51D3-PR0J3CT_No1[5o1o]

[Woshington]

1Ntr0dUCT10n

This series of posts is a presentation of convoluted information(s), and is intended to enlighten on the topic of Woshington: the newest player to enter the upper echelons of the Althanas social arena. This piece is organised into alternating lists and ultra short stories. The stories have elements and characters taken from the various lists. The lists and facts are in the context of Woshington’s second existence as a big chief in a drug dealing empire. The setting is a different universe and an unnamed planet, this world has a more contemporary urban/fantasy mix style (almost cyberpunk).

C0Nt3Nt5
P0ST001oF010>>>the.dead.list.
P0ST002oF010>>>banks.and.tanks.
P0ST003oF010>>>the.tag.list.
P0ST004oF010>>>kill.zero.
P0ST005oF010>>>the.score.list.
P0ST006oF010>>>tick.tock.bónfim.tournament.
P0ST007oF010>>>list.of.sneakers.and.shirts.owned.by.woshington.
P0ST008oF010>>>playing.chess.with.papa.wéverton.
P0ST009oF010>>>list.of.gifts.given.to.mother.
P0ST010oF010>>>summary.of.clan.wars.

P0ST001oF010>>>the.dead.list./aka.bullet.in.the.head.

For some time Woshington had done nothing but take care of business. When business wasn’t surging to the fore he appeared as an exuberant man, a jovial being with a hearty laugh. This anansi-man obviously hailed from the tropics and shone down on those around him with his warmth and happiness.

Woshington has killed over fifty people, personally, by proxy, or indirectly. This is a list of some of them. Some of the details have been left out for obvious reasons. Others have been provided for less obvious reasons.

Woshington sliced the abdomen of a rival teenager from the belly upwards into the ribcage, the kid was named Wellington. Woshington jammed a screwdriver into the neck of a forty year old drug dealer, the man’s name was Rodes. Woshington pushed a prostitute down the stone stairs of the city hall, her name was Bella. Woshington shot dealers and clients working on his patch by showering them with automatic gunfire from a vantage point above, he can only remember some of their names: Djones, Clayton, Reptile, Nevill Sno; there were more. Woshington killed the father of the boy Wellington, indirectly, via a heart attack, his name was Mr. Ceni. Woshington buried a fire-axe in the back a policeman’s head, his name was Sgt. Koki Killen. Woshington drove his shiny car into and over the body of an eleven year old girl, he learned her name, Missy Mikel, from the morning papers. Woshington tossed a young man under the one hundred ton weight of an oncoming freight train, his name was Derreck Welton and he owed money. Woshington rammed a four inch wide metal bar into a foe’s mouth to split his head apart, his name was Vagner. Woshington lopped off the arm of an assassin sent to kill him and watched the hired killer bleed to death, his name was Rafael LÃ*ma. Woshington threw his cheating girlfriend from a fifth storey window, her name was Suza Rômulton. Woshington cornered a drug dealing rival in a bathroom with a chainsaw, his name was JaÃ*lton. Woshington buried steel hooks in a police informant and after attaching the chains to the rear bumper of his car he drove, that man was Tahdeli Adailton. Woshington used hooks again to hang another informant from the ceiling while he opened various veins for a draining kill, his name was Reasco Adailton (the brother). Woshington used a rope to hoist up a particularly powerful opponent before dropping him into a zoo’s lion pen, name: JoÃ*lson. Woshington leaned out the window of a car as his driver navigated Raylon Street, that was the drive by shotgunning of Luan Luan. Woshington used a metal wire to strangle the life out of the leader of the Poy Street Shady, he was named Tagg. Woshington had a toiling gunfight with another contemporary named Wellington—names ending with “ton” were all the rage in his segment of the omniverse—and after both ran out of bullets one clubbed the other to death with the butt of his weapon. Guess which.

The rest aren’t as interesting.

By his trigger finger or his command, the following were shot in the head: Friedenreich, 32, former husband, father of two; Leônidas, 21, survived by loving brother; Telê Feola, 45, no family; Éverton Bóvio, 16, youngest of 7; Sacki Octávio, 23, mother of two, survived by husband (not for long); Nça Octávio, 25, widower, father of two; Jô (last name unknown), late teens, family unknown; “Biro-Biro”; immigrant, early 30s, family unknown; Wéverton, 63, father of five; Pico Max, 13, oldest of three.

