RIDICULOUS FINE, ASKS COACH: 'WHO'S GAY NOW?'

In response to Urquhart's outrageous comments and fine, Veto released the following statement on Thursday morning: "Urquhart says my six dot ball is 'the gayest cue ball ever made', but if that's the case why do the pros use it on TV? Looks like the joke is on you Urquhart. Who's gay now?"

VETO FINED!

In a shocking twist, Head Coach Urquhart has fined Veto. In a blantant display of dis-respect; Veto did not give credit where credit was due. As all in attendance know; without Urquhart there would have been no victory. In a statement released, Urquhart stated "That stupid idiot tried to use the use the gayest cue ball ever made. I had to come down at the last minute and save his ass. Without me, the little bastard would have made creepy look like brilliant. Little bitch owes me some respect. Next week he's buying the entire team a round as punishment. Or he's sitting for the rest of the season!"

VETO VICTORIOUS IN COACHING DEBUT... RESTORES PRIDE AND DISCIPLINE TO GEORGES... BAM BAM, MIXA LEAD CHARGE AGAINST METH HEADS FROM SWEET HOME

After last week's infamous 1-4 disaster that occurred on Creepywhite's watch, new interim head coach Veto vowed to bring changes in week 9. "This team needs discipline," he said with the grizzled look of a Marine Corps Drill Sergeant, "old school goddamn discipline!"

When the team arrived at Binks, Veto took them behind the pool room and lead them through a series of intense calisthenics. They did jumping jacks, sit ups and push ups. They stretched their quads and hammies, their triceps and gluts. The blood began to flow through their terribly out of shape bodies, their muscles loosened, and their foggy minds slowly began to crackle into focus.

Next they grabbed their cue sticks and headed out for a run. Resembling a military platoon jogging with their rifles, Veto lead them through the streets of Northeast Portland. They held their sticks firmly in front of their chests, and maintained a single file formation throughout. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU BEEN TOLD," they chanted in unison, "BUT CREEPY'S WAY IS GETTIN' OLD!"

They jogged for blocks, but it felt like miles. The team grow weary and confused. Willie gave in and hurled up his bean burrito lunch on the corner of 17th and Alberta. Overcome by the foul stench, Mixa gagged and began crying aloud for her momma. Chewy grabbed his cramping stomach and folded over in agony. Fortunately Bam Bam was behind him in formation, and was able to pick him up and keep him moving. Chewy's legs dragged on the pavement as The Bam carried him along. "NEVER LEAVE A TEAMMATE BEHIND," Veto snarled, "EVERY MAN COMES HOME!"

When they finally made it back to Binks - sweaty and stinky, with blood and vomit on their shoes - Veto broke out his portable chalk board and walked the team through some x's and o's. They went over cut shots, kick shots, caroms, combos, tangent lines, deflection, defensive strategies and more. Bam stood up and gave an eloquent dissertation on the art of the bank shot, and then Veto closed with a lecture on mental toughness that he likes to call: seizing the win when it's within your grasp.

"The team is finally exhausted and numb, both physically and mentally," Veto thought to himself. "By God they're ready!"

When the clock hit seven, Veto sent Bam Bam up for match one. His nerves were calm and his bank shot was steady. He set the tone for the evening, executing several flawless run outs and quickly engineered a victory for his team.

Mixa heard her name called next and jumped to attention. She screwed together her trusty cue Norton and walked to the table. She had the tall task of taking on Sweet Home's captain Caveman, but Veto knew she was ready for the challenge. "I was too tired to think," she said afterwards. "I just reacted to each situation and relied on Veto's intense training to take me home."

She looked confident and graceful, fully in charge of her destiny. After a brilliant time out by Veto, she put the eight ball right through her opponents blocker, sinking both balls and winning game one. The crowd erupted in applause! "Wow, what a tick shot by Mixa!" one man screamed. Fans cheered and whistled. One old lady fainted, and Binkstenders had to bring her back to consciousness with smelling salts and multiple smacks to the face. It was more than just any one win that drove the fans into this state of nirvana. Alas, the Binks mojo appeared to be back. A sense of hope had returned!

Mixa had to wait several minutes for the mayhem to die down before she could break in game two, but she would not look back from there. She maintained her momentum and closed out the victory in convincing fashion.

