Sitting next to The Drunkard, it's hard not to faint from his stink.
The odor that emanates from him is a bouquet of beef sausage, a dash of skunky beer, and a healthy slathering of Old Spice. You breathe through your mouth as much as possible, frequently turning your head away for mouthfuls of fresh air. You are starting to feel lightheaded.
The mysterious man sits arched over his drink, face sweaty, hair matted. His thick, hairy fingers drum on the bar top as he stares at the nearby television; Antique Roadshow is on, and those macrame place-mats look valuable.
You clear your throat, and take a deep breath. As you do, his fragrance violates your nostrils and it launches you into a coughing fit. Your eyes fill with tears, as your hoarse, hacking bellows attempt to clear your airway. You try to catch your breath, but are unable to. Damn, and you were just about to ask after Brandon Browner.
The Drunkard wipes the sweat from his face, takes a swig of his drink, and begins to speak.
Before you go asking a question like that, you need to take a long, hard look at your soul, and decide if you are ready to hear the answer, kemosabe. Brandon Browner is a problem that not a lot of folks have an answer to. It took me years to figure it out, and I still can't show my math.
So, how 'bout it; you wanna dance with the devil? Good, then sit down, zip up, and listen hard...
Brandon Browner is not one of us.
He is a biomechanical construct built to snatch balls, jump routes, and suplex punk-ass bitches straight into the turf. With a three-pace wingspan and meat hook hands, Browner has the attack radius of an orbital defense platform and the finishing ability of Scorpion. He is vehemence incarnate. Analysts have said that he "plays angry", but those jackelopes don't know ball. Brandon Browner is not angry, he just doesn't understand why people keep trying to stop him. Brandon Browner is a heavy metal anti-personnel assault vehicle, powered by unicorn tears and the blood of our enemies, who catches both bodies and balls with equal ease. He is more human than human.
Brandon Browner will give you a cooch contusion and charge it to the game.
It is First and Ten, and the Crimson Songbirds are marching. They had the audacity to lay siege to our rain-caressed citadel, and even now our forces defend against them on the field of battle. Leaning precariously behind his Line, their wizened Captain surveys the field...
To his right stands The Banshee: smiling, taunting, beckoning him forward. Prowling before him is The Deathbacker: silent, glowing orbs burning through his darkened countenance. Captain Palmer cannot see him, but he knows The Demigod lurks in the shadows, waiting to dive upon him. He wipes the rain from his eyes, swearing they are not tears. He has never faced a Legion such as this. His shaking hands reach down as he gasps for air. Taking a deep breath, he prepares to call the order to march. Before he does, he says a prayer, and looks to his left.
There he stands, bestial ferocity pouring off of him in suffocating waves. Elongated arms hang at his sides, his claw-like fingers in constant movement. His blank stare is disconcerting; emotion holds no power over him. By contrast, his too-wide mouth is spread across his face in a terrifying grin. Captain Palmer issues his command and watches as Fitzgerald jumps off the line, running towards Browner. He smirks, for he knows that Fitzgerald will make short work of this untested animal. Without waiting, Palmer throws the ball, knowing it will be for a touchdown.
The grin slips from his face.
Fitzgerald hangs limply in the air, suspended at the end of Brandon's outstretched arms. Blood coats the Songbird's helmet, mixing with rain as it drips from his facemask. As Captain Carson watches, Browner allows Larry Fitzgerald's limp carcass to slide to the turf, and begins stalking towards him. He almost casually shoots a limb out, plucking the errant ball from the air. Palmer closes his eyes, and begins praying more fervently, tears streaking down his cheeks. He cracks open a lid, and sees a feral grin and dead eyes closing in on him.
Your gods do not live here, Carson.
Mr. Paul Allen has some crazy hobbies, am I right? I'm right. It was years ago, while searching through the frozen lands of the North, that Mr. Allen came upon the root of what would become Browner. He had led an expedition to the dig site of a pack of ferocious prehistoric Beaver fossils (the greatest animal in the known world), and while there he chanced upon an untouched glacial cave, formed from the geothermal reactions of a nearb...you know what? nevermind.
