In the southwest lies the realm of Houston. These rouges had long been sufferers of ineptitude. They wallowed in pity and sorrow through the terrible Carr Crisis. They emerged on the other side with hopes of redemption, only to be struck with a mass outbreak of Schaub Syndrome. Through the fire and brimstone around them they forged head for one shining moment in their dreary existence, led by the S-WATT team, only to be humiliated at the Battle of Foxbourogh. They now believe themselves to be poised to take land behind the strength of the Clown, but they have no idea the Fitztragedy that took their bitter rival down in the past is headed straight for them.
Amid the corn of the plains of Indianapolis stands a bastion of lies. Contained within that bastion lies the crier-appointed messiah of all the league. The false prophet sits high upon the throne; his rosy, oily cheeks shining in the light, his neckbeard absorbing all foodstuffs that cascade from his mouth, which houses a gremlin like smile that kills all nearby plants and sends women and children running for the nearest Catholic diocese. Standing vigilant watch next to the throne of the golden calf is a crier. The crier stands at the ready to shout down all who would oppose The Lucky One with the sense of superiority of a High Elf and the overuse of the word "Chief." He is called PK. PK was a trickster, convincing the four letter network that he was not in fact an agent of espionage for The Lucky One, but in fact a reporter for the band of rebels on the Cumberland. But his facade was demolished, but unfortunately for the followers of the discounted rebels, the Star had no sports jobs.
Far to the South in the swamp lands of Florida sit the brightly colored Sparkle Kitties. Though many discount the Cumberland Rebels, this may be the only tribe held in lower regard than they. They were once a serious threat to all other tribes, but at every turn they were shouted down by the Dovahkiin McNair and his fierce band of warriors. Now they sit in anguish , losing nearly every battle they fight, except for beating the rebels on the Cumberland during the few years when Chief Munchak was kidnapped and replaced by his evil twin, the outcast known as Munchek. They place all their faith in the one called Bort, but the silver tongued devil Henne has assured they will continue to wilt for at least another year.
And now we come to us. A band of rebels against the grain. The years of Dovahkiin McNair and his lieutenants Wycheck, George, Bulluck, and Bishop are long gone, but they will not be forgotten. The criers discount us. They believe that the damage caused by Munchek will linger and haunt us for aeons to come. The misinformed Schein and the wicked zealots called PFT say that we are to be brushed aside. They say that the Lock will be picked again this year. They are wrong. The Lock now sits under the tutelage of The Whiz. The weapons of The Wrighteous, The Hunter, and the Kitchen Sank have surrounded The Lock like cannons through a fortress. Watching over them all is the esteemed General Ruston, who continues to give not even a flying fuck. The spirits of Bud and the Dovahkiin watch over them all, cheering them to success. We sit and believe in a cause many believe to be futile, but we know that The Titans Of The Cumberland will keep us enthralled, beat those they say we cannot, and our meat thermometers will remain thoroughly popped.