【搬运】暴风雪山庄 英超圣诞季ver.

原标题：Premier League Panic Rankings: Each team’s fear level ahead of matchday 18

地址：Athletic

作者：Adam Snavely

搬这篇因为要素太多写得太绝了。我也很少在严肃媒体上看到赛事前瞻为脉络的同人写作，写得还这么虚实结合又充满了梗，真是妙不可言，妙不可言啊。结尾的 reveal 真的特别令人信服，阅读体验超棒。

梗概：英超圣诞趴，重要人物死于非命，到底谁才是凶手？凯恩、蒂勒曼斯、亚伯拉罕、明斯和索克拉蒂斯开始调查大家身处的神秘庄园和错综复杂的人员关系。

The five guests trudge from their cars up the long driveway, winding through the low fog that envelopes the trees. It’s snowing. Perhaps early for it, but out here in the hills, it will be beautiful come morning. The men clutch their coats to their chests and bind their scarves tight around their necks against the chill.

The ornate door creaks as it swings wide, the noise echoing like thunder into the vaulted ceilings. As the visitors begin to shed their layers in the warm lamplight, footsteps warn of a figure approaching. The shadowy form slowly comes into the dim light. It’s Sir Alex Ferguson.

“Thank you all for accepting your invitations, and joining us for a Christmas holiday weekend,” Ferguson says. “Make yourself at home, I’m sure the Chairman will be wanting to talk to you all in the morning. He’s early to-bed these days, I’m afraid.”

Harry Kane doffs his fedora and looks around the cavernous antechamber. Youri Tielemans studies the pictures on the wall. Tammy Abraham holds up his phone, looking for service. Tyrone Mings knocks the mud from his boots. Sokratis stops chewing his scarf.

“Until that time,” Ferguson continues, “I hope you will find your accommodations satisfactory, and if anything goes awry… try not to panic.”

20. Liverpool

We’ve heard it said, many a time, that it’s better to be lucky than good. And yes, we’ve earned some results by the skins of Bobby Firmino’s fluorescent teeth. But who are we kidding? We’re lucky and good. Ten points clear of second now; we’ll make it 15 by the new year.

Panic Level: Mings wanders a candle-lit hallway, the cobwebbed sconces and dusty oil paintings playing shadows across the walls. He opens a door to what he presumes to be his room. Inside is a warm and comfortable space, with a triple-decker bunk bed in the center of it. One corner is filled by a large jacuzzi, where Divock Origi, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, and Adam Lallana recline, sipping fizzy drinks from glasses. Lallana laughs.

“Thought we were getting our bi-monthly run-out for a second, there. Rooms for new guests are three doors down.”

20. Leicester City

A slight slip up against Norwich — and we would very much put the emphasis on the word “slight.” We still have a hold on second place, and honestly, if we end up dropping below Manchester City, it’s not exactly the end of the world, is it? We weren’t favorites to finish top four before the season began. Everything is gravy.

Panic Level: Tielemans follows the faded Christmas decorations into a grand dining hall, tinsel and holly lining the walls. There are several players stuffing their faces at one end of the table, beside a roaring fire. James Maddison is standing on the table, appearing to dance a little jig, while his teammates howl with laughter. Everyone’s there: Vardy, Kelechi, Kaspar, Wilfred. Maddison spots Tielemans and shouts down the table.

“Youri, come on! We haven’t even got to the crackers yet!” Youri smiles and heads down as Schmeichel slides over and Ndidi passes him a pie.

18. Tottenham

Well… this is somewhat awkward, we suppose. The Jose Experience has been quite kind to us thus far. We look like crap against teams with anything resembling a competent midfield, and yet, four wins in five games to take us to fifth place isn’t anything to bemoan, is it? Dele has found his scoring boots, and scientists are deciding whether or not the speed of light is faster than the speed of Son.