By his trigger finger or his command, the following were shot elsewhere about the body: Enilton, 25, husband, twice in the chest; Maylson, 38, husband and father of one, once in the shoulder, shotgun to the lower gut; Hélton Maxilton, 37, shot twice in the right leg and left to die; Welliton, 15, only child, hit five times by crossfire; enough, just names--> Vampeta, Ygor Seffrin, Magno Jakson, Ademilton, Bergson Spessato, AnaÃ*lson, Dodô, Wendel Guigov, Ayrton and Joelson.

Despite the incessant death, Woshington was not haunted by maudlin ghosts. As said at the beginning of this casual catalogue, Woshington was a jovial man.

[Woshington]

P0ST002oF010>>>banks.and.tanks./aka.take.the.power.back.

> This ultra short story contains two members from the dead list (post 1 of 10).
> This ultra short story contains one tag from the tag list (post 3 of 10).
> This ultra short story contains one goal scorer from the beachside bonball games (post 5 of 10)
> This ultra short story contains two items of clothing from the clothing list (post 7 of 10).
> This ultra short story contains one item from the mother’s gift list (post 9 of 10).

Rhythmic thunder rattled the crisp early morning awake, while a bursting metallic snap repeated relentlessly: the caterpillars of a tank, a hulking example of military development. The piercing sound was enough to shock sleepyheads out of bed with resounding terror. It had been over thirty years since the end of the war, but there were plenty within living memory of that sensory experience. This war machine’s thirty ton plus weight was tearing up the city streets, while its frontal armour of 52mm made light work of any motor vehicles in its path. Especially considering that 52mm had been furthered with an example of appliqué armour. The twelve cylinder engine could produce a top speed of 55kph, and it had been reached with gusto. At the point of maximum velocity the hatch was suddenly open and the black star’s bandy form waved out in the open air, grinning from behind the his colourful bandana—it was Woshington. The mask was a symbol more than a requirement; he knew the police wouldn’t come after him. Woshington garnered more than enough to pay off the cops. Or so he thought.

“Ha ha, muthafucking animaaaaaals, we want your money!� As he roared out the forward motion splayed out the shirt he wore, open, as always. He was a living banner representing his love for his mother; for the shirt was a vibrant fuschia (his mother’s favourite colour) and it bore a stitching of her name: Lula.

The rest of his three-man crew worked tirelessly inside the hulking armoured vehicle, Tahdeli Adailton steered whilst his brother Reasco manned the secondary machine gun, the third down below was Joey Rômulton. Woshington was riding the tank down the street with a purpose; he’d already knocked off three different automatic cash dispensers in the walls of the city’s most renowned banks. The overwhelming power of the 80mm tank gun mounted atop the tank’s rotating turret had been put to use with an energetic ruthlessness. It was like four kids playing war in the streets. The fourth stop was to be the coup d'état. The gang of thugs had no intention of taking over the government, but rather wanted to act in the purest sense of the term: they wanted to strike at the state. After systematically crippling the city’s banking system, Woshington intended to leave a gaping hole in the side of its government more directly.

Woshington had once enjoyed a clandestine relationship with Mayor JoÃ*lson, it was part of his wider network of cooperation with the authorities. They wanted the population subjugated as much as he did, but for different reasons. However, the Mayor had felt that Woshington had become too flamboyant with his lifestyle, flouting the law with such colourful audacity that he could no longer sweep the ghetto superstar’s indiscretions under the metropolitan rug. Subsequently, a war on drugs was declared. Woshington’s face—a gaunt face with contrastingly fleshy lips, broad smile and bright eyes—was printed on the front page of every newspaper in the city. What the people already knew about him was suddenly tangible. It wasn’t news as much as it was a esoteric declaration of war.

The ageing tank, a remnant from the war, pulled up at the shining marble steps paving the way up to city hall. The centre of municipal government was a building in the classical style; it was riddled with grand columns with stylistic ridges and gentle curves fore and aft, the masonry had been washed a classic white to retard the seething beat of the equatorial sun. The doors themselves somehow seemed to loom impossibly taller that the building they provided entry to. The anansi-man dropped back into the belly of the beast and slammed the hatch over with a cartoonish clank. The tank rumbled into the oppressive shadow of a government sickened and lethargic with its own bulk, his intent was to sidle to its flank, decidedly drab in comparison to the building’s anterior façade. There was, however, one decoration lighting up the structure. It was an almost luminous graffiti tag Woshington had sprayed the night of the Mayor’s anti-drug announcement. The tag itself featured an exaggerated central “Wâ€�, flanked by two caricatures: to the left was a beaming self-portrait, to the right was a saddened version of Mayor JoÃ*lson. The written press declared this response from the drugs baron and his boys a pathetic show of weakness rather than defiance, but the Mayor himself knew it was just a prologue. He was all too familiar with his former business partner’s tendency towards the theatrical and his vain desire to be seen; the mayor knew the scene was only being set.

