Pannonia Inferior

Panzerfaust by David Forsyth

Hungary. Budapest. The Fisherman's Bastion.

My tired eyes looked hard on the Danube. I was cold. I was done.

The city's history yawned, indifferent, in front of me. A black hole of misery and pain.

It was days like this I wished I was somewhere else - somewhere, somehow, Blackheath 2nd XI were crumbling like ash.

I took a half-hearted drag on my cigarette. What had Derwyn Baillie said about victory? She was fleeting. Lurking in deep, ancient parts of your mind. You'd never hold on to her forever, but the young and the fools kept trying.

Maybe I was a fool. Maybe I was hungry.

I slipped into the nearest cafe. A despondent pit of toothless old men and almost toothless old women. It was like a meeting of the crack addled Central European David Hayter Appreciation Society. I rang the cheap, cheerful bell on the counter. It was as out of place as Scott Dow in a tanning salon.

"Egy k?v? k?rj?k"

The rottweiler in a wig behind the counter shot me daggers, but she wouldn't turn down the business. Who would in a city like this?

I stared into my glass. That black hole opened up, in front of me this time. Where had victory gone? Where would I see her again? I yearned for her? I felt the gravity of loss, sinking her weight into my bones. The black hole whirled before me. I heard the cruel chuckle of a Dutchman....or was it the Swedish Chef from The Muppets?

I left its dark waters to cool on the cheap plastic counter. I would see victory again. But I knew it would come at a cost. Everything does. Ask James Hatcher.