THIS ANGLE OF SONNY'S SENSATIONAL SOLO EFFORT IS EVEN BETTER. 😍 SON TRAVELLED 80 YARDS IN 12 SECONDS, PAST 6 DEFENDERS TO SCORE HIS GOAL AGAINST BURNLEY. UNBELIEVABLE. #COYS #THFC PIC.TWITTER.COM/WCU6JYEVC8 — THE SPURS WEB ⚪️ (@THESPURSWEB) DECEMBER 8, 2019

Besides, have you seen Arsenal lately? You can’t help but crack a smile. A wary, nervous smile. Like being handed a wad of cash by a man who has a viper resting on his shoulder. One which, he assures you, has been de-fanged.

Panic Level: The clacks of Jose Mourinho’s heels echo through the chamber where he paces with the weight of heavy artillery. He seems to be arranging his trophies again, this time by size. Previously they had been set alphabetically by competition.

“This,” he says to the players in attendance for his mandatory meeting, “is what success looks like.” He smiles. Son smiles. Dele smiles, sort of. Lloris’ face doesn’t communicate emotion. “Do you want to win one of these?”

“YES, MR. SPECIAL HUMBLE SIR,” the players chant with a slightly concerning fervency. Harry Kane, listening from outside, gulps and walks into the room. He doesn’t like it. But he does want to win.

17. Sheffield United

Once again, it is us. Try not to act so surprised, again. It’s getting a little annoying at this point. We can and will take points off the big boys. We will earn the results we need against the relegation fodder. We are a competent football club and we demand to be treated as more than plucky underdogs. Thank you. That will be all.

Panic Level: Mings and Abraham have only just started to acquaint themselves with the first few antechambers of the house when they hear the sound of hounds barking outside. Turning, they find Chris Wilder and John Lundstram clutching the leashes of several dogs, who excitedly run up to the two players and begin to sniff their legs, accepting any head scratches they might be given. Wilder is holding several ducks, and the faces of both Sheffield men are flushes with the cold.

“A great hunt! They never saw us coming,” Wilder bellows. “The snow’s really starting to come down out there, though. Don’t think anyone will be able to leave until tomorrow at least, maybe even the day after.”

16. Manchester City

No! No, we are not out of the title race! It’s only December, how could we be out of the title race already? Numbers are fickle things, friends. By all means, think that Liverpool have the league sewn up, even though they had a seven point lead on us last December, and this year, they only have a lead that’s… double the amount they had last year. Shut up! We’re still in this!

Panic Level: A bell summons the guests back to the Great Hall, where Ferguson is standing next to Pep Guardiola, who appears to be biting his nails down to the point of gnawing off his fingerprints. Ferguson looks quite pallid himself.

“Have we tried any other methods of resuscitation?” Guardiola asks.

“No, I’m afraid it’s too late,” Ferguson responds.

“What if we tried doing three compressions of his stomach to pump blood to his heart, and then attack the heart with everything at once?” Guardiola is adamant.

“His heart is stopped, Pep,” Ferguson says, shortly.

“What about attaching five defibrillators at the same time?” Pep cries.

“Dammit man, he’s dead! He’s dead, and you can’t invent your way out of this! You’re not even a doctor, so shut it and go away!” Ferguson’s voice reverberates. Pep slinks off.

“Ah. Yes. Apologies for that,” Ferguson says to his guests. “It appears this weekend has taken something of a turn. The Chairman… you see… he’s just been found unresponsive in his room.”

“Unresponsive?” Sokratis grunts.

“As Lifeless as the Emirates,” Ferguson says gravely. Mings gulps.

“As it stands,” Ferguson continues, “his demise appears to have been swift and unexpected. I’m afraid we are unable to rule out foul play. And it seems the snow has thickened to a point where we cannot leave the estate. As members who have only just arrived and do not even know where the Chairman’s secret chamber is, you lot are the only ones I can trust around here. Keep your wits about you. You’ll need them. Any questions?”

Tammy raises his hand.

“What’s the WiFi password?” he asks.

(Darren Walsh/Chelsea FC via Getty Images)

15. Manchester United

A brief and eloquent summary of what the past several weeks have felt like as a Manchester United fan: Eeh. Oh god. Oh god, are you serious? Oh god! OH GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS?! Oh… oh god.

