The typically booming basketball courts of Bricktown were eerily quiet. There were no wild games of 3 on 3, no clamouring for another kick to the ribs of a pickpocketer in a mugging-gone-right, even the queue for the 12th Street Public Toilets was only 5 people deep. Instead, the residents of Detroit were gathered in an alleyway between two tower blocks on the outskirts of Bricktown, staring up at a beast from Hell. 

Well, kinda. This particular Hell was evidently resident to 20ft tall, scrawny, pencil-necked dweebs made out of kindling and straw, with noodle arms, and legs which made twigs look like trunks. The skeletal waif swayed dangerously in the evening breeze on each 6-toed foot, perfectly capturing the fragility of its 3-star muse, with a book clutched lovingly in one hand by feminine, obviously uncalloused fingers, as the other daintily adorned a sharp boned waist, teapot-esque. Clearly the runt of the gargoyle litter, the grotesque face atop the gormless behemoth was every bit as lopsided and radio-bound as Hobbs himself. Holding all the appeal of a desiccated banana, his punch-drunk nose and half-closed-half lame-glazed eyes fit in his face the way a foot fits into an upturned plug. A Barnum's reject; the best that Summerlin could dredge from the shadowy depths of the nerd barrel. 

"Torch the library!!" Someone roared to the merriment of the crowd.

"Get that man a basketball!" Another yelled, drawing more laughter. Hobbs couldn't handle a grape, let alone a basketball and everyone knew it.

Amidst the shouts and the delight of the crowd, HeadCoach's most superstar Grin-22 strode forward, the crowd parting before him and his burning torch faster than a wave of allied bodyguards before MikeTyson. He held the brand aloft, the raucous assembly alive with violence, boiling around the edges. After years of talking over the washing machines in laundry room, his voice carried easily over the street.

"I'll keep this short and sweet, like Coach's wife," he said, drawing his arm back. "FUCK YOU HOBBBBBBBBSSSSSSSS!" he screamed, launching the flame onto the kindling like a javelin. It blazed into life immediately, struck by Grin's thunderbolt, an inferno given soul. People at the front cowered away from the blast as Grin cackled maniacally, a conductor presiding over the systematic immolation of Hobbs. He gave a single fingered salute on each hand as he danced gleefully from foot to foot, calves bulging offensively all the while.

"FUCK YOU HOBBBBBBBBBBS.........FUCK YOU COACHHHHHHHHHHHH........... FIREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE........ AHHHHHHHHHHHH BURNNNNNNNNN THE LEARNING........... YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH........NO BOOKS HERE MOTHERFUCKERSSSSSSSSSS.... ...BURRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN...... .....COME ON MIKE, THMOULDERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR WITH ME WOOOOOOOOO HAHAHA YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS DIE HOBBBSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS HAHAHA!"

Coach cackled loudly from his position in the crowd to the front of the burning wicker-Hobbs, swiveling his neck from side to side to make sure everyone was paying attention and laughing as loudly and gleefully as he was, at the risk of extra laps at next practice. The inferno raged, engulfing the effigy in terrible heat & fury. 

"YES, BURN THE WICKER-HOBBS, HAHAHAHAHA.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA."

Iron Mike was swept away with the crowd. What a beautiful idea from Laundry legend Grin-22 

"Thith is why we need to reject all trade offers Coath...Grin is an idea's man."

Shut up Iron Mike is the response as Coach's head begins to swivel like he is scoping out a all you can eat buffet. Probably looking for guyth to give extra laps or something muses Iron Mike. 

The effigy busts into flames following Grin's exceptional throw. 

The heat hits Iron Mike like a fist.

The mug city crowd goes absolutely batshit insane as the fire really takes off and the chant begins to ring out

FUCK HOBBS, FUCK HOBBS, FUCK HOBBS.

Iron Mike gleefully adds his voice to the crowd.

FUCK HOBBS, FUCK HOBBS, FUCK HOBBS.

The atmosphere at this great event is almost biblical.

FUCK HOBBS, FUCK HOBBS, FUCK HOBBS.

The volume increases, the chances of violence and arson have just increased exponentially. 

FUCK HOBBS, FUCK HOBBS, FUCK HOBBS.

Iron Mike is on his feet. Thuck Hobbs! Let him burn like my precious race horse.

"This is the biggest farce since Mafia Bingo. What kind of absolute moron does an Effigy burning ceremony in this heat? This is a colossal waste of electricity generating heat and timber. What is the fire spreads? What then? The entirety of Detroit would go up in flames.... though now that I come to think of it I'm struggling to see a downside for such a catastrophe."

Hobbs turned to look at the burning effigy and smiled

"All publicity is good publicity. You've really captured the twinkle in my eye and the smile on my face. I look like a million bucks. A giant amongst pathetic ant sized athletes."

Hobbs tried to remember any religious ceremonies he'd been to to think of the appropiate words to say to the gathered crowd.

"Detroit: I love you. I accept your burning sacrifice as a token of your devotion and support. Amen."

Void was attracted to the commotion like a moth to a flame, little did he suspect there to be an actual flame there this time though. Being in a comically large black trenchcoat to hide his smashed up features from the HUMILIATING defeat that he had suffered from the 0/3 boxing legend he slowly drew closer.

He watched the Detroit Cultists make a sacrifice to their fiery god. Words were chanted, maniacal cackling posing for laughter was heard and Void thought he even saw some copies of Systematic Immolation of Thought being hucked into the growing bonfire.

At some point it even seemed like the shadows that were cast behind Grin-22, Headcoach and MikeTyson twisted into a grotesque demonic figures. Their laughter and shouts took on a more sinister warped tone, those voices were not human, they were from something beyond. Void liked a good dumpsterfire but not the cultist demonic variant.

A storm was brewing, a firestorm perhaps. Void had a bad feeling about this.