Arsene Wenger and Denilson in 'Injury Ward'

(Fictional Short)

"Please listen to me, Arsene," Colin Lewin pleaded, pressing himself against the door to the injury ward and trying to block the irate Frenchman from reaching the doorhandle. "He isn't right. This isn't just some sprain he can run off, you saw the way he collapsed! In fifteen years as a physio I've never seen anything like it!"

"I'm going to say this one more time, Colin," Wenger responded calmly, towering over the trembling head physio. "Let me see him."

Realising there was no way of deterring his manager, Lewin sighed and stepped out of his way. "Okay Arsene, but please be careful."

Ignoring the physio, Wenger threw the door open and stormed into the ward.

On either side of him, a seemingly endless row of beds stretched off into the distance. Almost all of them were full, and there was a deeply depressing feel to the place - all around him, players were coughing, sneezing and groaning. Nicklas Bendtner was being spoon-fed a bowl of soup by Gary O'Driscoll, Robin van Persie was feebly lowering a full bed pan to the floor, and Johan Djourou was laying eerily still as his heart monitor beeped monotonously next to his bed. Theo Walcott had just been re-admitted with a sore finger, while Jack Wilshere was wincing as Neal Reynolds prepared to remove a plaster on his knee.

Wenger carried on down the aisle, observing his players from a safe distance and holding a handkerchief over his nose to ward off the smell.

"Boss?"

Wenger turned around. Aaron Ramsey was sitting upright opposite an agitated Philippe Senderos, whose foot had been set in a thick cast. The Swiss was picking inquisitively at the bandaging and emitting a distressed whine.

"I don't think he likes the cast, boss," Ramsey said. "In fact, it doesn't look like there's really anything wrong with his foot."

"Silence, Aaron!" Wenger snapped. "Philippe has an inflamed foot, that's why he hasn't been able to play for the last couple of months!"

Ramsey was perplexed. "But he seemed okay in training yesterday? In fact, until Sol signed -"

"That's enough, Aaron! Philippe has an inflamed foot, and he cannot play!"

Wenger turned on his heel and continued towards the end of the row; Senderos seized a container of pills and petulantly threw it in the direction of his manager, only to mistime his throw and give Theo Walcott a bruised shin, sidelining him for another week.

Wenger came to a stop at the end of Denilson's bed. "Afternoon, Denilson. How are you feeling today?"

The young Brazilian had been secured to the bed with several layers of binding; his face was a peculiar greenish hue, and his pupils were heavily constricted. As soon as Wenger spoke, he began to thrash about, glaring menacingly at the Frenchman and blathering in tongues.

"Well, you look fine to me," Wenger responded. "You know there's no one else who can fill in while Song's away. Get up."

The bed shook violently and rose half a foot clear of the ground, tipping Denilson's bedside table over and shattering a glass of water across the floor. Player, mattress and all were now levitating, and the Brazilian's head was spinning wildly as he spouted obscenities at his manager.

Wenger rolled his eyes. "Stop wasting my time. Get up and join the others in training."

The bed dropped to the floor with a resounding thud. Denilson cricked his neck and fixed his yellow eyes upon the manager. "Your mother sucks -"

"Okay, I think Denilson needs his rest," Gary O'Driscoll asserted, drawing a curtain around the player's bed and setting a timer on his watch. "I'm sorry Arsene, but he's just not ready to play tomorrow."

"Fine," Wenger sighed. "But you'd better figure out what's wrong with him. If there's one way I won't be beaten, it's by possession."

(buh dum...)