We can beat Manchester City and Tottenham, but we can’t beat Aston Villa or Everton. And if that doesn’t sum up this United team, we don’t know what does. At least we’re due for some excitement and good will every few weeks. Someone pass the eggnog.

Panic Level: “So, you didn’t hear anything at the time?” Mings questions Ole Gunnar Solskjaer.

“No, of course not,” Solskjaer says, clearly distracted. “No one did. Hey! HEY! Marcus, quit making snow angels and start doing the drill! You too, Anthony!”

Rashford and Martial get up and resume their extra training, trying to pass the ball on the ground into the back of an empty net. Rashford winds up and bangs one in off the bottom of the crossbar. “ON THE GROUND! SIMPLE!” Solskjaer yells. He turns back to Mings. “Jose was none too happy after his goodwill Tottenham tour was spoiled. Maybe check on what he was doing when all of this happened?”

In the distance, Martial misses the goal completely as he gets hit in the back of the head by a snowball thrown by Mason Greenwood who is half hidden behind a tree.

14. Wolves

Remember that time when we couldn’t buy a win, mired in the relegation zone at the beginning of the season? Neither can we. Adama Traore can actually play football, bless him. Raul is back in the goals. And when Moutinho is doing things like this…

THIS ANGLE OF JOAO MOUTINHO'S FREE-KICK 🤤PIC.TWITTER.COM/422ETVZGVK — GOAL (@GOAL) NOVEMBER 25, 2019

It’s still not perfect, exactly, and we don’t have the luxury of a pushover in Europe, either. But it should be doable.

Panic Level: Sokratis rams his way through a door using his head and his head only. He also wants to take part in the mystery solving. As the wood shatters around him, he takes stock of the puzzling chamber that lies before him. A place he is certain holds all the answers .

It’s a broom closet.

Behind him, Nuno Espirito Santo strolls by, hands in his pockets. Not looking particularly happy or sad, or anything. Nothing to get too worked up about, really.

13. Chelsea

Alright, alright. Let’s pump these brakes, shall we? Yes, it’s been a particularly bad month or so. We’ve been missing some attacking pop for a few games now, and we dare say Willian and Pulisic look like they could use a little rest before a busy holiday season. But there’s no reason to worry, is there? We’re still in fourth place, we managed to sneak into the Champions League knockout rounds and that pesky transfer ban was shortened, so we can up and sign players in just a couple weeks! It has been bad, yes. But the sky is not falling. Let’s see what Frank can do with a few more weapons at his disposal.

Panic Level: “It can’t be him, I was literally watching him tell our whole squad about the importance of never making excuses when it happened,” Kane tells Abraham, as they walk through Grand Hall to explore yet another wing. “What about any of your mates? Did they hear anything?”

Abraham laughs, then takes a right down a corridor Kane hadn’t noticed before, before opening a heavy wooden door. Inside, Christian Pulisic and Fikayo Tomori are drenched in sweat, trudging forward on elliptical machines while Batshuayi sits in the back of the sauna taking selfies.

“Murder someone? We ain’t even got the energy right now,” Abraham says, shaking his head.

“It’s strange, innit? Nobody even knows how to get to his room?” Kane scratches his head and leans against a sconce. It moves downward, revealing a secret passage.

“That seems like a good start.”

12-9. Newcastle, Burnley, Brighton, Crystal Palace

Everyone quiet down! I think we’ve all settled in to where we all know we’re going to be — sparring amongst ourselves to make sure we don’t end up in any sort of relegation battle come February or March. We think we’re comfortable in saying that we’re happy just to remain in the Premier League, and don’t need to win any trophies or reach for the Europa League this year, right? We don’t need to sabotage ourselves with infighting and such… right? We can all just make a friendly gentlemen’s agreement and beat up on the clubs below us. Correct? Gents? … Gents?

Panic Level: Tielemans, with a shaky hand, shines his torch around the stairway leading to the basement. Cobwebs line the corners as he pushes his way through to the musty catacombs. He hears something. Voices shouting, getting louder. Trembling, he walks to the source and finds a room filled with screaming men, several clutching pound notes in their hands. In the center of the room a cage has been constructed. Inside it, Aaron Mooy, Ashley Westwood and Jordan Ayew have leapt upon Jonjo Shelvey, who is covered from head to toe in pudding, for some reason. As the newcomer enters, the room quiets to a hush, and the crowd parts for Harry Redknapp, who is wearing a top hat and a monocle.