Furious George 2, The Meth Heads from Sweet Home 0.

The Caveman put his six up next, forcing Veto to called his own number. After a terrible mental error that cost him game one, the interim head coach charged back, at one point coming within one ball - and a mere fraction of an inch - from two consecutive table runs. He was determined to seal the win for his team. The pair of sixes blazed through 8 games in only 18 innings, with Veto coming out on top 5-3.

The Georges were up 3-0 and the win was secure. Veto had already surpassed the low expectations set by the previous interim head coach Creepywhite, but he was still not satisfied. They needed the points, and Veto wanted the sweep. "Go for the jugular boys!" he cried, as he paced the sidelines and rallied his troops.

But the sweep was not to be. Black Beard fought valiantly in match four, but lost the deciding hill-hill game in a heartbreaker. Chewy then fell in hill-hill battle of his own. "I would just assume jump on a hand grenade than lose a match for interim head coach Veto," declared a despondent Chewy afterwards. "Hell, I'd take a bullet for that coach!"

All in all, it was a solid win for Furious George. Veto had whipped the team back into shape and turned them into a respectable fighting unit once again. Confidence and pride was restored. "I knew we needed to turn this thing around, and fast," the interim head coach said during his Tuesday morning press conference. "We were slipping in the standings and, after the mental hell that we all endured during the Creepywhite regime, it was crucial to break the cycle and set a new tone around here. If nothing else, I feel we accomplished that tonight."

In other news, ex-interim head coach Creepywhite was not in attendance on Monday night. The ousted leader was reportedly at a mental health facility Oregon City, undergoing a series of intense psychiatric treatments. "He suffered a terrible blow two weeks ago during that epic meltdown," confirmed Nurse Ratchet, "and he is going to require therapy. Lots of therapy. And pills. And several pairs of clean underwear. And a white room with thick, padded walls. Perhaps even some electro-shock therapy. We'll just have to see how it goes. Coach Urquhart is very concerned and has authorized us to use any means necessary."

FURIOUS GEORGE ANXIOUSLY AWAITS URQUHART'S RETURN... TEAM LOSES MOMENTUM, PRIDE DURING CREEPYWHITE REGIME

After spending the week at Furious George's practice facility in Northeast Portland, beat writer RJ Pinkerton was appalled at the state of the team. "The Georges are in disarray!" he warned. "Their hearts are black and their minds are bent, its even worse than before Urquhart went!"

At first, last week's meltdown against U&I appeared to be directly linked to yet another Urquhart blunder. He did, after all, leave for Italy with the red dot ball stashed securely in his carry-on bag. "I like to have it close to me," the captain admitted to reporters via e-mail. "Its kind of like my security blanket. I like to touch it, caress it, rub its cold hard surface against my cold hard head... Sometimes I even sleep with it tucked between the rolls in my belly. Its my everything."

After further review, however, it appears that the red dot ball fiasco was probably the least of their worries. "Last week was awful," said Mixa. "Terrible," moaned Bam Bam. "No energy at all!" cried Chewy. Black Beard choked back tears, and refused to even discuss it. "It gives me a headache when I think about it," he whimpered, "and frankly I'm tired of crying in front of my kid."

"I never thought I would say this," commented a perplexed and desperate Veto, "but we need Urquhart back. The discipline has disappeared. The passion is nonexistent. The pride has evaporated like vapor in the wind." He then paused, wiped a stream of running snot from his gaping nostrils, and began to weep openly. "Oh dear God!" he howled, "I thought for sure things would be better with Urquhart out of the country, but now Creepywhite has forced me to rethink my every view in life! Damn it," he sobbed, "I never thought I would hate another coach more than I hate Urqhart, but now I fear I was wrong about that too... I don't even know what's going on anymore. Its like the Twilight Zone around here."

Indeed, the Creepywhite regime has been a taxing and brutal one indeed. Players are losing morale by the minute. Fans are seething and beginning to take on a mob-like mentality. "DOWN WITH CREE-PY, DOWN WITH CREE-PY," one protest group chanted in front of his home on Friday evening. The angry mob screamed profanities and slurred personal attacks toawards his family. They carried torches and wore white hoods over their faces. Some even threw rotten fruit at his garage door and set bags of dog poo ablaze on his front porch.

