JunoBear Cometh

A group of shabby, flabby middle aged men slip furtively into the room.  For a moment there is silence as if we are unable to believe our success.  Then, as relaxation comes so does the boasting.  Tales of family gatherings successfully avoided fill the air.  Sunken chests are thrown out (or at least forward) as the speaker regales a rapt audience with the story of how he skilfully manipulated his wife into agreement with his attendance today.  The scent of masculine pride almost overwhelms the urine tinged stench of relief.  Back at their respective homes their wives swill mimosas and congratulate themselves on finally getting the deadbeats out of the house for the day.


There can be no doubt!  This is JunoBear 2019, where a group of aging physical inadequates sublimate their increasingly pathetic war hero fantasies through the medium of cardboard counters.  Here in this ill lit auditorium of doom battles will be fought, victories won and crushing defeats endured, with a break for lunch at about 1pm.  Andy Rogers having decided that CanCon just didn't inject enough grief into his life has agreed to run the tournament this year.  To suggest that he may have an ulterior motive would be rank ingratitude indeed.


This will be the second of three tournaments I'll be competing in within the course of a few months.  In April Joe Moro and Jamie Westlake dragged the corpse of ANZACon from its unmarked grave and unleashed it on the streets to terrify the villagers.  I popped down to Melbourne to suffer humiliation in that competition.  With JunoBear in Sydney I'm looking forward to some rather more geographically convenient humiliation.  Once I have uncurled myself from my foetal position and convinced the doctors that I'm not a suicide risk I'll be trotting off to South-East Asia for the Malaya Madmen tournament in Singapore for humiliation with a tropical flavour. 


But first; JunoBear, a grim tussle of three scenarios from which only one person can emerge triumphant.  The rattle of dice and the shrieks of the defeated (let’s face it, probably me) will echo through the halls of our venue scaring the hell out of the team of archaeologists currently examining the place to see how earlier generations entertained themselves.  Eventually a victor will emerge crowned in glory and spattered with the metaphorical blood of his victims.  If I manage to walk into another door some of that blood might not be metaphorical.