“Who are you?” Tielemans asks.

“Lord Redknapp, conqueror of the mid-table, first of my name. And you’re interrupting our show. What do you want?”

“Um, I was just… you all know there was a murder, right?” Tielemans stammers.

“Why sure, there are murders here all the time,” Redknapp chortles. “Didn’t you see what this gaff looked like when you drove up? What did you think you were getting into?”

“I… well… I…”

“Listen, son,” Redknapp lowers his voice, “the people up there? They’re hiding things. All of them. You can’t trust any of ‘em. Not one. Not even the ones who told you about the murder itself.”

Youri’s eyes widen. He runs away. He has to tell the others.

(Alan Crowhurst/Getty Images for Ascot Racecourse)

8. Everton

POOOOOINTS! SURE, WE’RE STILL IN 16th, BUT WE EARNED REAL, ACTUAL POINTS! WE GOBBLED THEM UP LIKE GIANTS EATING CHILDREN AND WEPT TEARS OF SHAME AND RELIEF!

Panic Level: Kane and Abraham finally find the other end of the passageway. It’s led them to some sort of attic-aviary, where the rustle of hundreds of birds fill the air. In the center of the room, several peculiar symbols have been written on the floor, and what looks suspiciously like blood and feathers dot corners of the strange geometry. Standing in the middle of it all is Duncan Ferguson, whose face is painted with strange blue markings.

“Um… hello there. I was just… tidying up a bit.” He shuffles in front of a pile of bones.

“Erm… that’s great Dunc,” Kane says with an arched brow. “We were just wondering where this passage led.”

“Oh, there are loads of them around this place,” Duncan replies. “That one I found my first week here, but there are more, too. To the basement. A few that lead outside. One from the Chairman’s room to Sir Alex’s.”

“Run that by one more time?” Abraham says, his mouth falling open.

7. Bournemouth

Stop the ride, stop the ride, STOP! OK. We’ve spent the past month getting absolutely clapped. Big teams have been doing it. Small teams have been doing it. Doesn’t matter who it is, seems to be. But, here’s hoping a win over a little club called Chelsea can stop this skid and get us back on track. Even though the last time we beat a big team we followed it up by losing to Newcastle. Oh god, are we the new Aston Villa? Is Eddie Howe just a young Martin O’Neill? Is that the warm, rancid breath of Roy Keane on our necks?

Panic Level: Sokratis has wandered outside, looking for something, anything, really. Maybe a sandwich? As he walks around one corner of the house, he finds Eddie Howe, Nathan Ake, Harry Wilson and Joshua King sitting with their feet in a pool of water. Ake and Wilson are shivering violently. King looks completely unfazed.

“Don’t let up now, lads!” Howe says between his teeth clattering together. “We win as a team, we lose as a team, and we learn through suffering and punishment as a team!”

Sokratis, wondering if this is some sort of trick, takes off his boots and puts his feet in the water.

6. Aston Villa

What did we think about being in the Premier League again? Well, we thought it would be a bit better than this. It’s not all the way bad, we suppose. We’re not technically in the relegation zone, even though we’re even on points with 17th. We’ve just come off a tough run of games, and we finish December with the bottom three sides. Still… already been a bit of a brutal campaign. We’ll just appreciate climbing a place or two by the new year. Hopefully.

Panic Level: Mings’ sleuthing has turned up precious little, and he stumps back into his room, where he finds John McGinn and Tom Heaton stewing, eating lukewarm porridge and looking — for all intents and purposes — properly miserable.

“Can’t find anything out there!” Mings complains, sitting down and grabbing a bowl of gruel.

“Not to mention we can’t buy a call,” complains McGinn.

“Can’t defend to save our lives, either,” says Heaton.

“Watch it, I got an England call-up not even a couple months ago,” Mings grumbles.

“And a fat load of good it did you!” Heaton shouts.