The order to evacuate the government HQ had come, quite sensibly, in the seconds following the breaking news that a group of dark skinned thugs had captured an old army tank. As a result, there were no peering faces shoved up against steamy windows. The assailants weren’t disappointed, however. Woshington himself was not suffering from delusional expectations—he didn’t expect to get his hands on his most recent adversary so easily. Nevertheless, he ploughed on with an infectious smile.

The vengeful black man displayed a semi-grimace to pair his squinting left eye as he used only his right eye to target, he aligned the pupil with the tank’s scope. His wiry muscled right arm turned the wheel to manoeuvre the tank gun, as the wheel turned the mechanism clicked with each level of elevation. Next he slowly positioned the horizontal plane. The two lines of the crosshair met at the “Wâ€� of the graffitied wall. It suddenly became apparent that the tag Woshington had sprayed previously was in fact an accurate map. Behind the “Wâ€�: Mayor JoÃ*lson’s office. With a deep and bellowing thud a shell came rocketing along the length and out of the muzzle of the tank gun. It exploded on impact with the building and blew a sizable hole in the white stonework. After the rock had completely fallen away to leave a pile of rubble on the ground, Woshington reared from the viewing glass and smirked with satisfaction. He clambered across the claustrophobic interior and opened up the hatch to emerge triumphantly into the dusty air. But the W clique’s triumphalism was broken when the sound of distant sirens broke the silence of settling dust.

“Fuck, why are they responding so fast…� it wasn’t usual for the police force to respond at all, let alone with such expectation, “what the fuck is going on here?� the kind of displeased anger that was so typical of those used to perpetually getting their own way riddled the gang leader’s tone. He was still for a fleeting moment of thought while his notoriously ostentatious side remonstrated with the strictness and discipline he possessed. Woshington expelled a lungful of air through his broad nostrils and said, “Fuck it, I’m here to send a message, we’ve still got time.� The black star’s ultimate intention was to defy, and that grand defiance, he reasoned, was made up of smaller instances of defiance like this one. “If the law gets here, we gonna fuck ‘em up.�

As already mentioned in the.dead.list./aka.bullet.in.the.head., the Adailton brothers were on the police payroll. They’d sided with Mayor JoÃ*lson in the recent unpleasantness. Woshington had his suspicions, but he wasn’t ready to cash their cheques into the body bank. He needed them for his escape, as long as they played along, so would he. So in the mean time he doled out instructions as planned:

1. Get the camera ready and positioned!

Woshington’s plan was to post the tape of his daring exhibition to the press.

2. Move the tank so I can get up there!

3. Back the fuck off, I don’t want you guys in my shot

…and finally…

4. Make it look good man, fucking epic, okay?

Raesco, Tahdeli and Joey rushed around, recklessly negotiating the veritable wasteland at their feet, to complete the various tasks. Eventually everything was set: the camera was positioned to show an acutely angled shot, while the tank’s gun barrel was roughly lined up to the opening in the mayor’s office wall. Woshington had already begun running with tribal grace along the narrow barrel, putting on a show of bónfim agility as the chunky rubber of his gaudy green, blue and yellow sneakers made comfortable contact with their steel habitat. Before reaching the tip of the tip of the tight rope he increased the pace and leapt to land, knees buckling and body rolling into a ball… Woshington had jumped right into the opening and gained entry to the most powerful man in the city’s workspace.

Knowing the city’s finest were hot on his trail he moved around the room searching for something frantically. His elongated digits fingered each and every item strewn about the office, the contents had been displaced by the explosive shell. The mayor’s desk, however, was left pristine. It had been on the opposite side of the room to the blast. Upon spotting the desktop, Woshington’s frenzied search stopped in an instance, he moved directly to and wasted no time in identifying one single item he desired. It was a replica flower, and it took pride of place to the left of the main workspace. It was not reproduced in nylon fabrics with plastic petals; this was a wondrous example of human craftwork and love of all things shiny. The stem of the flower and its intermittent leaves were shaped from shimmering gold, but its extravagance didn’t end there, the gold was entirely encased with a studding of tiny emeralds, and the petals of the flower were broad and flat examples of golden amber, whilst the central the stigma and anther were recreated with a concentration of imperfect topaz, the yellow variety. The ghetto superstar’s grubby mitts swiped at the prize and he was gone.

