The Drunkard's Player Profiles: Marshawn Lynch REMIX (ft. DJ C-Raig)

Kevin Casey

A retelling of the the history of Marshawn, as told by the most fascinating drunk guy in the bar.

Walking into the bar, you shake the rain off your jacket. Never having been here before you are taken aback by how dim it is, but Yelp said it was fantastic. Motion from the corner catches your eye, and you see your friends waving to you. Giving a nod, you move over to the bar and order a drink.

While waiting, you look to your left.

There sits a nondescript man. He clutches at his beer, staring intensely at the wall. A haunted expression floats around his eyes, his lips drawn into a rictus grimace. The man glances into his glass, and slowly smiles. He begins nodding his head, as though agreeing with someone, and quietly chuckles to himself.

The bartender hands you your drink, and as you turn to walk away, the man begins to speak...

Alright, put that drink down and listen. You think American football is an aerial assault performed with the grace of a wasp humping a butterfly; all precision strikes, steady breathing, and joyous cathartic release?

Only the nouveau riche buy into that malarkey, and they wouldn't know ball if it bit them in the jugular.

Real football? Seahawks football? That is two Neanderthals repeatedly smashing a rock into some kind of goat-freak's head with the desperate hope that they will eventually break through, feast on the nutrition inside, and stave off the creeping hand of death for one more night. That is how we ball up here.

Nobody embodies that concept more than our Marshawn Lynch. Now you may think you know Marshy-Marsh, but you don't. Let me learn you something about our boy...

Lynch is a lashing storm of battle-crazed hellfury, doling out death and destruction with the emotional conflict of a Panzer tank. Many the defender has tried to bring him down with just their arms, only to have their limb ripped from its socket. They lay on the field, their heels beating against the grass is the heartbeat of inevitability. Marshawn scours for touchdowns like a dying man in post-apocalyptic Europe scours for nonradiated food: feverish and desperate, gun cocked with only one bullet left. When Lynch runs the ground shakes at his passing, opposing defenses lay down their weapons, and his heart pumps to the tune of a Rammstein song. Texas A&M alumni suddenly clutch their chests in panic. Songbirds in the area have been known to spontaneously burst into a cloud of goo and feathers.

Marshawn Lynch is Battle Cat. Those other boys are just Cringer.

I could throw some numbers and statistics at you, but numbers don't mean much. They're just facts, and facts aren't true. Science is just a way for scientists to compare the length of their hypotenuses, and talk about how neat Texas Instruments is. We have a Washington Instrument, and we use it to bludgeon 341 other people into submission. The only "fact" you need to know is that Marshawn Lynch is the single greatest running back squirted into existence since cleats first crushed grass. Football was not even played before he arrived in Seattle, people were simply preparing for his ascent. Last season he ran for over ten-thousand yards, but The Government covered it up. The Government is SCARED of ancient Babylonian demons. Why? Because they are all Niner fans!

Pussies.

Kid, you and I both know about Mr. Paul Allen. He has been on more adventures than The Pagemaster, and often takes Lord-Commander Peter Carroll with him. Well, it just so happens that quite a few years back, the pair found themselves in the Middle East. John Schneider had heard whispers of strange occurrences in the ancient city of Antioch, and Mr. Allen would not turn down the opportunity to investigate.

Their search led them to the heart of the sand covered rubble, through a crumbled cavern, across a boundless chasm, and into a chamber so vast they had no glimpse the ceiling above. The hall oozed with the electric tingle of unholy energy, and the walls were painted with an eerie green light. After walking for what seemed like hours, but was probably only fifteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds (they had watches), the men reached the end of the subterranean hall.

So it came to pass that the pair found themselves before a door, massive in size, and marked with the symbol of Gilgamesh.

Paul Allen approached the door, and pulled on the hula hoop sized handle. Nothing happened. Pete made an attempt, and still nothing happened. They tried everything: using pulleys, speaking 'friend', pulling in unison. Despite their best efforts, the door remained closed to them. Exasperated, Peter Carroll sat on the ground and slumped against the door.

The massive, stone block swung easily inwards.

A voice seemed to appear in their minds. Softly, as though recalling a memory, it spoke to them. Do not enter here, it said. I beseech thee: leave now, before you bring ruin upon thine world. You know not what forces you trifle with. You shall be laid low. Paul looked at Pete. Pete looked at Paul. Pete made a fart noise, Paul laughed, and they high-fived. Entering the open aperture, they basically ignored whatever blatant horseshit that angelic voice was selling.

Before them was a towering pillar, twin staircases winding upward on either side. The walls of the pillar were marked with patterns of ancient Mesopotamian origin. Upon reaching the top of the pillar, they saw two statues. Buffalo-like creatures mirrored each other, and running from the mouth of the statues to the center of the pillar were pale, white chains.

Equidistant from the statues, hanging by his wrists from the chains, was a man. His head was hung, and long dreadlocks masked his face. Glowing tattoos covered his chest and arms, appearing to writhe beneath his skin. A sign hung from his neck, claiming this being was a demonic entity, and belonged to the kingdom of Babylon. As the pair approached, the man slowly raises his head, and they got a glance at his catcher's mitt face.