“RIGHT, HAD ENOUGH OF THAT,” Mings bellows, standing.

“COME GET IT,” Heaton responds.

“I AM ALSO ANGRY,” yells McGinn.

“THIS IS WORSE THAN WHEN FERGUSON WOKE ME UP LAST NIGHT!” Heaton screams.

“WELL YOU… wait, what was that?” Mings suddenly calms down, inches from Heaton’s face.

“Yeah, Ferguson. He walks around at night sometimes. It’s kind of creepy. Saw him cracking our door open. Hey, where are you-” but Mings is already off. He has to tell the others.

5. Norwich City

Tis better to attempt to soar and fall than it is to merely flap your wings close to the ground, right? Sure, we’re not the greatest team you’ve ever seen. But we’re still going to make some noise when we get the chance, and that goes if you’re Crystal Palace, Leicester or Manchester City!

Probably not Liverpool, though. We imagine they’ll wallop us again.

Panic Level: Kane, Abraham, Mings, Tielemans and Sokratis meet once again in the Great Hall to discuss their findings.

“Alright, let’s get it out of the way: it wasn’t Jose, I was with him when the Chairman supposedly died,” Kane says.

“Yeah, and besides, we found out something better: Ferguson has a secret passage to the Chairman’s chamber. Why didn’t we think of questioning him?” Abraham muses.

“I heard Fergie’s been creeping around at night,” Mings says.

“And a worldly man of great power and mystique called Redknapp told me to be careful of him!” Tielemans pipes in. The whole group looks at Sokratis.

“Cold feet. Brooms,” he grunts.

“Right, well, I think we should go have a talk with the man himself, then,” Kane says.

Suddenly, they all hear a loud yell. It’s Teemu Pukki, who appears to be attempting to bungee jump indoors, the cord wrapped around with tinsel. He laughs maniacally as he descends, air rippling through his hearty beard, before he falls flat on the ground. The cord, it would appear, was too long, and the jump too ambitious. The five stare for a second, and then ignore it and go to Ferguson’s room.

(LINDSEY PARNABY/AFP via Getty Images)

4. West Ham

We managed to win, and all it really got us was ANOTHER GUARANTEED TWO WEEKS OF MANUEL PELLEGRINI. HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU, TOO.

Panic Level: The five slide past Pelligrini, who is running through the hallways. There appears to be a perpetual cloud of hail above his head that he’s trying to outrun, pelting him while simultaneously swearing at him. The players burst into Ferguson’s study, seeing a mahogany desk and leather chair with its tall back turned to the door.

“The game is up, Sir Alex,” says Kane. “We know what you did.”

Slowly, the chair swivels around. And on it, is… just clothes. Ferguson’s clothing. The suit, the tie, the spectacles, as well as a wig, and — what’s this? — a strangely accurate Sir Alex Ferguson mask?

“What the-” Abraham begins to say, as the door slams shut behind them.

3. Southampton

It doesn’t look good. No two ways about it. Every time we put together a result or two we just sink right back down. The players that Hasenhüttl got so much out of last year when we needed a torrid second half of the season to avoid relegation just don’t seem to hack it this year. We are, however, the best team in the league at snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. So, there’s that.

Panic Level: Hasenhüttl’s figure looms over Abraham, who ducks out of the way as the Austrian lurches for him, his arms swinging in a wide arc. The man stumbles into Mings, who barely flinches as he catches Hasenhüttl by the torso and twists him over his hip with a judo throw. When the group have Hasenhüttl pinned down, they are able to see his eyes are bleary and unfocused. Strange, pink-colored foam and spittle leak from the corner of his mouth.

“He’s nothing but a robot now. He cannot think for himself,” comes a voice from the shadows. The men turn to watch as footsteps draw near, just as when they first entered the mansion.

2. Watford

We’re on our third manager of the season and we haven’t even made it to the January transfer window yet. If that doesn’t sum up this season, we don’t really know what would. The irony of it all is that so many teams have been crap this year and we’re not even in the worst spot we could be in, considering we’ve been dead bottom of the table after every matchday, save two. Only six points away from safety! And yet, we can feel the black hole of nothingness that is the Football League sucking at our feet. Its bottom knows no end. Just ask Sunderland.