"These are tough times for Furious George," summed up a dejected Waylund, who has taken several unexplained personal days off of work this week. "My head just feels tired and achy," he explained, "my arms too heavy to lift another box of produce off the truck."

Try as he might, interim head coach Creepywhite is no Urquhart. Much like the 2008 Dallas Cowboys, Furious George is a team loaded with talent and idiocy alike. The players need a coach who can impose his steely will upon their weak and impressionable minds; someone who understands discipline, direction, and fury! In a conference that is perhaps the toughest in all of sports - comparable only to the AL East in baseball and the NFC East in football - fans and owners in the NOPO division have little tolerance for failure.

"This is a today business," said Binks owner Justin, who held a press conference from his bar on Saturday morning. His wife stood by his side, holding his arm and wiping tears from her cheek as he spoke. "And today I am appalled at the state of my franchise. Urquhart, if you are out there listening, I beg of you, PLEASE come home soon. The session is slipping away, and your team needs you."

U&I SNAPS FURIOUS GEORGE'S FIVE GAME WINNING STREAK... EVEN FROM ACROSS THE POND, URQUHART STILL MANAGES TO SCREW HIS TEAM

Even from the distant shores of the Italian Riviera, Urquhart still managed to cost his team a victory with one of his famous blunders. "I thought we were safe for the next few weeks," stated interim head coach Creepywhite afterwards, "but I guess I was wrong."

Urquhart left the country on vacation last week, leaving his team without an official red dot ball. When the boys showed up to play first place U&I on Monday night, panic quickly ensued. "Sweet God!" one fan cried aloud, "Without a red dot ball, there won't be a match!" Creepy's mind went blank and he began to stutter incoherent nonsense in strange tongues. Mixa gnawed uncontrollably on the butt of her pool cue, Norton. Bam Bam removed his glasses and used the sleeves of his t-shirt to wipe away tears. Chewy unleashed a slew of Irish curse words that mostly rhymed with 'buck' and 'feet'. Waylund, from depths of a meat freezer in his secret grocery warehouse, let out a blood curdling scream and then proceeded to beat on the hanging cow carcases like punching bags. Willie, thank God, picked up the phone and called the one person who could possibly undo one of Urquhart's boneheaded blunders: Veto.

Though not in attendance for the night's match, Veto temporarily saved the day by agreeing to let the team borrow his six red dot ball. Creepy drove through the streets of Northeast Portland at breakneck speed, desperately seaching for Veto's secret lair. When he finally arrived, Veto met him out front. Like an Olympic relay team handing off a baton, they made a clean, flawless exchange. In one swift motion, Creepy had the ball and was back in his truck, racing towards Binks. The time was already 7:10.

Creepy made it back by 7:15 and they began the match late. Sadly, however, the psychological damage had already been done. Urquhart's blunder had taken the team out of their pregame routine. Their fragile minds had been shaken and distracted; their momentum cut off at the knees. They tried to recover from the terrible opening moments of the night, but it was too late. U&I was too good, and the damage done by Urquhart was too severe. Save one tremendous victory from Bam Bam (over a six), Furious George collectively went down in flames. They lost 1-4 and their impressive five game winning streak came screming to a halt.

"Give credit to U&I where credit is due," said interim coach Creepywhite afterwards, "but make no mistake about it - the blame for tonight's epic meltdown lies squarely on Urquhart's shoulders. He screwed us good with this latest blunder of his, he screwed us REAL good."

BINKS WINS 5TH STRAIGHT AT BLUE PARROT... VETO UPSETS URQUHART IN CHALLENGE PLAY... THE FURY RETURNS!

Refusing to be intimidated by the blue felt, the cold room, or the crazy people all around them, Furious George won their fifth straight match at The Blue Parrot on Monday night. Willie Don't-Call-Him-Winona Ryder started off the night with his second consecutive victory. His opponent came out red hot and dialed into the back of the pockets, but Black Beard hung in there, maintained his composure, eventually regained the momentum, and closed strong in a 3-1 win. "He's becoming quite a solid lead off man for us," commented Coach Urquhart afterwards, who has struggled to fill this role since Waylund disappeared into the vast grocery world abyss.