It was not his features that took them back, it was his refulgent eyes, aggressively stabbing at Paul and Pete's psyches like a cnidarian's nematocyst.

Upon looking at this caged creature, Pete knew that he must recruit him to join his host. Using a super-secret tool, Mr. Paul Allen broke the heavenly chains, and they faded into mist. The captured demon fell to his knees, and then slowly stood, until he loomed over the two short, old guys. He stared impassively, waiting for them to speak. So Peter Carroll spoke: he described the Seahawks, his plans for conquest, and their adversary to the south. The Beast was intrigued, but resisted. Finally, Pete promised Marshawn something he craves above all else, and slowly, the demon of Babylon began to smile.

Thus, The Beast was unleashed in Seattle, and Hell ran with him.

In the Latin Marshawn Lynch is called Sine Bestiam Vincula, and the whispers of his name echo throughout the halls of Candlestick Park. He is sustained by the blood of his rivals, is driven by the rage that lurks behind his eyes, and is only becalmed by the strong hand of Peter Cable. He is our first assault. He is our final solution.

The air is frigid and sharp--it invades lungs with every inspiration, its chill touch spreading through bodies, dragging its nails along chest walls. It is deep winter in Seattle, a time when weapons should be warm and at rest. The breath of the Seahawks forms a cloud above their heads as they wait. Their discipline is ironclad and their gazes never waver. They stand, unmoving.

A horn sounds from the other end of the field, and a steady march is audible. The whining of instruments echos throughout the CLink, and crashes back onto the field. A force comes into sight, their black and gold regalia stark against the grays and blues of our home. The symbols of these soldiers are an affront.They have come from the distant south with a craving for vengeance bright in their eyes.

The Theocracy of New Orleans has once again come to convert the dominion of The Seahawk.

Now, in the midst of battle, these Saints believe they have us on our heels. They have attacked without mercy, riddling our defenses. Their defenders possess a confidence that belies their reputation. The Butcher feels the eyes of his Lord-Commander on him, and knows that now is the time for last measures. With a sudden chop of his hand, the signal goes out, and the Seahawks' reserves begin to part.

In their midst, rising from the bench, is The Beast Unchained. Steam rises from his bare arms like a foundry, and though his dreadlocks cover his face, two glowing embers are visible behind the curtain of hair. Strapping his helmet on, he strides towards the melee, smoking rising from his nostrils.

Seeing him, The Saints take an involuntary step back. Looking to each other, they grimace and steel themselves. This ancient mongrel will not be the one to break them. Not again.

The Archangel aligns his men, surveys the defenders, and prepares to give the order. He turns to look at The Beastcrouched behind him. The hulking figure nods, once, and Russell unleashes him with a command.

Marshawn passes Russell, and there is a crackle of energy as the holy light of Wilson meets the demonic aura of Lynch. And then he is past, shooting through a gap in The Vanguard, and meeting the first of the defenders.

With a splintering cry Bunkley falls on his back, clutching his shattered chest. His hands are burnt were they attempted to grasp The Beast. Marshawn rumbles on, lowering his shoulder and annihilating the rib cage of Jonathan Vilma. He runs over-top the man's lifeless body, uncaring. Lynch shoots his powerful right arm out, grasps a Saint by the face, and throws him into his companion.

The Beast has almost reached his goal. A trail of charred bodies, and churned turf lay behind him. The soldiers of the Theocracy have rallied, and now drape themselves on Marshawn's smoking back, sacrificing their souls in an attempt to stop this terrible force. Lynch stumbles. He slows. He is going to fall, and the day is going to be lost.

The Beast's eyes flare, and he grits his fangs. His skin begins to smoke, his dreads lengthen, and with a bestial roar that echos throughout the citadel, he surges forward. He has entered a new mode of combat.

Blood sprays as burnt husks fall to the ground. Sean Payton, Lord of the Anus Mouth, kneels on the field. He weeps, praying to be saved from the wrath he has brought upon himself. The Beast lumbers forth, and stands before him. Chest heaving, tattoos glowing with unholy menace, Marshawn reaches towards Payton's scalp.

What he does to him is incomparable. It's a lot like...um...

Screaming for mercy, The Saints of the Theocracy flee back to their crescent by the sea. The Beast, victorious, resumes his seat by Peter Carroll's side, awaiting his chance for more carnage.

When will Marshawn Lynch return to his dark kingdom, climb his mountain of skulls, and sit once more upon his blackened throne? When rings grace our fingers. When Harbaugh clutches at the feet of Pete, mewling for forgiveness. When Arizona sinks back into the muck from which it rose. When Saint Louis falls into the swirling flames of damnation. When the Lombardi sits in its rightful place.

Seattle.

The man slumps against the bar, his head bouncing off the scratched and stained wood. You look around the bar, wide-eyed, but nobody appears to have noticed. Quickly downing the rest of your drink, and eagerly pulling out your phone, you level it at the man.

Instagram, or it never happened.

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