Zigs departed forthwith, accompanied by his brave companion, funcrunch. Onward through the driving rain they ventured. Others followed, some to join forces, others plotting the great Zigs' demise. The very mention of his name instilled fear in many would-be combatants, such that they lingered behind, suddenly finding far more productive uses of their time.
The half-dozen hardy warriors remaining converged on the Fairfield battlegrounds.
Strategically they studied maps and discussed tactics.
Methodically they donned their armor and readied their weapons.
Fervently they strode into the foggy arena of battle, pulsing with sound and light.
Painfully they cried out in frustration when the strange rules of battle eluded them.
Tragically they collapsed in sweaty heaps of exhaustion.
The survivors barked hearty congratulations and struck out into the gloomy night in search of victuals, which they found and devoured with great relish (also ketchup, honey mustard, and malt vinegar). The mighty Zigs might yet live to see his second 1/3-century.