Next up was the near train wreck of the night. Much like a football team who upsets a top ten rival one week and then falls to a lesser skilled opponent the next, Creepywhite nearly suffered a tragic let down in match two. "Its hard to get all geared up for some mediocre, middle aged skank once you've shared the big stage with The Mail Man," he said afterwards. "Once you've felt the heat of the bright lights, the glory of TV cameras, and the thrill of the roaring crowds... I tell ya, its hard to get too excited about anything else."

Paired against a much weaker five, The Georges sat back and expected a quick, effortless kill from Creepywhite. But they should know better by now, as nothing comes easy in the high stakes NOPO Division. He soon found himself in a fierce battle and the match dragged deep into the night. One game actually reached double digits in the innings column. Our hero was clearly not himself. He appeared dazed, shaken, perhaps still hung over from his big victory over The Mail Man. It was a terrible scene and his teammates struggled to watch. Some looked away. Others paced the room. Chewy put on his head phones and buried his face in a pint of beer.

But somehow, by the grace of the pool god Earl, he woke up just in time to avoid a truly awful melt down. "I thought he was going to crawl in the corner and curl up into the fetal position," admitted a shocked Chewy Webb afterwards. But their hero refused to surrender. No indeed. The pink kitten came out and prowled like it was dinner time. He eyed the angles closely. He stretched, quietly going through his calisthenics routine between shots. He ground it out until the very end, and was rewarded with a 3-2 victory.

"A win is a win," said Urquhart afterwards when questioned by reporters about the mental state of his top star - and most hated person. "I don't believe in ugly wins. Except in Veto's case."

Up 2-0, The Finger chalked his cue and stepped to the table, determined to seal the win for his team. He eyed his opponent up and down like she was dancer at an all male review, and wasted little time setting the tone in game one. He peppered her with a flurry of defensive shots, keeping her flustered, confused, and clearly out of rhythm; like a skilled matador waving his red flag in her darting eyes. "Just setting her up for the kill," admired on reporter from the sidelines, "she's red meat now."

Urquhart had the old bull by her mullet, and he wasn't about to let go. Sensing his opportunity to take the match, he switched gears like a finely tuned Mercedes Benz, slipping from defense to offense without so much as a stutter, cough or a sneeze. With the graceful touch of an old Italian oil painter (whom he hopes to find on his vacation next week), he feathered in a long cut shot, brought the cue ball off of one rail, and left himself perfect position on the eight ball. Blue Parrot fans sat stunned with their jaws and knuckles scraping the floor boards. The Georges erupted in applause! It was a fantastic celebration. Patrons in the poker room scurried to see what all the excitement was about. Drunks at the bar turned away from the TV and looked towards the tables. A karaoke singer stopped in mid verse, her voice suddenly drowned out by all the commotion.

Furious George 3, The Blue Parrot 0. Their fearless leader had accomplished his mission and sealed the win! He came back to the table and celebrated with a greasy cheeseburger, a pack of cigarettes, and some particularly harsh words for his most-hated person Creepywhite. "Happy?" Urquhart asked aloud, "what the hell do I have to be happy about? I won my match and this is what I come back to... a missing player and a money envelope that's $7 light?"

He flew into a tirade of curse words that cannot be relived in print - at least not here. Those in attendance will soon pray to forget the horrific scene that followed. The Captain raged with thunderous conviction. For the second week in a row Creepy had walked out on his pool tab. "This is unacceptable!" shouted Urquhart. "UNACCEPTABLE!" His temper flared up like a bad case of Scottish hemorrhoids. His fists clenched around the thin wad of cash, which had already been counted four times. It was still light, and Creepywhite was still to blame. Beads of sweat began to form on the top of Urquhart's bald head. The skin on his neck turned purple and blotchy. The crumpled one dollar bills shivered between his shaking, stubby little fingers. "Creepy will pay for this," he announced through clenched teeth and FURIOUS anger, "Creepy will pay..."

