The Drunkard's Player Profiles: Michael Robinson

GROND! GROND! GROND! - Al Bello

An analysis of the Seahawks' players, as told by the most fascinating drunk guy in the bar.

Today, you mean to get to the bottom of everything.

You kick open the front door to the bar, and march in. The open portal illuminates the bleary-eyed patrons, who sigh in relief as it swings shut. You spy the Drunkard and stalk over to him. There is a purpose in your steps that has not been present for weeks.

Looming over top the hunched over, and exceedingly pungent man, you poke him in the shoulder with a rigid finger.

"Hey, who are you? Who was that guy in the suit? What did you say to my friend? Why didn't you tell me how dangerous Reverse Cowgirl was?"

The Drunkard behaves as though you were not speaking. He is hunkered over his drink, slowly spinning the glass in circles as he hums to himself. Your anger has been doused by his ambivalence, and you slide back into sweet, luxurious passive-aggression.

"If you do not want to tell me, that's fine. I wasn't expecting you to care, anyway."

Still, the man is silent.

Frustrated, you take a seat next to him and order a beer. Taking a healthy swig, you lean back on your stool, and belch.

The Mysterious Drunkard raises one finger and says, in a declarative manner...

The amount of pain Michael Robinson can dole out is astronomical in proportions.

He has been known to explode through opposing lines, crush chest walls, and splinter teeth like daddy says it's bedtime.

Mike Rob is a Grade A Brahman bull who scores touchdowns and gores linebackers with equal alacrity. His helmet is gouged and pocked, and every mark is a symbol of his glory. This chip came from Cortland Finnegan's busted grill. This dent came from Ricardo Silva's shattered dreams. The Seahawks yearn for the moment the crown of that glorious totem pulverizes your favorite player's xiphoid process, and he is carried off the field, as intelligible as Eggs Tyrone. He is the culmination of all the violence, on all the worlds, in all the multiverse. When Defenses shore up their lines; when our enemies strengthen their walls, Robinson surges forward like the fully torqued, diesel tank-buster that he is.

Michael Robinson is a mechanized sledge hammer, powered by an infernal hate engine, constructed by eyeless slaves in the Fifth Ring of Hell.

You might be thinking "Well, what is that good for? We already have The Beast!" That's true, we do have Lynch. But our Beast is a weapon of war, not to be wasted on the fodder and dregs of the villains who oppose us. Michael Robinson, on the other hand, is an industrial tool: scarred, scratched, and worn. He is a blunt instrument, used to crack useless shells, and allow Marshawn to reach the sweet flesh inside.

There comes a time, in every war, when the inevitable march of conquest stalls as the Defense fortifies their position: soaring impenetrable walls, massive gates held fast by trembling hands. The Seahawks may throw themselves against the cowards, but even our inexorable Vanguard is often rebuffed, and all that is left of our vaunted assault is a group of savages frantically battling for penetration, like a desperate teenager.

If you look closely, you will see Peter Carroll turn to The Butcher and utter a short command. There, can you hear that? Can you cut through the din of the Twelves? There is a low chanting that punctuates the eardrum crushing wall of sonic suffocation that floods the field of battle. Seahawk reserves, awaiting their turn to rush into the glorious melee, pound their helmets and chant for the hulking figure that lumbers towards the fray. Rob! Rob! Rob! Rob! Rob! What do you do when your enemies cringe behind their walls?

You bring up a battering ram.

Michael Robinson stands behind The Archangel. He lowers his blood -stained helmet into place, obscuring his glaring visage. The Rams of Saint Louise crouching within their fastness are unable to see the eyes of The Battering Ram, but they can feel his hate reaching out towards them, tightening its grip around their throats. Chris Long feels a warmth run down his leg, and a chill race up his yellow spine. He reaches out, and grips the hand of Michael Brockers. They look into each other's eyes, and softly nod as tears careen down their painted cheeks.

A quiet falls upon the battlefield, and a storm of potential energy ignites the air. Lungs are stilled, as breathing ceases. A pervasive voice whispers that we have inhaled peace, but will exhale imminent violence. Russell Wilson crouches near the Vanguard, and insures that his forces are arrayed...

GWAR begins playing.

The Archangel screams a command that blasts forth with righteous rage: "Breech their defenses!"

Potential evolves into kinetic, and Michael Robinson launches himself forward. He rumbles past Russell, and leaps through the opening Vanguard. His fangs tighten closed as he lowers the business end of his helmet. A thunderous crack echoes throughout The Edward Jamies Blah Blah Bullshit Dome, as the Saint Louise gates splinter. Chris Long is rocked back into the turf, as Michael Brockers' chest explodes from the sheer force of The Battering Ram. He lies on his back, staring at the roof. His soul has been scoured clean, as though purified in the waters of Lake Minnetonka. He weeps, for he knows he shall perish away from the sight of the sky.

Before he dies, the last thing to go through his mind is Michael Robinson's heel.

Seattle's offensive assault surges around him, but Robinson stands amidst the carnage he has created. Gore drips from the facemask of his helmet. Steam rises from the still-warm innards that bedeck his shoulders; he is the Oderus Urungus of Seattle. Our Battering Ram hangs his head, and walks to the sidelines: in his mind lurks the rage. Michael Robinson was once a promising, young general. Not so sterling as The Archangel, but his accomplishments were vast. His destiny was to ascend to the ranks of the hallowed few.

Until he was drawn into the fold of THE GOVERNMENT.

The Niners, under the direction of our faceless adversary, filled Robinson's head with honeyed words. They promised him the chance to fight for glory and honor, and it was only when they had him in their clutches that the experiments began. They stripped him apart, examining what made him a successful Captain. They dissected him, experimented on him, and when they had what they needed, they cast him off.

But Mr. Paul Allen found him, broken amongst the trash.

He was more than repaired, he was enhanced. Mr. Allen had dreams of returning him to his previous glory, but Robinson refused. He requested that Mr. Allen make him a machine, and give him the tools he needed to seek his vengeance. Mike Rob had come to the perfect place, as Mr. Paul Allen had a plethora of ways to aggrandize him.

And so it was that Michael Robinson became the Seahawks' siege-breaker and instrument of destruction. He is the embodiment of fear in the Western portion of our world, and soon his name shall grace the tongue of every General in the thirty-two kingdoms. The process used turned him into an indestructible juggernaut unrivaled in his capacity to inflict blunt force trauma to our inferiors. However, it also left him devoid of the ability to experience complex feelings.

He walks through the barracks of the Seahawks, recording the emotions of his brothers-in-arms, capturing their faces and conversations. At night, when all others are safe and asleep, Michael Robinson sits in his cell, and watches his footage. He tries to mimic their faces, hoping to rekindle his lost emotion. The light emanating from the screen delineates his features, revealing eyes that fail to comprehend.

The Battering Ram indulges in this exercise, knowing it to be futile. He is less than a weapon; he is a tool, and tools do not need to laugh.

Buckle your chin-strap.

The Drunkard lets out a long sigh, and his rigid body relaxes back into its baseline of blob-like form. He stares blankly at the wall, as though you no longer exist.

Three empty glasses decorate the bar.

Shrugging, you toss a few bills down, and stand up from your stool. As you turn to leave, you slap the mysterious man on the back.

Your hand hits nothing but air.

Startled, you jerk your head up to look at The Drunkard. He is still sitting there, exactly as he was. Is he farther away? You are shaken, and decide it is past time to leave.

It is only when you are half way back to your edifice that you stop. Something isn't right...

You're pretty sure you've seen Michael Robinson laugh a shit-ton of times.

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