All he wanted was to send a message, and to pick up a souvenir to complete the day’s spoils. A gift for his mama (of course!), that was what he wanted.

As to whether or not Woshington and co escaped the interest of the city’s police department is another story entirely.

[Woshington]

P0ST003oF010>>>the.tag.list./aka.testify

Before Woshington’s downward spiral (or astronomical ascent—depending on how you look at it) into an empire of crime, he played sandbox gangsters with his teenage chums along the beach. Their territory encompassed the most magnetic section of the shore front, a place where the very aesthetics of distant mountains, hectic urban streets and the swelling supremacy of the tropical ocean came together to give the place an overwhelmingly charismatic feel. This cradle was where he mastered a number of his skills, amongst those: graffiti art.

Woshington began by tagging his gang’s territory with a simple “BG 1308” or “Beach Guys 1308”—the 1308 was the flavourless government code for their particular home. From then on his powerful showmanship and vanity took hold, his gang works became more and more elaborate along with the praise he took off other street kids. To leave a striking mural across the full length of a complete set of touristy commercial units gratified him absolutely.

The following is a list of Woshington’s most glorious works.

1. Woshington tagged every road sign on Poy Street with a commanding “W” sprayed elaborately in style but basically in colour: only black. These tags were a warning to the Poy Street Shady gang who had recently attempted to kill his girlfriend’s younger brother, Joey Rômulton.

2. In celebration of the drive by shooting of Luan Luan, Woshington added a new decoration to the victim's neighbourhood. The next night he returned to the vicinity with a full compliment of coloured cans. The Luan Luan territory centred around the family business, a liquor store. It was this store’s metal shutter that was to receive the artistic stylings of the ghetto’s anansi-man. Woshington sprayed an exaggerated likeness of himself onto the protective cover, in the caricature’s grip was a shotgun of the same style used to dispatch poor Luan Luan.

3. As previously detailed in P0ST002oF010>>>banks.and.tanks., Woshington painted a convoluted map onto the side of the city’s main government building. It depicted an image of his smiling face alongside a saddened rendering of Mayor JoÃ*lson. The two characters where separated by an “X” that was actually a “W”.

4. Woshington decided to pay tribute to an ally. Following the premature demise of Mayor JoÃ*lson at the maw of an amply-maned lion, a stately king of the jungle was airbrushed delicately onto BG1308 home turf. The tribute was a grand one, for the lion’s head leaned back with a powerful majesty, his mane was overstated in size and colour (beautiful and golden), whilst the beast’s jaw line was angular and sharply defined.

5. The Rômulton family lived in the suburban periphery of the city, and despite the children of the household getting mixed up with Woshington and his ilk, they were actually quite well to do. A simple act of graffiti, in the most traditional sense of the word (just writing), had been perpetrated against the Rômulton home. “Suza Rômulton slut”, underlined with vigour. The red mist had overcome Woshington, it was an act of biting fury.

[Woshington]

P0ST004oF010>>>kill.zero.aka.how.i.could.just.kill.a.man.

> This ultra short story contains two members from the dead list (post 1 of 10).
> This ultra short story contains one item of clothing from the clothing list (post 7 of 10).
> This ultra short story contains one item from the mother’s gift list (post 9 of 10).

The halfway point for the mayoral election campaign was marked with a magnificent festival in Woshington’s nameless home city. The opulence of the day was a manifestation of the importance of the local elections on this particular planet. The anansi-man came from a world where there were no nations; the notion of a nation state was as ridiculous to these people as it was genuinely illogical. Government and authority was based around cities and regions. A grand setting was required for the event, the old colonial plaza swept out as a sprawling paved square, lined with outstanding examples of archetcture from the world’s long forgotten colonial era (and long lambasted era). Each building was washed to a reflective colour, light and cool. And that day was a shining example of just why such colouration was required: the sky was unrelenting in its light blue expanse and the sun’s fierce presence at a proud pinnacle was the blue’s only friend. The fronts of these buildings were typically open storefronts, whilst the exceptions were either places of worship crowned with shining domes (plated with the region’s abundant gold supply), or they were various centres for officialdom: post offices, intercity embassies, business headquarters, et cetera. This day of the week was usually set aside for the populace to setup stalls and trade in the city’s famous market, but instead the city centre was filled with a mass of people celebrating the day of their deity. The crowd was also waiting to receive speeches from the rival leadership candidates, as was tradition at the halfway point.

