This is Hank Hellbound roaring live from the Scaldron Dome, where the lava is fresh, the concessions are charred, and the demons are politely booing in iambic pentameter. Soul Bowl LX is in the books, and let me tell you, fiends—if confusion were a currency, the Pandemonium Hextriots would be a hedge fund and I’d be shorting their horns.
Final score: Smoldering Sound Brimbeaks 29, Pandemonium Hextriots 13. How did we get here? Pull up a red-hot cinderblock and let Uncle Hank toast some X’s and O’s over open flame.
The brimstone blueprint that wasn’t a blueprint
Brimbeaks head coach Pyre MacDread didn’t just tear up the game plan; he flambéed it, sprinkled it with powdered brimroot, and served it tableside. The Brimbeaks spent two weeks showing the same calm, chilly two-shell coverage on film, then arrived with a pressure package so spicy it voided three cauldrons’ warranties.
– First-half infernal blitz rate: a devilish 33.3%.
– Second-half: downshift to 8% as MacDread laughed, twirled his trident, and said, “Now dance to a different tempo, mortals.”
The key? A little sulfur-scented sleight of hand featuring their chaos merchant at corner: DeVile Witherscorch.
Witherscorch, terror in cleats
DeVile Witherscorch hadn’t been sent on a corner blaze in nearly two lunar eclipses. In Soul Bowl LX, he came screaming off the edge six times that counted: one full sack, one “strip-air-fumble-that-became-a-pick,” and roughly six heart palpitations for Hextriots rookie signal-caller Drake Melee-of-Souls.
On a first-quarter third-and-9 in Brimbeaks territory, the Hextriots set a solid six-on-six protection… and still forgot to block the small, angry firestorm wearing No. 21. Why? Because the Brimbeaks dropped two interior lava trolls into the passing lane like surprise gargoyles at a baptism. Melee-of-Souls panicked, flame-shuffled, and skittered one into the ash pile. Momentum? Evaporated like a snowflake in Hades.
Next drive, third-and-15, MacDread twists the belly of the beast. He bunches three threats left, brings only two, then overloads right with an outside-hoof/inside-loop tango. Witherscorch strolls into the pocket like a VIP at a sin gala. Sack. Punt. Somewhere, a Hextrionics assistant coach deleted a slide titled “We Are Ready.”
The pitchfork turned into a pretzel
Hextriots overlord Billiard Bellicose is known for week-of alchemy, but every potion blew up in his face like a novelty cigar. The Brimbeaks cooked with simulated pressures—rush four, show six, drop a granite ogre under your favorite slant. Melee-of-Souls started throwing from weird planes of existence. Slants sailed, flats died on contact, and checkdowns felt like signing up for a newsletter you can’t unsubscribe from.
When the Hextriots finally hit hurry-up with 4:37 left—down 21-7—MacDread clapped his claws and rolled out the Big Nasty: pre-snap tea party, post-snap trapdoor. Line slides left. Brimbeaks flood right. Witherscorch appears from a pocket dimension, taps the shoulder of Melee-of-Souls like a maître d’ escorting him to the “You Lost” table, and pop! Ball spins skyward, right into the talons of edge fiend Uchained Gnaws-You for a pick-six. That’s not a dagger; that’s a souvenir pike.
Ground game: lava surf edition
Offensively, the Brimbeaks didn’t just run—they molten-tided. Ember Walker the Third surfed outside zones like a salamander on vacation, earning Soul Bowl MVP while the Hextriots front seven played “Where’d the gap go?” in 4D chess. When the Brimbeaks needed punishing yards, they conjured a double-teeth pull with a backside demon sealing daylight like a manhole cover. Chef’s kiss, singed whiskers.
And let’s give a horn-tilt to their quarterback, Sam Darnfire. He didn’t have to be legendary; he had to be timely. He slid protections just enough, tossed hot routes like jalapeño poppers, and, when it mattered most, handed off with the swagger of a minotaur who’s read the labyrinth’s manual.
Why the Hextriots couldn’t adapt
– Late ID, faster flames: The Brimbeaks disguised late, morphing safety shells into man-match nightmares. The Hex protection calls arrived on time for the wrong reality.
– Interior inertia: The Hextriots guards were guarding no one while defensive trolls clogged sightlines. Nothing rattles a rookie like seeing a 320-pound basalt statue waving hello at five yards.
– Tempo trap: Hurry-up forced simple calls. Simple calls met exotic horrors. Cue chaos marinated in regret.
Hank’s hell-hot takeaways
– Witherscorch should’ve co-MVP’d a piece of the molten orb. You tilt the field like that, the infernal accountants should notice.
– Pyre MacDread has a PhD in Psychological Pyromancy. He taught a masterclass: be something else, then be yourself, then be both at once while eating the clock.
– Melee-of-Souls will be fine—once he stops hearing little hoofbeats in the dark. The kid’s got arm-talent and an anvil chin. Get him a summer sabbatical at the Volcano of Calm.
Final cinder
You don’t win Soul Bowls by being cute; you win them by making the other guy hear footsteps from players who weren’t on the scouting report. The Brimbeaks changed the questions. The Hextriots brought last week’s answers. And in our realm, mismatched answers get you a one-way sled ride down the Scree of Sadness.
This is Hank Hellbound, signing off with singed eyebrows and a smile. Remember: hydrate with magma responsibly, tip your imps, and may your gaps always be where you left them.
- Making sense of Soul Bowl LX: The Brimbeaks scrambled their infernal script, and the Hextriots brought a pitchfork to a flamethrower fight - February 9, 2026
- Projecting Rounds 1-2 of the NFFL Draft: Landing Spots in the Pit of Eternal Mockery - February 2, 2026
- Hank Hellbound: What went right for the SeaGhasts, Pyretriots — and wrong for the RamBaal, Bronfiends — on Scorchday - January 26, 2026
Ah, Hank Hellbound, the Bard of the Brimstone Bowl! I must say, I didn’t realize I signed up for a masterclass in literary gymnastics when I clicked on your article. It’s like you juggled flaming chainsaws while trying to keep a straight face. Bravo!
But let’s unpack this chaos, shall we? Your descriptions are so vivid, I half expected a lava flow to slide through my screen and scorch my eyebrows. “Infernal script” and “chaos merchant” — were you trying to write a football recap or a demonic cookbook? If I wanted a recipe for exasperation, I’d just try to follow your metaphors!
And about those Hextriots, dear Hank, calling them a hedge fund in confusion is spot on! Their game plan was so irreverently scrambled it could win an award for avant-garde performance art. I mean, I’ve seen more coherent communication from a toddler on sugar.
Oh, but let’s not forget your sparkling prose, which carries the same weight as a feather made of lead; it’s beautifully confusing! If I wanted to decipher a riddle, I’d go read Sphinxes in Space: The Graphic Novel, not a football recap.
Kudos on your “takeaways” — it’s like sharing leftovers you dropped on the floor and still expect us to enjoy the flavor. But I’m just here for the petty chaos and shredded expectations. Keep serving that literary lava, Hank; it’s both baffling and (sizzingly) entertaining! I’m not sure if I’m impressed or just mildly singed. 🥴🔥
Oh my sweet little Hanky! What an incredible article, I’m just bursting with pride! I can still picture you in your tiny football pads, running around the yard and commentating on our neighbor’s cat as if it were the Super Bowl! Your knack for words is still dazzling, even after all these years! I nearly spilled my lava-flavored tea reading about your fiery takes! Don’t forget to eat something other than brimstone today, my precious pumpkin! Love you to the fiery depths of Hell! 😘🔥 #ProudMom #SoulBowlChampion