It has been an honor to drink with you.
As I look around the room I see more than just The Faithful, more than just a scattered and random collection of Twelves. I look into your eyes and I see sisters. I see brothers. Here, we are family. I don't know you; I don't know your dreams, hopes, or fears. I don't know the names of your children or parents. But I KNOW you, as you know me. I know the rhythm of your soul.
There is a chemical in me that reaches out to take the hand of the chemical in you, and the seventy-thousand around us. We stand together, linked for a Sunday. For the briefest of moments we are greater than the sum of our parts. Everything makes sense. All the heartache, all the misplaced passion, the sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction, it all leaks out into the ether and is replaced by a raging torrent of purpose. Seattle, our War Queen of the Night, stands united.
And we only have one more day.
Do not forget this, my family. We only have one more day. Glory is within our reach. Look, do you see it? It is there for the taking! The reason for decades of tears and smiles. The only thing standing in our way is a horde of mouth-breathing, equine-faced mongrels. We cannot let this chance escape us. We can't. There are no other options for us. Like a wise warrior poet once said...
The Horse Lords are not prepared for what we will unleash upon them. And their women. And their children. And their children's children. The pain that we inject into them will echo down through the centuries like a nuclear explosion, irradiating their descendants for generations. I almost pity them, these docile beasts who have coasted to this final battle field, feasting on the weak-willed forces of their neighbors. They are our antithesis: praised from their inception, led by a tall, White, landowning male, seen as righteous vindicators, given every accolade before they even attempted to earn it.
They were anointed before the battles even began.
We hauled ourselves up from the muck. We smashed our Red-And-Gold brothers' faces open with rocks, just to survive in the harsh, primordial cauldron of The West. We have been constructed from the bones of the Earth, our blood laced with sea water and anger. We arose from the death-dealing masses as the final champion standing. We have destroyed better armies than these soft Horse Lords, tears streaming down our faces as we deprived the world of their glory.
We do this for them, as well as for us.
Hear me, my family: do not hold despair in your heart. Do not dwell on worry, or fear. We are here for you. You have an entire empire standing by your side, ready to support you. Two thirds of one's life is meaningless. There is no "yesterday"; there is no "tomorrow"; there is only today. There is only now, this moment.
And we will SEIZE IT.
I have seen our Archangel stride onto the field. He walks on fucking sunshine, laying waste to the non-believers who surround him. Not because he enjoys it, but because it is his purpose. He is The Scourge of Existence, designed to punish those found unworthy. Not in malice, but with mercy. Look upon him, Horse Lords...and weep. Like moths to the white flame.
I have seen our Deathbacker unleashed in all his terrible majesty. He lowers his shoulders, and makes mortal impact with True Grit: The Wes Welker Story. He lays there, eyes staring into the white void, his gaping mouth yearns for a breath that will never come. Soft, pillow-like flakes dust upon his pale face. His naked chest lays open, ribs twinkling within like shooting stars in a velvet sky. Go with them, Welker. Leave this coil for good, and be blessed on your journey. The last thing to go through his mind before he leaves us is Kam Chancellor's cleat.
I have seen The Beast. He has been poked this week; choke vines pierced his skin, as I said they would. His darkly burning soul has been stoked, and with a yell from Russell he is loosed upon the Horse Lords. Riding upon wings of pestilence, he discharges a wave of malevolent curiosity into the Orange Front Seven. Like some kind of fucked up Pokemon, he evolves...
The Dread Beast. I pity whichever over-oxygenated Horse Humper tries to limit his infernal will. Remember this, Bronco: he does not hate you. He feels nothing for you. He is simply confused as to why you are trying to slow him down. The hurricane does not hate the trees. The volcano does not fear the meatbags who live upon its slopes.
I have seen them, brothers and sisters. The Banshee, The Automaton, The Demon, The Whirlwind, The Behemoth, The Singularity; I have seen their majesty as they hoist the Crown of the Thirty-Two overhead. And I have seen us...
Dancing in the streets, tear-streaked faces glowing with solar joy.
Raise your glasses...
This is our time.
Let's break down the film!
The Broncos before the season started...
Then they watched some Seahawks film.
They saw how Marshawn sheds tacklers.
They saw how Russell stiff-arms sackers.
And how the Line responds when he is assaulted.
They saw how Doug warms up for pre-game.
They saw the speed of Earl (after they slowed the video to -1000).
And the counter-move of Bennett.
The Seahawks are on an inexorable march towards victory.
So when they watched the orchestrated Broncos offense on film...
They developed other ideas on the Bronco's supposed coronation.
We move as a unit. SQUAD.
Peyton thinks he is sooo safe behind his Line...
The man is a tree, and I'm sure Mebane has an idea on how to move him.
And when Peyton fails, they all fail.
As for Demaryiyius Thomas, I'm sure Maxwell's technique will be enough to handle him.
And soon the Bronco D will cringe at the sight of Lynch's inevitability.
And they will be left weeping for what they lost.
As for us?
We gettin' ours.