FanPost

The Transfer of Fernando Torres – A Michael Emenalo Perspective: Part III

**This is parody of El Nino's transfer to Atletico from Emenalo's view**

I glanced drearily at my phone. Another Blue Scout. "The papers are right. I have information that Monaco want in on the action. All is not yet lost." I shut the call, more confused than ever. Monaco? Bankrolled by a billionaire, flush with truckloads of money generously donated by the borderline insane Royal Spaniards for James Rodriguez, the current poster boy for all that’s good in football, wanted Fernando Torres?? With Radamel Falcao and Dimitar Berbatov incumbent in the principality, there seemed no reason for Monaco to want him. And yet, my Blue Scouts would not feed me inaccurate information. That was the job of the papers. I sighed. The whimsy of Russian billionaires is not to be understood, only accepted.

My phone buzzed again. A private number. "Monsieur Emenalo, I hope the arrangements are satisfactory. We at Monaco are happy to be of service but of course, there will be a suitable compensation, oui?" Some unpleasant laughter. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, I look forward to our next encounter. Au revoir!". Utterly nonplussed, I closed my phone and sat down again. Certainly, the voice of my Monaco counterpart was familiar, but the words that came out were as strange as they were confusing. There was another hand at play here, someone interfering without warning. And I had a nagging suspicion I knew who it was. I rose from my seat and walked out to confirm my hunch.I stopped outside the office door and took a deep breath. I avoided coming here as much as I could. Our encounters always left me a little scared and very wary. But it couldn’t be avoided this time. It was time to man up and face the music. I opened the door and stepped into the office.

There she sat stroking the back of that punch-faced sinister white cat, which was so curiously named Benz. A supercilious smile crept onto her pretty face. There she sat, the iron-clad right hand of the Emperor, Marina Granovskaia. The world saw her as a glorified assistant, a mere errand-runner for the Emperor but underneath that facade lay a calculating mind that was as ruthless as it was ambitious. She tolerated no failure and was loyal to a fault to the Emperor. She ran the place as efficiently and anything that threatened to derail it was dealt with a finality that epitomized her personality. Her word was only second to that of the Emperor himself.

"Why don’t you take a seat, Mikey?" she purred menacingly. With great reluctance, I sat down, trying to ignore the accusing yellow eyes of that ugly cat. "You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you Mikey? Lucky for you that you have little Marina to bail you out when it all goes wrong" she said, with her little laugh that didn't quite reach her piercing eyes. I gulped. "I heard about your little mishap with the Atletico boys. Such a shame. But fret not, Marina is here to save you, you poor little boy. I spoke to Dmitry Rybolovlev and he so kindly agreed to help us get the Atletico boys back to the table. Now that they feel they have a competitor, they’ll come running back to us. Not bad, no, Mikey?" The smile glaring at me from across the table was not so much happy as it was angry. "Thank you" I mumbled and rose to leave. As I was about to open the door she said "Oh and Mikey. Be a dear and don’t screw it up this time. The Emperor will not be best pleased if it goes wrong again." And having delivered the threat ever so delightfully, I was dismissed from her presence.

The next morning, I opened the newspaper while having my coffee."So far he has not come home, but there would be a good reception here, and everyone who wants to come is welcome." Enrique Cerezo, my savior. I heaved a sigh of relief. My phone buzzed again. I looked at the screen. The ploy had worked. I allowed myself a little smile. Atletico Madrid were calling again. And this time I was determined to not let the opportunity slip. It was time for some Michael Emenalo magic.

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