On an abandoned baseball field not far from the Main Gauche, one small beat-up sedan rolls to a stop near a collection of other beat-up cars, a truck or two, and one SUV which seems to have been mounted with a forward-facing chainsaw. Out of the newest car hops a Malek, who pops the trunk, bops back (opening the doors for his passengers on the way), and drags a cooler and a few 24-packs out of the trunk.
Almost immediately he's descended upon by
a group of demons and one very bulky shapeshifter woman, patting him on the back and relieving him of the beer. One of them, a shortish man with a rough Russo-German accent, is balancing a leather ball the size of a small panda on his shoulder.
There are a few spectators on the sidelines - mostly demon friends of the scrummers, but the shifter seems to have brought along her husband and kids. There's already a pile of bagged popcorn, soda, cookies, and a few economy-sized boxes of rice krispie treats which seem to be free for anyone. There's also a pile of uncooked short ribs lying in their store packages on a snowbank next to a bag of charcoal and a tailgate grill.
Behemoth football at its finest, ladies and gents. Welcome to the scrum.