When I started this series last week, I understood that there was a chance I'd have to write one of these after a defeat. It's much easier to find humor in a flawed win than it is in defeat, and yet I'm not feeling too down in the dumps today about the loss. As I said in the post game official recap thread, when a deadly hurricane is currently hammering South Florida, threatening my apartment as well as the homes and lives of many of my friends, an early season loss to a quality OOC opponent doesn't really sting that much, and doesn't really seem all too consequential. Anyway, here's my attempt at levity.

Tenth of September, Year of Our Lord Two-Thousand and Seventeen

Dearest Shelley,

I write you from within austere if tolerable quarters, the interior of the holding cell in which Lincoln of Riley and his Sooners are holding me captive, pending the payment of the ransom (the details of which I will enumerate below). This dreary place is called a "Ramada Inn," and while it is less than ideal, I fear the fate of the rank and file footsoldiers may be worse. As for Brutus--I shudder to think what they might be doing to poor Brutus, who I last saw being led by Captain Mayfield into that rickety wagon they are wont to tote everywhere.

When they appeared on the field of battle, their ranks were well drilled and their formations well managed. Colonels Wilson and Schiano and I all knew the clash would be a dire one. Only a craven fool refuses to accept when he has come unprepared, and I am afraid honor dictates I now accept my own hand in our eventual destruction. It was not only the uncommon valor and ferocity of the Sooner Army's Captain Mayfield nor the shortcomings of our Captain Barrett and Corporal Arnette that led to defeat, but our own mismanagement of resources. Young Corporal Dobbins, whose singular talents rallied us to victory against Indiana, showed the same brilliance and bravery against the forces of Oklahoma, but I fear he alone could not compensate for the mismatch we faced. Lincoln of Riley had motivated his troops with reminders of the humiliation of yesteryear when our men bested them on their own territory. What we confronted were less men than a collective manifestation of vengeance itself.

In the dying embers of the battle, Captain Barrett attempted a noble but vain counterattack, but with his troops dispirited and his own resolve flagging, he could do little more than fight for the sake of better terms of surrender.

I do not fear for my life. The Sooners, though a coarse and cornfed ilk, are not cruel, and while they paid us a great indignity by planting their flag in our soil, I think they are satisfied enough by their victory to withdraw from Columbus and leave us to consolidate our remaining forces and rebuild. And rebuild we must, for Lincoln of Riley himself has warned me of the approach of a new threat to the South. They call themselves the Black Knights, and they wield a strange and terrible weapon known as "The Triple Option."

Now, I must tell you of the terms of my release, the ransom that the Sooners demand of us, which is of an eclectic nature.

To wit:

-16 tons flour

-12 tons coffee

-3 tons eyeblack (most of which is for Captain Baker Mayfield)

-32 lbs "finest smoked Boston butt"

-6 barrels Kentucky bourbon

-Here I quote: "All the eggs and bacon you have"

-Again I quote: "A nasty garbage bag full of Hot Pockets"

The quicker you can procure these supplies, the sooner I may return to you, my dearest.

Until then, I am, even in defeat, forever faithfully yours,

-General Urban Francis Meyer