The rest of the team cowered in fear as Urquhart's inner Robert Dinero (circa Goodfellas, of course) unleashed itself yet again. He hollered threats, scowled, and broke a beer bottle on the bar. He threatened to crush heads, and began to speak in strange Italian tongues. And why? All because of Creepywhite and his blatant disrespect to The Code.

Sadly, the fall 2007 divisional champs were unable to win another match. Mixa and Chewy fell in quick succession, and The Georges were forced to settle for a 3-2 win.

"Mixa and Chewy showed a fine display of mercy and compassion towards our Parrots at the end," commented one grief stricken family member afterwards.

"Coming into the night, this team was ahead of us in the points column," summed up Willie Ryder, who looked particularly dapper in a pair of pressed dress slacks and a fine collared shirt from Macy's, "so we just picked up a big point in the standings."

In other news, Veto shocked the world by upsetting a highly favored Urquhart in challenge play. It was deep into the dawn of morning - on the back table - before the match got underway. The room was full of smoke and stench, drunkenness and bone headed debauchery. Unshaven men in filthy clothes bet the last of their paychecks on The Showdown. They were out of their heads on whiskey and whippits, and saw The Finger as a winning horse. Cash flew around the room as bets were placed. Veto was a heavy underdog and was taunted mercilessly by the crowd. But he forged through the conditions and stunned the hooligans, playing completely immune to Urquhart's timid defensive style of play. The new number one ran away and won easily, 3-1.

"A lot of people lost a lot of money on Urquhart tonight," said one angry bystander who had just lost $100 on the fiery Captain to win.

"He was number one coming in," summed up another dejected gambler, "which made him a heavy favorite with the rail birds. Damn that sonovabitch," he mumbled to himself, scratching his head in disbelief, "how am I going to explain to my kid that I just lost her lunch money on some bum named The Finger?"

"It was one hell of an upset," acknowledged Chewy afterwards, "but I guess it all worked out like it was supposed to in the end. Veto just restored the natural order of things around here: he is back on top, and Urquhart isn't."

VETO ISSUES RETRACTION, HALF-HEARTED APOLOGY TO ARCH NEMESIS URQUHART... GOES UNDERGROUND IN PREPARATION FOR BIG MONDAY NIGHT SHOWDOWN

Veto has retracted his most recent posting about his arch nemesis Urquhart. Said his spokesman, confidant, and part time legal consultant RJ Pinkerton: "We begged Veto for days to tone it down, to show some mercy. He was just so angry, so foul, so perverse in his accusations... I don't know any right minded person who would print something like that."

Pinkerton then paused for a breath, sipped from his morning cup of gin, and scratched the last thin patch of hair on his splotchy head. "Sweet God almighty," he went on, "doesn't he know there are women and children who read this blog?"

Veto himself has refused comment and is not responding to phone calls or text messages. One report has him holed up in a pool hall on the south side of town, practicing around the clock in preparation for his big Monday night showdown with Urquhart. He is said to be sleeping in three hour stretches on a cot in the back room. The lighting is bad, the food is greasy, and the whole place reeks terribly of cigarette smoke and stale urine.

Said one witness, who claims to have spotted Veto by his green tennis shoes and gray top hot, "I'm pretty sure it was him alright. He was in the back corner, practicing by himself for hours. I tried to strike up a game with him, but communication proved to be a problem. He was bleary eyed, crazed almost. He just kept practicing the same shot over and over, all the while mumbling incoherent gibberish about some son of a bitch named Urquhart."

"Its true," confirmed a cocktail waitress named Dusty, "Veto has been here for 3 days now. He claims he is practicing a special trick shot that will assure him victory over some guy named Urquhart on Monday night. He's a strange one that Veto... doesn't seem entirely right in the head to me."

FURIOUS GEORGE HIJACKS MAIL TRAIN BOUND FOR REGIONALS... WINS EASILY IN UPSET ROUT

Portland, OR (AP)

"I ride on a mail train baby

can't buy a thrill"

As the old saying goes, life shrinks and expands based on courage. On Monday night, Furious George hosted The Mail Man and his gang of henchmen (aka, The Smooth Slimsters), who had recently knocked The Goerges out of the summer playoffs, won their way through Tri Cups, and were currently en route to the regional playoffs. To say this was a hot team loaded with talent would be an understatement of the highest proportion. The boys were going to need plenty of courage for this challenge, and not just the liquid kind that Urquhart usually relies on.

