It’s 2015.  Detroit.  A once mighty city now, her population reduced, her debt such that she must consider selling her art to buy bread to feed the poor and run the circus to keep the poor from realizing that they are poor.  And in Detroit.  To make matter worse the city is threatened by barbarians.  While the city has fended off barbarians time and time again this group is different; this one is led by the ancient female warrior Boadicea Ford, matriarch of the once proud Ford clan that reigned supreme over Detroit before barbarians tribes Toyota, Hyundai, Audi and Yugo attacked and drove them out.

Well, most of them drove the Fords out.  The Yugos couldn’t drive anyone any where when you get right down to it.

The leader of this season’s circus, Caldwell the Nonplussed, sits in his office.  A stoic man, (one would never know it by looking at his face), Caldwell is mildly upset, even bothered.  He’d stepped out of character a couple of weeks back and launched an offensive against Boadicea but she’d swatted aside two of his legionnaires, Titus Lombardi and Janus Washburn, as easily…well, to be honest, as easily as most of his offensive campaigns were stuffed these days.  It was enough to make one frown more than usual.

The door flew open.  Caldwell turned, raising an eyebrow a notch above equilibrium.  His trusted aide Mayhew the Mouthbreather, burst in a look of wild terror on his face, terror so extreme, so, well, terrible, that Caldwell’s other eyebrow inched up to meet the first.  The sight of both raised eyebrows stopped Mayhew dead in his tracks.  If Caldwell the Nonplussed was, well, plussed, perhaps he’d already heard the terrible news.  Mayhew took a couple of unsteady steps towards his leader.

“Sir?  Sir?  Boadicea has entered the city.  Detroit burns as we speak sir.”

“Really?” Caldwell responded, his voice barely audible.  “So you’re saying it’s a day that ends in a’y'”?

“No sir!  Well, yes, it is a day that ends in a ‘y’ sir, but these aren’t the usual fires sir.  Boadicea, sir, she blitzed through Leonard’s legions as though they weren’t even there sir, sort of like our offensive line…

“Really?  That bad?” asked Caldwell, his curiosity piqued.  His offensive lines were pretty damn bad, as Lombardi and Washburn had proved when they tried to move forward a few yards outside of Detroit those two weeks back.  Seeing something worse than that might be interesting, even if it was to his detriment.  It might even be enough to crack a smile.  Might be enough, but probably not.

Mayhew took a step back.  “No sir, I guess nothing’s that bad.  But still, she swept them aside pretty easily.  She’s got chariots sir, and they work, not like the chariots she used to use back in the day.”

“Must be imports” Caldwell suggested, as one might suggest opening a window on a particularly warm spring day.

“I don’t know sir, I didn’t stick around to find out.  Leonard’s head is already on a pike and Comerica Stadium’s in flames!  It’s almost as bad as those years before Stafford the Paunchy arrived, when Millen the obtuse ruled the city.”

Caldwell sighed, neither visibly nor audibly.  “Never should have introduced that man to doughnuts.  That was…regrettable.”

“Yes sir,” stammered Mayhew, “but sir we need to leave noAIEGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

The door had burst open behind Mayhew and a spear was now sticking two yards through his chest, the farthest penetration of any Detroit related offense in the last six weeks.  It would have been impressive if not for the blood spattered across the room.  William of Clay, Boadicea’s eldest son and right hand, uh, son, stood behind the spear.  Tossing it, and the unfortunate Mayhew, aside, William strode further into the room.  He surveyed the office, taking in the view, the leather furniture, the playbooks covered with dust.  “Clear!” he announced.

Boadicea Ford strode in, as well as anyone might with a walker.  A two-foot broadsword dragged behind her; attached to her garter were the heads of Lombardi and Washburn, each wearing the same blank expressions they’d usually sported while trying to figure out the intricacies of Tampa Two.  “Where is Caldwell the Nonplussed?” she demand in a querolous voice, “and how the hell do you spell ‘querolous anyway?”

“I know not mother” responded William.  “It’s late and I’ve had more than one of these Imperial Stouts and that’s not helping this stor, uh, our attack, come to any sort of sensible conclusion.  But this office is clearly empty.  Indeed it doesn’t look like anyone’s used it this season.”

“Very well” replied Boadicea Ford.  “It appears I’ve restored my family’s legacy for the time being, and anyway, ‘Matlock’s’ on in 30 minutes.  We’ll find a new head coach tomorrow.”  She giggled and shook her hips.  “Maybe two head coaches.  Get it son?  ‘Head‘ coaches?  And I’ve got two heads here?  From coaches?”

“Yes mother, I get it” muttered William the Clay.  “Let’s go.  There should be tapioca left in the commissary, assuming it hasn’t been looted.”

The two left the room, speeding off in chariot called “Subaru”.

Caldwell allowed himself a momentary sigh of relief.  That had been a close one.  He blinked twice in memory of the loyal Mayhew.  “I think I’ll take a nap” he said to no one in particular, “apparently I’ve got 30 minutes to ‘Matlock’.”