Inside the ice cave, was ice. Inside the ice, was a small piece of crystallized amber. And inside that amber, was a mosquito. This was useless, because it is scientifically impossible to find viable deoxyribonucleic acid in a piece of amber. But UNDER the amber was a bone, and on that bone was some well-preserved (due to the salinity and absence of bacteria) soft tissue. Letting out a thunderous "huzzah!", Mr. Paul Allen scooped up the tissue, and whisked it back to his laboratory.
Mr. Allen called in Mr. Peter Clay Carroll, and they began running tests with like...beakers, and schematics, and potions, and alchemy, or whatever. Through these diagnostic tools it was discovered that the tissue belonged to a reptilian creature from the late Triassic period; a pterodactyl. Carroll and Allen high-fived and, using Science, they began the process of cloning the creature.
And so it came to pass, that after years of genetic splicing, genomic mapping, gnosis-level percolation theory, and countless Biggie songs the procedure neared completion. Stoically standing before the bacta tank, Mr. Peter Carroll prepared himself to see his new pet pterodactyl. He flipped a switch, and the murky water began to depurgate itself into clarity.
There, floating before him, was not a giant reptilian monstrosity.
It was a man, albeit a very unusual one: long, giant arms, wide mouth, petite legs. Peter Carroll was initially aghast, but his mind quickly jumped to the most obvious question; what if this being could be convinced to join his ranks? He released the creation, and began the process of teaching him the ways of life, love, and Seahawks. It was initially difficult to acclimate him to our squadron, but once Carroll discovered what The Pterodactyl craved above all else, and offered him a position in The Legion, Browner fully invested himself in the cause of the Seahawks. He became a crucial facet of our asphyxiating defense.
And so it was The Pterodactyl was turned loose on our enemies, and so it shall ever be.
Brandon hits the opposition like a man confused as to why he exists. His mind harkens back to an era when he was the alpha predator in his flock of brethren, and ate a bunch of dinosaurs willy-nilly. Now that he has been recreated, he has adopted our Legion as his kinsmen; their goals are his goals, their enemies are his enemies. The Deathbacker and The Banshee assure him that his primary foe cowers to the south, scurrying to and fro, hiding in the tall grasses. This smacks of prey to The Pterodactyl, and he launches himself forward, intent on ending this threat to his flock.
What is not burned, shall be smashed.
A soaring tower of defense, The Pterodactyl devitalizes opponents and leaves their organs littering the field like carrion. He breaks the will of opposing offenses easier than John Carlson's bones, and smangs them into destitute submission. He careens through the melee, causing wanton destruction with raging abandon. Browner's bestial laughter acts as a clarion dirge, punctuated by the cries of sorrow and terror. His bloody beak bores into the pump-organ of our hated foes, and as he drops their gored bodies behind him, he turns his predatory gaze towards his nemesis-by-proxy.
Harbaugh stands there, off the field of battle; smug, self-satisfied, exophthalmic eyes staring. He smirks at Brandon Browner, knowing himself untouchable. The Pterodactyl lands, dropping a filled helmet to the blood-drenched grass. He strides forward, hands outstretched, fully intent on wrapping them around Harbaugh's neck and socking it to him in the mouth so hard, he'll need to talk out his pee-hole. And that's all the respect you will get from us, Urethra Franklin (just a little bit).
Jimbo takes hasty steps backwards, slipping on his own urine in the process, and crab-crawls away.
Browner is caught by The Deathbacker, and pulled away. The GOVERNMENT's haindmaiden rights himself, and waves condescendingly. But The Pterodactyl only smiles the wider at that, and in that smile is a promise.
This is not over--a reckoning is at hand.
The Drunkard abruptly finishes speaking.
Eyes-watering, you stare blankly at him, trying to comprehend what you just heard. Pterodactyls? Demigods? Urethra Franklin? There is no factual evidence for any of this, and you are damn tired of hearing about it.
You open your mouth to tell him so, and another wave of pungent stench slams into your olfactory bulb, and knocks you off your stool. You attempt to stand, but are too dizzy. You crawl towards the door, and the blessed relief that it provides.
Finally, you stumble outside, and take a deep inhalation of the sweet, life-giving vapor. Leaning against the outside wall, you pant.
Gaining enough breath to move, you begin walking towards your house.
What the hell, man...a pterodactyl?