Fortunately, their fearless leader decided to show up and do his job for once. Urquhart was sober and tuned into every nuance of the room. His will was unwavering, his mind strong and sharp like a steel trap. He sized up his players and The Slimsters' players alike, and instinctively knew the right match ups to pursue.

First up was Black Beard Willie Ryder, who was paired against Crazy Carl. Willie was sober, focused, and determined to avenge his most recent heart-breaking loss to Cherry Pie. Urquhart's ears twitched like a tuning fork as Willie walked to the table, a tell tale sign that he was at one with his coaching moves.

"Who is this new Zen master of pool?" asked Veto afterwards, when questioned about Urquhart's coaching strategies on the night, "and why doesn't he have his mug on a t-shirt already?"

Willie shot smooth and controlled pool. His aim was deadly, his leaves smart and manageable. He was unyielding in his accuracy, and ruthless in the pressure he applied to his opponent. Crazy Carl stood little chance. He just stood there like a deer in the headlights, befuddled and confused, tugging at his beard and scratching at the awful scar tissue on his cheek. Willie remained poised and hungry throughout, finishing off the sweep in speedy fashion.

Urquhart's first coaching move of the night had worked out masterfully. He looked across the table at The Mail Man, who shifted in his chair and looked surprisingly uncomfortable. A terrible scowl consumed his face. "Like a spider to a fly," Urquhart thought to himself. He rubbed his hands together and grimaced his evil grimace. "Eggggselent," he whispered to no one in particular. "Things are going exactly as planned." Full of optimism and adrenaline, he hopped up and ordered Creepywhite to the bar. "Another whiskey," he snapped, "and make it stiff!"

Furious George 1, The Slimsters 0.

Sticking with a strategy that appeared to be working, Urquhart sent Bam Bam to the table next. He, too, was still relatively sober. Paired against an old World War II tail gunner, Bam Bam struggled to find his A-game. He scraped and clawed, showing typical moments of grit and brilliance along the way. The Mail Man, meanwhile, berated the old corpse at every turn. He flew out of his chair time and again, making sure to point out the obvious mistakes. "You dumb fool!" he shouted, "You should have used two rails for position, NOT ONE!" The poor bastard clenched his fake teeth and adjusted his bifocals, struggling in vain to block out the terrible static coming from his angry leader. In the end, however, a victory was not in the cards for him on this fateful night. The Binks Mojo was never far from The Bam's reach, and he held on for a 3-2 win.

Furious George 2, The Slimsters 0.

Down 0-2, The Slimsters had little choice but to call out their big gun. The Mail Man screwed together his cue, cracked his neck from side to side like a boxer preparing for a fight, and blew a giant green snot rocket from his left nostril. Victory or defeat hung in the balance, and NOPO's favorite villain was ready to impose his will on the situation.

Urquhart refused to flinch, immediately summoning Creepywhite for a rematch against his nemesis. Their last battle had ended in a stunning playoff upset, which angered The Mail Man to no end. The horrendous taste of Creepy Stew still lingered in his mouth like fresh vomit. "Time for some sweet revenge," one of his teammates muttered to him as he stepped up for the lag. "Indeed," thought The Mail Man. He could barely stomach the thought of losing to this quiet man in a blue and pink elephant shirt - this lowwwwwly little five - twice in a row.

The Mail Man squeaked out a win in game one, then sank the eight ball on the break in game two. His confidence soared. Creepywhite, he thought, was finally in his cross hairs. Then, like the famous Yankee Stadium ghosts who are said to come out during World Series play, The Binks Mojo crept in beneath the garage door and hugged Creepywhite like a warm blanket. He caught fire, coming within one ball of two consecutive table runs. The crowd was alive and wired like the english on our hero's cue ball. Clearly, he had found his speed and had worked his way deep inside his opponent's psyche. Flustered, The Mail Man missed an opportunity at a run out and left Creepy with an easy hanger on the eight ball. With victory assured for the good guys, the famed villain sulked back to his chair in agony. Humiliation would soon set in, followed by anger, depression, and denial.

