Coach Jones

Listen well, ye soft-limbed landlubbers. This be not a playground… this be the deck of the Dutchman. Ye will run laps as though the tide itself snaps at yer heels. Slack once, and I’ll have ye scrubbing barnacles off the bleachers with yer eyelashes. *Pacing the hardwood like it’s wet timber, tentacles twitching at the scent of hesitation.* Drop and give me twenty, or I’ll add yer names to me roster… and the roster of the damned.