At about the 38 minute mark of the second half on Saturday, Stevie missed what could be described as a sitter on the far post, after Wal made one of his many runs down the right and delivered the perfect cross. Now that normally wouldn’t be any cause for alarm, but this was no ordinary game for the Turtles. Stevie looked around nervously, fully expecting to be shot.To explain that nervous reaction, let me take you, dear loyal and patient reader, back to the beginning of one of the most tumultuous weeks in the tumultuous history of the FTFC….

Monday, 8:29am. It all started out like any other Monday for Grant "Chuck" Coppersmith, manager of the Turtles. After a heavy night on the brandy, he got Claire to drop him off at work, as he didn’t feel well enough to drive. As they approach town, he could feel the gorge rising, and as he got out of the car the old familiar feeling hit. The gutter felt the full brunt of his greasy breakfast. As Claire drove away in disgust, and The Boss wiped off his mouth and prepared to head indoors for another day of chortling at others financial misfortunes, a large black van pulled up at the curb, it’s front wheels squelching in the eggy mess. Before Boss could react, the side door slid open, and two swarthy men in dark suits jumped out, grabbed him, and bundled him into the van. With a screech of tyres, it sped off.

Tuesday, 2:12pm. Some minor local media were alerted to a media conference to be held at the Belle View Motel in Lower Hutt. Radio NZ sent a sound man, and TV NZ sent along dodgy-moustached, allegedly-bent political reporter Mark Sainsbury, because he had nothing better to do. In a budget single room, two sharply suited gentlemen sat on the couch and the fatter of the two spoke briefly:"My name is Sam Hussman. At midday today I was appointed manager of the Fabulous Turtles. To my left here is Max Allen-Fay, who is assuming the dual roles of Information Officer and drinks assistant. We have signed a six month contract with the Turtles, and hope to arrest and execute the dismal start they have had to season 2003. Thank you, and good afternoon".

Tuesday, 5:43 pm.

"Chuck" Coppersmith finally breaks after 30 hours of torture. The skin on his back was a mess of welts and cuts, and we just don’t want to talk about his genitals. Blubbering like a baby on the cold concrete floor of the underground bunker in Maidstone Park, he finally gave up the PIN number to the Turtles ASB account, and the location where he buys the SNO.

Wednesday, 5:45am. Turtles are dragged from beds all over town. Some were dragged from their own beds, some from other people’s beds, and one or two were dragged from the back seats of their cars. Stunned and bleary-eyed, all were transported across town in the back of black vans, and dumped in the darkness of the carpark at Karori Park. The only light came from the floodlights down on the practice field, and, with the encouragement of a few digs in the ribs from automatic weapons being waved about by swarthy men in sharp suits, the Turtles headed towards the lights. They huddled by the bridge. Some were completely naked, some just had undies on, whilst the lucky ones had on full winter jimjams, like Steve L, who sported a lovely green number with teddy bears all over them. After a few minutes, a figure approached out of the darkness from the direction of the goalposts on No. 2.

Wednesday, 6:05am."Gentlemen, welcome. You are probably wondering why you have been invited along here this morning. Well, in case you missed the 11 PM news on the National Program last night, let me fill you in. I am Sam Hussman, and I'm your new manager. Mr Coppersmith has kindly asked me to take over, given your dismal start to the season. I intend to turn this team around, and this practise is just the start. I'm sure you'll find that I'm a fair man, but discipline is my strong point, so please try and follow my instructions".His accent was a mixture of Middle Eastern and West European, with the hint of a Harvard education. His clean-shaven face was chubby yet healthy, and you could tell from the stress on the buttons of his immaculately tailored suit jacket that he was well nourished. At just over 6 foot, and with an air of control, he was a man well used to being in command. His new team, shivering and sobbing, were put through a crushing routine of exercises over the next two hours. Those who fell to the ground and begged for mercy were treated to a kick in the ribs.

Wednesday, 8:09am.The 8:07 bus into town from Karori Park was a disgusting sight.

Wednesday, 9:13am."Chuck" Coppersmith regains consciousness. He has taken a beating that would have killed off lesser men, but this no ordinary man. He has reserves of strength and the mental toughness to deal with anything that the banking world can throw at him, so torture and imprisonment is nothing really. As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he takes stock of his predicament and plans his escape, and, of course, his revenge.

Wednesday, 9:57am. "Chuck" springs over the fence, grabs some clothes off the suburban clothes line, darts back over the fence and into the bush. His two guards had been no trouble. After engaging them in a discussion about the effect the Iraqi war will have on NZ interest rates (to distract them), the execution had been child’s play - a thumb strike to the windpipe of the first guard had given him vital seconds. With lightning speed, "Chuck" had pulled the unfortunate sap to him by the throat, and swung himself behind his soon to be deceased captor. With his free hand, "Chuck" used the guards gun to shoot his mate between the eyes, then a quick flick of the wrist snapped the bastard's neck. "Consider your accounts closed, boys", were "Chuck's" parting words to his captors. Now, clothed only in blue overalls and a red bandanna, he had work to do. His opponent obviously had extensive resources, so stealth was vital - the bush would be his friend for a few days yet.

