Being the fourth installment of our Meet the WLA posts.

First we learned Charlies Weis’ dark secret.

In the second post we tried to warn Tate.

In the third post we met our fearless leaders.

The wretched figure crouches in the dark dorm room, scratching furtively at a limp pile in the corner.

Wretched Figure: They’re thieves. They’re thieves, they’re filthy little thieves. Where is it? Where is it? They stole it from us. My Precious. Curse them, we hates them! It’s ours it is, and we wants it. Gollum. Gollum.

Suddenly, the secret scrabbling sounds are shattered by a booming baritone voice and pounding on the door.
Booming Baritone Voice: Open! Open in the name of the King!

Tate having a bad day with Denard who is just being his usual totally awesome amazing self.

The Wretched Figure looks up, terrified, just the door bursts open, a beam of light from the hallway illuminating his secret evil. A tall man dressed all in black, a ski mask, emblazoned with a red unicorn, covering his face, strides into the room.
 

WLA Ninja: Make way for the King!

Then noticing the wretched figure, Tate Forcier, dressed in tattered Maize and Blue footie PJs– scrambling to hide the football cleats in his hands—a #16 in white marker on the heel of each.

WLA Ninja: Tate! SHAMONE! What are you doing here?

Before Tate can sputter out an answer a caped figure, dressed in tasteful pastels, kakhis and boat shoes sweeps into the room–a Burger King crown perched on his head.

The King: Tate, We desire an audience with Denard. Why are you here in his room?
Tate: FACT: I’m not sulking. I’m hiding out from the media.

Just then, with a grating sound, one of the dropped ceiling tiles lifts and moves sideways. A man’s feet appear followed by the rest of his body. What was intended as a smooth drop to the floor, is interrupted as the man’s left elbow catches on the ceiling framing. The man windmills to the ground in a chaotic heap, jumps up immediately, and straightens out his John Navarre jersey.

Jersey Man: I’m good. It’s good. I’m cool.
The King: dex, can’t you just come through the front door like a normal person.
Jersey Man: Get. Fucked. And why are you wearing that ridiculous crown anyway. Them dudes hate us now.
The King: Kings aren’t made; they’re born. Besides, my pheasants will never desert me.
Tate: FACT: You got that in a happy meal.

Then He arrives and the room was full of light.

The One True Denard: Hey dogs, whatsup? Yo Tate, you helping me out by tying my shoes again? You know you don’t have to do that, bro. You OK man? You missed the redshirt burning ceremony. Jibreel, Ray Ray, the Gardner, my man Double D Dileo. They all got important special teams work on Saturday.

His smile goes off like a paparazi’s flashbulb.

Tate (squinting in the blinding light): FACT: Tate is avoiding the media because he feels like a caged animal.
The One True Denard: Who is the Burger King over here?
The King: Good evening Denard. I am chitownblue. King of mgoblog and Commander in the Wolverine Liberation Army. I just wanted to welcome you to the Revolution and offer my assistance in any way that I can.
The One True Denard: You’re who? The what?
Tate: FACT: These guys are homosexual terrorists.

Into the room runs, very slowly, a tiny, but otherwise perfectly formed man. He is wearing a blue Michigan football t-shirt with “WALK-ON” emblazoned across the front in big, red letters.

Tate: Nasssty hobbits. Always sneaking.
The One True Denard: Yo man, Kovacs#, you don’t need to be taking the title walk-on so literal all the time.
Kovacs#: I’m sorry Mr. Robinson. I’m running, really I am.
The One True Denard: Bro, I told you just call me Denard.
Kovacs#: I’m sorry Mr. Robinson. The other scholarship players, you know, they don’t like it when I call them by their first name.
The One True Denard: Anyway, I was just meeting these nice homosexual terrorists. They seem to be members of a para-military group. I think they’re Michigan fans.
Jersey Man (as an aside): We’re actually not all homosexuals. We’re really more communists than anything.
WLA Ninja: You know how it is broham. A little shibba, a little dibba.
Tate (indicating the WLA Ninja): FACT: This one smells like a Muslim.
Kovacs#: Why is Mr. Forcier talking like that with the FACT stuff?
Jersey Man: He prolly just talks that way when he gets nervous.
Tate: FACT: Tate does not get nervous.
The King: Tate do not despair. My heart tells me that you have some part to play yet, for good or ill before this is over.
Tate (his cringing face momentarily brightening with its previous angelic glow): FACT: Denard will get hurt as soon as we play a Big Ten caliber defense.
Jersey Man: In that case, he should be OK for another week, at least.
The King: Our work is done here. LIGHTS!

As the WLA slinks clumsily away, the night descends—held back only by the light emanating from the One True Denard and his super nova smile…
FIN.