Panic Level: More manager zombies appear, attempting to grab the shaken group of players. Mauricio Pochettino. Marco Silva. Javi Gracia and Quique Sanchez Flores appear to have merged into one terrifying being with two heads, whose mouths hang open as wide as Watford’s defense.

The players seem to be defeated. All is lost. And then, in an explosion of rage and brute strength, Sokratis bursts from the pile of bodies, throwing off sacked managers left and right. Soon, they all lay in crumpled heaps as the five players pick themselves up. The figure in the shadows begins to clap.

“Well, well. I should have guessed,” says David Moyes. “Or should I say, ‘Debí haberlo avocado- obrigado?’ Avo-brigado? Whatever. I SHOULD HAVE GUESSED!”

(Serena Taylor/Newcastle United via Getty Images)

1. Arsenal

IT’S. NOT. FAIR. Everyone else is sacking their head coach and immediately getting better results, but when WE do it, we’re even worse than we were before! We don’t really attack well. We don’t really defend. We don’t even really run at all. And THEN Freddie has the gall to do this:

FREDDIE LJUNGBERG URGES THE BOARD TO MAKE A DECISION ON HIS FUTURE [@FOOTBALLDAILY]. PIC.TWITTER.COM/VMVTS6DFGI — THEAFCNEWSROOM (@THEAFCNEWSROOM) DECEMBER 15, 2019

WHAT LEVERAGE DO YOU HAVE, FREDDIE?? WHAT HAVE YOU ACCOMPLISHED AS A HEAD COACH HERE THAT SUGGESTS ANY SORT OF POSITIVE DECISION SHOULD BE MADE ON YOU??? WE’RE EVEN ON POINTS WITH NEWCASTLE!!! THIS ISN’T THE ‘90S!!! NOW EITHER GET SOME RESULTS OR GO BACK TO MLS OR CHINA, OR WHEREVER YOU WERE WHEN YOU WEREN’T HERE.

Panic Level: “You!?” Kane spits in disbelief. “What are you doing here??”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” Moyes counters. “Why do you think all these people are in this house, at this very moment? Who did you think invited you? It was me! I did it! I orchestrated everything!”

“Right, we get that,” Mings says, slightly confused. “But… why?”

“Why else? Someone has to push some of these lame duck managers out the door if I’m ever going to get a job again! I thought Everton finally getting rid of Marco Silva was going to get me back in the door — bring me home — but now they’re seeing Carlo Ancelotti behind my back. West Ham were going to give me a go, but now Pellegrini’s got a measly win and somehow that’s kept him safe ‘til New Year’s! I NEED SOMETHING! I CAMPAIGNED FOR THE UNITED STATES JOB, GOD DAMMIT! LOOK AT ME, I’M WASTING AWAY!”

“Actually, you look bigger than last time I saw you,” Abraham interjects.

“SHUT UP! I’ll make an example of all you-” Moyes snarls.

“Just like you did to the Chairman?” Youri whimpers.

“The Chairman?” Moyes smirks. “Oh no, I didn’t do anything to the Chairman. I never even had to lift a finger. I had a friend do it for me.”

“A friend?” Kane mutters.

“Oh yes. You’ll notice my talents in persuading people to do my bidding,” Moyes crosses back and forth, gesturing to the various managers. “and I had one special person in mind for this particular job.” He smiles and stares. Not at Kane. Nor Abraham, Tielemans or Mings. He looks right past all of them. They turn to see where he’s looking.

It’s Sokratis. His eyes have rolled back and his mouth hangs slightly ajar. It was Sokratis the whole time.

“Now, my pet,” Moyes says darkly. “Let’s show these lads that ‘defense’ you’re so good at.”

Sokratis looks at his friends. But they’re not his friends anymore. They are opposing attackers with the ball in a non-threatening mid-field position, with no defensive cover behind him, and the game hanging in the balance. He feels the blood pound in his ears. He charges forward.

(Stuart MacFarlane/Arsenal FC via Getty Images)

-FIN-