Two suited men stood on a makeshift stage before the main cathedral at the plaza’s west side. The looming religious building shaded the power holders from the sun’s equatorial ferocity.

The lagging candidate was JoÃ*lson, his connections to organised crime and unsavoury construction contracts had been revealed in the papers, knocking him from the top of the polls. JoÃ*lson’s distinct charisma and suave good looks had seen him surge to the fore; he was a tall man, sizing taller than an even six feet, his build was a little more muscular than average and came naturally to him, whilst his hairstyle was a sickening example of premeditation. The hair was whipped sideways and locked into place with an excessive application of hairspray. A whole can. He was always clean shaven. His suits were typically navy blue. The jackets always buttoned. Always. His ties were never vibrant, they were serious but warm. Shirts: whiter than white was ever supposed to be, it was the addition of luminescent chemicals to his washing powder mix. JoÃ*lson was forty years old, but he tried to look thirty years old (and he succeeded).

First in the poll was Max, the other candidate. He was flanked by his thirteen year old son, Pico Max. The presence of wives and children was generally frowned upon in the political arena, but Pico Max could do no wrong in the adoring eyes of his public. The kid was cute. Max, the major, was quite unlike his slick opponent, JoÃ*lson. His belt buckle snatched each belt end together with a slight strain, his shirt wasn’t as white, his tie was vibrant and eccentric and his face hadn’t been involved in a war with the ageing process. Max was a genuine man, for genuine change. Therefore, perhaps his campaign was star-crossed.

Both men shared a pale complexion, a noteworthy fact taking into consideration the difference to Woshington’s skin. The black man was certainly in attendance, after all, he was the fourth player in the day’s game. At this point in time he was an eighteen year old kid, the kid, even rangier than his adult form, skinny to the point that his movement inwards to the city centre from the outer slums had been the slither of a particularly elongated worm. Woshington was present alright, and he had a fantastic vantage point. He wasn’t amongst the crowd.

A chorus of ruffled clothes whispered across the gathering as all heads centred on the stage at once, the speeches were beginning. Their content was monumental in to the people of the city, but inconsequential to this narrative. JoÃ*lson, speaking second, closed with a poignant statement about the importance of utilising the city’s great potential in youth. It was just then that a piercing shot busted out above the din of the cheering crowd. It was a shot at the symbol of that youth. The people were silenced. Pico Max had fallen still with a single bullet lodged amongst his brain. The young man’s body lay strewn across a gaggle of microphone cords on the stage floor. His father cradled him, screaming words he wouldn’t remember. JoÃ*lson feigned emotion with the absolute mastery of a true politician.

What had happened? Woshington had happened.

This is what had happened…

The lithe black man had slithered into the bell tower of the very cathedral casting the cool shade onto the stage. He was enclosed to a degree by the structure’s elevated walls, but arches intended to make the ringing of the bells highly audible opened out on every corner of the towering cuboid. He crouched, leaned against a wall and sat, with the vibrant threads of his tropical garb brushing abrasively against the rough masonry. Whilst he waited for the trigger word to seep out of JoÃ*lson’s lips, he contemplated his role in this incident. He had been chosen by a certain crime boss to carry out this hit, who in turn had been asked by mayoral candidate JoÃ*lson to wipe out the kid. Nevertheless, was the then eighteen year old Woshington selfless enough to contemplate the repercussions beyond the impact on his own life? No, he was not. Woshington saw this as an opportunity to rise up through the ranks. To prove his worth.

While the kids played in the plaza’s fountain, relishing the cool waters, the black star was under the mounting pressure of living in the moment of a sniper. He was all of a sudden a man, completely alone, with nothing but a bullet full to bursting with the faith and pressures of others. The kid wasn’t the composed man he’d one day become; his temples were leaching salty waters as he double checked his sniper rifle anxiously. A perfect example of a Terran import, gifted to him by those with the kind of connections required to possess such a fine example of war technology. When his bony fingers took a moment to handle the weapon copiously he couldn’t recognise the weapon’s parts or materials, it was certainly an interesting item. The rifle was constructed from advanced polymers and alloys. He did, however, recognise the standards it conformed to. The rifle was chambered for a military centrefire cartridge. The rifle was bolt action as opposed to semi-automatic. During his training for the job he had been privy to lots of information concerning sniper rifles, and he well understood the value of one mechanism over the other. As his anansi-like form lurched forward, poised on the edge, he could feel the advantages… the rifle was light and manoeuvrable. It allowed him to line up his shot.

