You have been sitting next to him for over three hours, and he still hasn't said anything.
He was here when you arrived in the early afternoon. You took a seat beside him, ordered your favorite beer, and began waiting for him to speak.
Except this week he doesn't. A tight frown is fastened between his jowls, and a consumed expression hibernates behind his eyes. He stares at an empty spot on the wall of the bar, his lips moving, and his trembling hand unconsciously flexing into a fist.
You decide that you have waited long enough, and you lean towards him.
"Tell me about Kam Chancellor."
The Drunkard's eye twitch, and he whispers something that you can't quite hear. Clearing your throat, leaning closer, and speaking louder you try again.
"Hey...buddy, tell me about Kam Chancellor."
You don't know what you ask, boy. The history of Kameron Chancellor [his momma named him Kameron, I'ma call him Kameron] isn't something that should just be bandied about over beers, like yesterday's regrets and tomorrow's terrors. It's a dark tale, shrouded in the fog of madness. Bloody, tragic, sinister; only a fool would gaze into the blackened pit from whence he rose. No, there is a certain time for such a sordid legend, and I won't be party to...
You're buying the next round? Pop-a-squat, Jackwagon, and let's talk about Bam Bam!
To know Kam Chancellor, you have to understand the idea of Kam Chancellor. If you were alone in a nocturnal, Germanic forest, what would you be afraid of? Bears? Goebbels? Packs of wolves? What about the two glowing orbs staring at you from seven feet off the ground, out of an area dripping with shadows? What about the feral grin lit from behind by hellfire? What about the lurching steps of impending doom; the promise that all things must end?
Chancellor is a roaming death machine. He patrols the middle of the field, powered by the still-warm blood of his enemies. In his chest resides eight cylinders, pistons fired by minor explosions, pumping steam through a form crafted to destroy. His directive is to annihilate, and he can be no more reasoned with than an artillery shell. A swathe of crumpled Tight Ends litter the fields of Arizona, their tangled masses caught in his wake. He has turned so many of those boys into pussies, they call him "The Human Sex Change". Kam Chancellor is a pretty-boy seeking Scud missile, whose felonious intent can neither be quenched nor understood.
He is that scene in "Fantasia". The one that scared the shit out of you.
Clad in the skins of hastily butchered animals and adorned with the scalps of his foes, Chancellor rides forth from the land of the ice and snow, and descends upon the unsuspecting cities of our opposition. Reaving his way through the bastions of our hated adversaries, Kameron does not have time to give a shit about "feelings" or "legalities". He is too busy knocking punk bitches ass-over-teakettle, and drinking their milkshakes. Roll Tide.
Kam is the feral Dog-of-War, and he has been loosed. The curling horns of his helmet rise above the masses, and he wades through bloody battle. A bestial roar escapes his fanged maw as he carves a path through the enemy's offensive lines towards their Field General. A weapon in each hand, chunks of hair and brain decorating their sharpened edges, Chancellor can no longer be stopped or reasoned with. He is mainlining adrenaline and rage directly into his think-box, and his only goal is to extinguish all who stand before him.
The Seahawks own a Berserker.
He earned the name "The Deathbacker" over the course of a thousand conquests, and even more battles. As a young man, he was forced into strict roles, and made to follow directions and schemes. While an effective soldier, his skin writhed with the knowledge that he was capable of so much more. He began to lose his cool, and would black out for entire games. Later, he would awaken in the locker room to find pieces of Quarterback splattered across his body. His commanders quickly saw that his potential outstripped their knowledge, so they passed him off to a man whom they knew would find a way to utilize him.
Now you listen to me, Mr. Peter Carroll is almost always right. But even he took a look at young Kameron Chancellor, and tried to fit him into a plan. This went on for almost an entire Warring Season, until Mr. Carroll realized that Chancellor defied even his genius, and threw his hands into the air. Like he just did not care. With an undignified sigh, and a muttered "fuggit", Pete unleashed him upon the field.
Helmets were crushed. Pads were ruptured. Facemasks were ripped off the still gasping faces of the vanquished, and screams were heard echoing throughout the CLink, until the iron-shod heel of The Deathbacker swiftly descended. Chancellor ended more careers than Fed-Ex Field. Covered in gore and pieces of Saint Louis Ram jersey, and holding Sam Bradford's evulsed arm, our Berserker marches off the field. Some say that his love for football is like a truck, but that simply cannot be true. The only thing Kam feels when he steps onto that field is the cracking of clavicles, and the splintering of teeth. Kameron Chancellor is the Elevator Scene in "Drive".
The Deathbacker drags long chains behind him, festooned with the trophies of his many battles: Todd Heaps polished spinal column, Wes Welker's shattered soft palate, Dean Winchester's oh-so-dreamy lookin' orbs, and Jason Witten's shrunken ballsack. But there is one trophy that Chancellor particularly enjoys hearing rattle along the length of his chains. There is one prize that I know he sits up at night and stares into, waiting for the day he can collect the remainder.
Kam Chancellor paces back and forth in the icy cold basement of the VMAC, his breath fogging the air around him. Hoarfrost coats his armored hands. cracking as he flexes his knuckles. His visage is darkened behind the facemask of his horned helmet, yet I know where he gazes.
He looks to the south.
For a time, our Berserker considered sparing their wretched city. Yet now, the unyielding claws of rage have dug deep into his brain, and his only desire is to march forth from Seattle, the entirety of The Twelfth Man arrayed behind him. He wants to raze Candlestick to the ground, to watch it burn and melt as if it were truly made of tallow. The Deathbacker wants Harbaugh's head sewn onto Kaepernick's desecrated body, and this effigy of failure paraded through the streets, so that all may know of the Seahawks' superiority.
Now he wants to make him immortal.
The Drunkard lets out a raucous belly laugh, and you see that a large portion of his teeth are gold. Wiping tears from his eyes, the man belches loudly, takes a swig of his drink, and settles back in to staring at the wall.
Wondering where you went wrong in life, and why you continue to do this, you rise to leave.
As you do so, a sweaty hand snaps out, and latches around your wrist like a shackle. You turn to see the Drunkard staring at you. Holding your gaze, he slowly raises a finger to his lips, then releases you.
Rubbing your wrist, you stare at the man, dumbfounded. He turns away, and gestures at the overly tall bartender. Promising to never return, you leave the bar behind.
You are already blocks away when you realize the usually reliable bartender forgot to close you out.
Nothing is worse than a bartender that forgets to close.