Flash-Flash-Two

Everybody was kung fu fighting.

Because you're demanding dogs, and because that final, an awful, cynically grinding display of feigning n' footie, a sick microcosm of nearly the entire roster of 32 flavors, I present unto thee this wretched solution. Fucking sad, and fucking fitting, that the most exhilarating match was the useless third place gig.

"I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position."

"I understand, but this is vital to the soul of the nation. Vital."

"Yes, yes, but -- wouldn't this, if we did in fact implement it, be considered --"

"Illegal? Given who runs our show I don't foresee any difficulties, do you? Now, can it be done in time for qualifying?"

"Technically, yes. Morally, I have my reservations. But -- I trust you."

"I believe I've earned that trust. If the spectacle is to work, it must be beautiful, and beauty always comes with a price, a price determined solely by us here at this console, in commanding view of the entire pitch."

"Um, exactly how much of a price?"

"1000 for a yellow, 2000 for a red."

"2000?"

"Relax, Bert, a short burst isn't fatal."

"If you say so, Mr. Cruyff. But is an electrified practice field really the way to go?"

"You abandoned totaalvoetbal. If you abandon this, we'll abandon you to coach in the --

*dramatic pause*

-- MLS."

"I -- I -- I'll get right on it."