Victorious Faction
Técnicos Voladores
The Técnicos Voladores are a heroic pool of luchador disc golfers known for their soaring throws and acrobatic putting styles. They believe in wowing the crowd and besting their opponents through skill and finesse. The Técnicos abide by a strict code of honor and good sportsmanship, never stooping to the low tactics of their rivals.
Faction Leader
El Ángel Volador
Once a circus acrobat, El Ángel Volador fell in love with disc golf's soaring throws and now leads the Técnicos Voladores with his gravity-defying shots.
Members
84Divisions
This faction emerged victorious in Week 3, advancing their narrative in the ongoing conflict.
Victory points are calculated based on player performance relative to rating, special achievements like aces and CTPs, and community contributions. Pool multipliers are applied based on division ratings and demographics to ensure balanced competition.
Logan Spittle #237412
Winged Whirlwind
Launcho Libre @ Art Dye
Wielding the power of Winged Whirlwind (#7), Logan demonstrated exceptional skill by playing +76 points above their rating in this epic clash.
Bodyslam Bogeys
The Launcho Libre disc golf league has erupted into a fierce battle between the honorable Técnicos Voladores and the ruthless Rudos Sucios. As El Ángel Volador rallies his allies to defend the spirit of the game, El Diablo Sucio's vicious tactics have left battered discs and broken spirits in their wake. With the arrival of Clinton Atwater and his menacing Sucio Slammer, the very soul of the league hangs in the balance. As an ancient disc golf legacy begins to awaken, El Ángel Volador must find the strength to soar above the chaos and lead his Técnicos to glory, or risk seeing the Rudos' cruelty crush the league's dreams forever.
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
The sun hung low over Dragonfly Disc Golf Course, its fading light casting long shadows across the fairways. But the darkness that gripped the Launcho Libre league was no mere trick of the evening. It was a malevolent presence, a cancer that threatened to devour the very soul of the sport. And its name was El Diablo Sucio.
Fresh off his brutal victory over the Técnicos Voladores, El Diablo stood atop the winner's podium, his blood-red mask glistening in the twilight. His Rudos Sucios circled him like hungry wolves, their snarls of triumph echoing across the silent course.
"Behold the future of Launcho Libre!" El Diablo roared, hoisting his disc aloft. "Where the weak are culled and only the strong survive!"
From the shadows, El Ángel Volador watched, his heart heavy with despair. The Técnicos had fought valiantly, but El Diablo's viciousness knew no bounds. Ángel's thoughts drifted to Soaring Scorpion, the promising young Técnico now lying broken in a hospital bed, his dreams shattered by a Rudo's "errant" drive.
As the Rudos' celebration reached a fever pitch, a lone figure stepped onto the course. Clad in resplendent white and gold, Winged Whirlwind strode forward, his eyes blazing with determination. The Técnicos' star player had been absent from the day's matches, his whereabouts a mystery. But now, as he faced the sneering Rudos, his purpose was clear.
"I challenge you, Diablo!" Winged Whirlwind declared, his voice ringing out like a clarion call. "Not to a match, but to a duel. Disc against disc, spirit against savagery. Let the fate of the league be decided between us."
El Diablo's laughter was like the scrape of metal on bone. "You dare to face me, little bird? You, who flee from the slightest hint of real competition? Very well. I accept your challenge. But know this: when I break you, I will break the Técnicos forever."
The stage was set for a clash of titans. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Winged Whirlwind and El Diablo Sucio took their positions on the first tee. The Rudos jeered and heckled, but Winged Whirlwind's focus never wavered. He reached into his bag, pulling out a gleaming white disc emblazoned with golden feathers. The crowd gasped as they recognized the legendary driver, whispered to be imbued with the spirit of the ancient Aztec wind god.
El Diablo sneered, selecting a jet-black disc from his own bag. "Your parlor tricks won't save you here, boy," he growled.
As one, the duelists drew back their arms and let fly. Winged Whirlwind's disc soared like a shooting star, arcing gracefully over the treeline before settling gently in the heart of the fairway. El Diablo's throw was a brutal counterpoint, screaming through the air like an obsidian bullet before burying itself deep in the rough.
And so it went, hole after hole, throw after throw. Winged Whirlwind's grace and precision matched against El Diablo's raw power and ruthless cunning. The Técnicos cheered each of Winged Whirlwind's soaring drives and delicate putts, while the Rudos roared for El Diablo's crushing hyzers and merciless scrambles.
Through it all, El Ángel Volador watched, his eyes seeing not just the flight of the discs, but the clash of philosophies, the battle for the league's very identity. In Winged Whirlwind, he saw hope - a shining beacon of what Launcho Libre could be if it held true to the values of sportsmanship and honor. But in El Diablo Sucio, he saw the darkness that threatened to consume them all, a world where victory was the only virtue and brutality the only law.
As the duel reached its final hole, the scores were tied. El Diablo stepped to the tee, his eyes smoldering with malice. With a roar, he unleashed a monstrous drive, the disc cutting through the air like a serrated blade. It came to rest mere inches from the basket, an almost impossible shot.
Winged Whirlwind stepped up, the weight of the league on his shoulders. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he called upon every ounce of his skill and spirit. His disc left his hand like a prayer, floating on an unseen current of air. It kissed the chains, dropping softly into the basket for the victory.
The Técnicos erupted in cheers, swarming their champion in a sea of joyful embraces. But their celebration was cut short by a howl of rage. El Diablo Sucio stood seething, his disc gripped tight in his hand. "This means nothing!" he screamed. "You've only delayed the inevitable. The Rudos Sucios will rise, and we will paint this league red with the blood of the weak!"
With that, he stalked off into the night, his minions trailing behind him like a pack of feral dogs. The Técnicos were left to savor their triumph, but the shadow of El Diablo's threat lingered.
El Ángel Volador approached Winged Whirlwind, placing a hand on the young star's shoulder. "You flew beautifully today, my friend. You showed the true spirit of Launcho Libre. But our fight is far from over. El Diablo Sucio will not rest until he has corrupted everything we hold dear."
Winged Whirlwind nodded, his eyes hardening with resolve. "Then we will meet him at every turn. We will fight for honor, for integrity, for the love of the game. And we will never, ever yield."
As the Técnicos left the course, their hearts were filled with a newfound courage. They had stared into the abyss and emerged unbroken. But deep in the shadows, eyes glinted with malevolent intent. For El Diablo Sucio was already plotting his next move, and the future of Launcho Libre hung in the balance.
Flippy's Hot Take