The Furious George bench exploded and Creepywhite beat on his exposed chest like an alpha-male gorilla. His teammates surrounded him and bathed him in praise. Urquhart tried to kiss him on the lips, but he turned his head just in time. Fans pulled out clumps of each other's hair and screamed like it was Beetle-mania all over again. It was our hero's second consecutive victory over The Mail Man, and the crowd soaked up every second of the glory. For the moment, anyway, Creepywhite pushed aside the ugly thoughts of a dirty bomb arriving in the mail box at his house.

Furious George 3, The Slimsters 0.

Resurfacing from the deep abyss of his grocery store's warehouse facility, Weigh-lum made his first appearance of the session in match four. He was stiff and rusty, like a quarterback during the first hours of spring practice. There was little doubt that his talent was still there - hiding just beneath the surface - but he struggled to adjust to game speed. "In the world of high stakes NOPO divisional pool," commented ESPN analyst and Billiards Hall of Famer Alan Hopkins, "there is no substitute for match play."

Furious George's long lost lead off man fought valiantly and energized his teammates with his presence, but in the end suffered their first loss of the night.

"That loss was good for him," said Urquhart afterwards, recycling his favorite cliche, "in the sense that it seemed to ignite his fire again. Now that he has a match under his belt, he's gonna be tough to beat."

Urquhart then paused, and his eyebrows grew slanted and mean. Perhaps it was the realization that his precious sweep was no longer attainable. Or perhaps it was four matches worth of whiskey. "All that being said," the fiery eyed zen master continued, "he really PISSES ME OFF when he loses like that!"

Furious George 3, The Slimsters 1.

Not expecting to play, Veto was shocked when he heard his name called for the final match. "Spaghetti Sauce!" Urqhuart howled, pointing his famous finger towards the end of the bench, "YOU'RE UP!"

Veto grabbed his cue and struggled to find his bearings. He was drunk - and even worse - paired against another old blue hair. This one looked like some kind of strange Hobbit, only she was shorter, and rounder. "Damn all these old ladies," Veto thought to himself. "Where DO they come from?"

The squatty little troll could barely see over the rails, yet she came out shooting like a true money player. Ranked a three, she revelled in the short 2-4 race and was determined to close out the night with a second win for her team. Veto, on the other hand, stumbled out of the gates. Game one dragged on, and the crowd finally gasped in horror as the old wench sank the first eight ball of the match.

With his back now firmly against the wall, Veto took stock of the situation. He looked over at his shaken teammates. Then he glanced to The Mail Man and watched as he showered encouragement on his new golden child. "Listen up now Frumpy-Dumpy," he told her, "you're on the hill. All you need is one more win, just ONE MORE WIN!"

That was all the motivation Veto needed to hear. He dug down and regained his focus, determined to right his ship and close things out for his team. The rest of the match went quickly, as he calmly managed the table and reeled off four consecutive wins for the victory.

The upset rout was complete. Furious George 4, The Slimsters 1.

As the final eight ball fell, the home town crowd erupted in celebration. Ash trays flew across the room like dangerous missiles. Pint glasses shattered on the floor. Fans chanted in unison: "NA NA NA NA, HEY MAIL MAN, GOOD-BYE!!" The proud, savvy fans had been on the edge of their seats all night. They knew exactly what was at stake during this historic match: redemption, pride, and an opportunity to make a statement to the rest of the league. When the Georges finished off their incredible 4-1 victory, all of the emotion in the room spilled over and culminated in the wildest celebration of the session.

The Mail Man's train had been hijacked, derailed, and robbed of all its precious cargo. He and his henchmen were ambushed, plain and simple. "There was no way they saw this one coming," said one of the Asians from The Mouse Trap, "and I highly doubt they will forget about it anytime soon."

The Slimsters are still on their way to the regional playoffs, this much is true, but they are not the same team they were on Monday morning. With their confidence shattered and their reign of terror finally over, their battle for APA cash in Vegas now appears to be a steep, uphill one indeed.

In a related story, the US Postal Service has announced that The Mail Man has taken a personal leave of absence. "He has the recovery blues," said Postmaster Al Feldman, "and he's going to need some time to get over it. All deliveries have been postponed indefinitely, and we ask that you please contact Fed Ex for your immediate shipping needs."