With the stock of the weapon gently resting on his dark skinned cheek he lined up the telescopic sight to his right eye and squinted. That semi-grimacing squint was to become somewhat of a trademark pose in his latter years. From his acute angled position behind and above his target, Pico Max, he struggled to line up a shot… but, as a well concealed sniper should, he had time in abundance. And, the kid wasn’t moving. But JoÃ*lson was taking his sweet time. Woshington had to take it off, his short sleeved attire—embroidered with an elaborate lace design realised in black on a white base—was wringing wet with sweat. He slipped the shirt off and let it flap dankly onto the cold, shaded stone floor.

“Wait for it, wait for it…â€� he told himself repeatedly as he once again stared determinedly down the scope, “come on JoÃ*lson, say it.â€� Wosh’ was close enough, so close that he hardly required the forty times zoom available to him.

“It’s kids like Pico here, these are the people, yes people, they’re real people… your kids are people. Remember that!!!â€� the crowd were really eating up JoÃ*lson’s spiel, the silent chatter was breaking into sporadic applause as they sensed his charismatic talk reaching a climax, “Pico, and his pals, his chums, they are the future of this great city.â€�

“Future.�

Without a moment’s hesitation, upon the closing sentence of future Mayor JoÃ*lson’s speech, he depressed the trigger with his moist finger and dispatched of the cutesy kid with one shot. The bouncy bowl haircut Pico wore—his calling card and why all the young girls loved him—was split apart by the bullet. His skull had been caved in and his brains were entirely decimated. Woshington slumped back from his spot, heaving out a desperate sigh of relief, and then he followed a pre-determined exit route to safety with a converse calmness flourishing in his newly darkened soul.

To wrap the story up, Max Sr. dropped out of the election race and slipped into obscurity. Why? He had an even younger daughter, Pica Maxa. He loved her dearly. JoÃ*lson ran unchallenged. And Woshington, he didn’t go unrewarded. The triggerman was the recipient of a shining new automobile. He promptly passed the gift onto his dear mother.

Long live Mayor JoÃ*lson.

[Woshington]

P0ST005oF010>>>the.score.list./aka.people.of.the.sun.

The bónball game is a team game played on the white sands of the tropical beaches where Woshington lived his second life. The game is played with two balls, one kicked with the feet, one held with the hands. The balls are distinguished by colour and shape. The ball kicked by the feet is lime green and round. The ball carried in the hands is lemon yellow and egg-shaped. There is a convoluted set of rules but, for the layperson, the following will suffice: the game is played aggressively whilst the two balls are not in the possession of an individual player. Rough play is allowed until one player has fought to be in position of both balls. Once in possession little contact is allowed, light challenges to win the ball from the feet are allowed to be made by the opposing team (with feet only). The team in possession will typically pass both balls around to maintain the light contact advantage of one player possessing both. For example, player A will kick the round ball to player B and then quickly (or even simultaneously) throw the egg-shaped ball to player B. The object of the game is to kick the round ball into a netted goal whilst completing the three point score by launching the egg-shaped ball over the crossbar of the netted goal.

The following is a list of the results of the bónball game played on equatorial beaches where Woshington grew up.

Woshington’s team’s score is always on the left. They always had to play at home because his gang, at that time, was very unwelcome on other stretches of the city’s beach.

3-0 – scorers (H) Woshington 3.

5-2 – scorers (H) Woshington 1, Joey Rômulton 2, Tahdeli Adailton 2, (A) Enilton 1, Leônidas 1.

2-0 – scorers (H) Woshington 2.

0-2 – scorers (A) Enilton 1, Octávio 1.

7-5 – scorers (H) Woshington 2, Magno Junior 3, Klaxon 2, (A) Taunton 1, Gelson 1, Edeson 1, Claxton 2.

0-0 – scorers, none.

2-0 – scorers (H) Magno Jakson 2.

1-0 – scorers (H) Tahdeli Adailton 1.

3-3 – scorers (H) Woshington 3, (A) JaÃ*lton 3.

3-2 – scorers (H) Joey Rômulton 1, Tahdeli Adailton 1, Woshington 1, (A) JaÃ*lton 2.

7-0 – scorers (H) Joey Rômulton 4, Woshington 2, Magno Jakson 1.