Ryan Leonard glumly scanned the dressing room walls surrounding him.  Celta de Vigo's facilities were undoubtedly nicer than the converted boat repair shop that his former team used, but they lacked character.  Where were the mold-emblazoned ceiling tiles?  Where was the pile of discarded Wild Cherry Capri Suns that marked Jack's domain?  Where was the plaque dictating his friend Han Kook's Thirteen Standards For Polite Social Interaction?

Chester McSlappy is a man at wits end. Whatever used to constitute a full head of strong, North Irish hair, has since withered into a morose frock of tufts. He's not balding-- not naturally, at least. Perhaps some eldritch force scorched his locks into translucent swaths. Or, perhaps the stress of the last few weeks have scoured almost every follicle from his once majestic mane. 

Chester McSlappy sighed.  The airport shuttle was ferrying no fewer than five of his best players (and "DJ" Khaled Hassan) off to represent their respective nations.  It should've been an honor to manage a team fielding coveted international footballers, he thought to himself as he hovered back to his office in the Loading Dock, but this felt terrible.  On his desk sat yet another stack of paperwork announcing his inability to field a full team for their upcoming fixture.  The sounds of Jack Payne and Kim Chang Soo playing another round of "Legsnapper" echoed from the training ground as Chester sat down and glumly began to fill out his acceptance of the latest forfeit.

Chester McSlappy curiously levitates out the door of his office, the beam of light which so ominously appeared in his office dissipating after its message of encouragement. The ever mysterious board was pleased, though not overly so. The North Irishman levitates out to the parking lot of the Shrimper's home stadium, the Loading Dock, slipping on a fitted paper hat and dragging a grill from the back of his weathered van. He sets the charcoal ablaze and hefts a chipped, two-sided sandwhich board into view. 

Welcome, one and all, to a tale as old as a couple months ago.  We revisit our heroes only weeks after their promotion from League 2 and the celebrations that ensued.  Many of the cast has moved on to greener pastures (the free agency market) to accomplish wondrous things (desperately hope for a contract offer), but the few that remain, those loyal few, they will be the catalysts that spur us on to greater glories.

Summer is a great time to stay in doors and play video games, especially if you live in an area where it's in the 80s and it's humid all day every day. If you own an Xbox One, your chance to pick up a lot of co-op games for cheap starts tomorrow with Microsoft's "Ultimate Game Sale," with a fair number of titles being discounted up to 50% off.

The Southend sewage system runs deep beneath the city proper.  A man who swears he saw the Apaches cut down Custer himself roams the muck-lined thoroughfares.  Once another swig of gas station whiskey has made its way past his craw, he crouches low.  Pure silence and invisibility are needed if he is to catch his prey.  He takes a few steps forward and peers down the dimly lit tunnel.  The rat ten feet away from him has discovered a food source of its own and is currently in the throes of a certain kind of pleasure that only rodents can know.  The man's addled mind imagines the face of the rat replaced with that of his Bulgarian nemesis, Bozhidar Mitrev.  The two creatures lock eyes for a moment and snarl.

A single, scorching light focuses upon Chester McSlappy. His vision blanks for a moment as his eyes adjust, raising a hand to shield himself from the cascade of light. Donned in his finest tracksuit, fresh from the cleaners,  with a belly full of vodka he may have snagged at a gas station on the way to this ever important board meeting, he hovers an easy three inches above the ground. Despite Southend United's recent success, and the wicked intoxication, his palms still sweat under the unseen gaze of the Board.

The train chugs east along the coastline of southern England at a painfully slow pace. Reuben Reid, left cheek plastered against the window pane, watches as field after field passes his unfocused gaze.  He thinks back to the time he returned from an away fixture and sat on the left side of the bus, his vision was filled then with beaches, waves, seagulls.  Now, all he sees is the occasional ambling sheep or flustered farmhand.

It's been a harrowing week for Chester McSlappy and the Southend Crew. Shrimpers Forever continues to dominate the airwaves, 8:00 EST every Tuesday and every Thursday, right here on Co-Optimus.com. We continue to have a blast highlighting the thrills and losses in co-op manager mode for FIFA 15. Thanks so much to everybody who came to hang out with Enoch and myself in our eternal quest to bring Southend United from the pits of League 2 all the way to the top of the Premier league. 

The clock is ticking.  A man sits in his underwear in a recliner in a room just a few yards away from Southend United's home stadium, The Loading Dock.  On the wall is a tracksuit, fresh from the dry cleaner.  He can hear the crowds begin to filter in.  Their nervous chatter rings faintly against his eardrums, like an old-time radio play being broadcast a few rooms away.  He wonders what they might be saying for just a moment before instinctively tossing the thought from his mind.

We hope you folks have been enjoying our weekly Tuesday/Thursday stream (8:00 pm EST, sharp) of Shrimpers Forever. Enoch and I are more than happy to keep narrating this hilariously stupid saga as Southend United aims to top the charts of the Premier League. ...