Wednesday, 6:23pm. PK hopped into the drivers seat of his incongruously large car, and couldn't miss the note taped to the steering wheel. "Hi Guys. Thanks for your effort at practise this morning. I think there is lots of promise there, we just need to work together to get out of this rut. As a treat, there'll be no more training this week, so I'll see you at Ben Burn on Saturday. If you can't play for any reason, don't bother calling me, I'll just take note of who isn't there on Saturday, and kill their parents. I know that sounds a bit harsh, but I'm really into a tightly run ship, and I tell you it does get results. Anyway, enjoy the rest of the week. I'll be in Dockside Friday night from 7 if you want to chat about tactics. Seeya, Sam". Every player got the same note.

Saturday, 11:02am. "Chuck" drags the poor chap back into the shed, blood pumping out of the precise incision to the jugular vein. Killing was always unpleasant, but sometimes it was kill or be killed. Banking had taught him that. But the true extent of his foe was still unknown. There could be at least 20 inside still. The trek back to Karori from Upper Hutt had been arduous. Living off the land, with only KFC every two hours to sustain him, "Chuck" had encountered 3 mercenary attack squads along the way. A bullet wound to a flabby left buttock was a testament to how vicious the battles had been. 15 dead so far, but how many more. The body count was about to rise, just like the 90 day bill rate, thought "Chuck", as he approached the back door.

Saturday, 2:31pm.You could smell the fear in the Turtles pre-match team talk. Wal was passing on instructions from management. "Well lads, big game today, against the old foe and all that. Do your best, and try not to think about your loved ones, who are at this moment kneeling at the edge of ditch in Makara with a gun pointed at the backs of their heads. Lets try and enjoy it out there". We all knew that defeat wasn't an option, as playing next week with only one working eye would've been even harder. A draw meant the loss of a hand, so not too bad, but still tricky for Snouter.

Within minutes of the kick-off Wal's fear saw him take off up the right in search of salvation. On approaching the oppo box he headed in field, and laid it on a plate for the supporting Stevie. One touch to control, the second to scuff a shot wide, and you just hoped, for everyone's sake, that it wasn't going to be one of those days. Our defence and midfield looked solid, but there had to be doubts about Lance and GT up front, surely. But then it became clear why the oppo had conceded 21 goals in 4 games - their back four was all over 50! As a result, the Turts who trotted around up front at various stages during the game, Lance, GT, Frank and the two Steves, looked positively electric. Lance was the first to cash in, hassling a dithering defender, and squaring for Chris to convert his first Turtle goal. Then after about half an hour, Tel was up attacking and causing problems, and after some wayward miskicks went back and forth across the oppo box, Frankie slotted nicely. Apart from these attacks, the Turts mostly sat back. The oppo midfield was good at holding the ball, particularly Mace and Ken Rutherford. Yes, that Ken Rutherford. But there was little else to break down Murray and Chris, and Tel and Dodge behind them. Steve L actually laid on the best chance for them, but Snouter denied Becker with a great save from a one-on-one.

Saturday, 3:18pm.

"Chuck" hands out the half-time drinks. He was glowing slightly, as if from a recent shower, and there seemed to be a slight limp on his right leg. As Wal re-emphasised the importance of winning, "Chuck" chortled quietly to himself.

Saturday, 3:49pm.

Chris won the ball in midfield for the 23rd time, and passed it up to Stevie, who was hiding up front from Ken Rutherford, who didn't like his comment about not being able to play spin very well. Stevie helped it on to a marauding GT. Being unemployed seems to have energised GT, and finally his relentless effort was rewarded. He shrugged off a heavy challenge from the last defender, and poked it past the advancing keeper. Five minutes later, Chris again strode majestically forward down the right, his cross was nudged on by the lone defender, straight onto Stevie behind him, whose volley took a lot of post, but also a little net. By now the oppo defence had disintegrated, and Wal was rampant down the right. At one stage he got so excited by the space he just kept going, and had to be called back from an adjacent street. Snouter had a few tough crosses to deal with at the other end, but Tel, and then Si were dominant in the middle. Weasel and Steve L had a lot of work on their side, but generally snuffed out the threats there too. Chris punctuated his dominance with a crunching tackle on Becker, who had to be helped off.

Saturday, 4:01pm.

Stevie H misses his sitter on the far post, bringing much hilarity to the crowd. But would the new management be so amused? Surely such a comprehensive win would make up for any little errors. Maybe a few broken fingers, but no actual amputation. The final whistle from Flash 6 minutes later brought relief, but also a fair amount of anxiety for those who hadn't played perfect games.

Saturday, 4:12pm.

Mrs Eileen Tuningfork arrived home after a week in Stratford visiting her mother. Her front door was open, so she entered her hallway tentatively. It was awash with blood. Three men lay dead, their brain matter splattered on the walls above and behind their crumpled corpses. Mrs Tuningfork wretched but carried on. Her sitting room was similarly decorated. And she thought she vaguely recognised the big chap on her favourite chair with his throat cut.

Saturday, 4:35pm.

In the Turtle Lounge there was muted silence. Wal stood. "Lads, we've got to assume that Sam is happy with us today, and just try and continue on that way. I'm sure he'll be in touch when he wants to". "Chuck" laughed heartily, and had everyone’s immediate attention. "You don't need to worry about Sam any more. We have come to an agreement, and he is quite happy for me to be manager again. In fact, you could say he was dying to give me back the job". With that, "Chuck" stood, collected up the fines money, headed to the door, turned, winked, and was gone.