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Rapping with The Drunkard: Manning Lesser & The Giants

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The most interesting guy at the bar is here to tell you all about football, the Seahawks, the most secret inner workings of our society's hidden constructs, and how to pop the clutch on a pretty sweet used Camaro.

I blessed the rains down in Africa.
I blessed the rains down in Africa.
Joe Nicholson-USA TODAY Sports

It has been nearly a week since our forces pushed the gibbering horde of Raider hellspawn back into the frothing ocean from whence they arose. The tide has yet to carry their hacked bodies and caustic ichor back to The Land of Oak, though the black sails of their survivors have long since disappeared over the bend in the horizon. The walls of our citadel still bear deep rents in its indomitable stone; violent hieroglyphs depicting the story of our struggle...

Clawed appendages, screaming maws, gnashing fangs ranked gleaming inside sucking orifices, yearning towards the vital blood roaring through our proud hearts. Our fearless Captain harassed. Besieged. Exhausted. Stumbling behind his Vanguard, a line so patchwork that they are unable to find their own asses in order to remove their thumbs. Russell is seized by friendly hands, and pulled to safety before his own inexperienced men get him killed. He pulls against the pleading arms, screaming to be released, demanding he be turned loose against our foe.

A massive hand lands on his shoulder, stilling his struggling. A bloodied Russell Wilson looks up into the wonky-ass gaze of his enforcer. Marshawn Lynch: Beast Mode. Lynch opens his mouth, less a smile and more a baring of gold-capped teeth. He turns away from The Man Who Would Be Captain, and lumbers purposefully towards the towering gates of Seahawk Citadel. Atop the Hawk's Nest, a cry from Pete Carroll orders the gates to be opened, and for The Beast to be unleashed upon his own bloodline.

With an explosion of avulsed appendages, Lynch dives into the fray. He becomes a blur: shearing through carapaces, severing faces off heads, and juking bitches out they cleats. Marshy-Marsh reavs his way through The Raiders. A fine, green and pink mist floats above the throng as the lives of those bloated freaks are snuffed off this coil.

Marshawn killed more cats than curiosity that day, all to the tune of two touchdowns.

And now we must focus on healing our wounded, and mending our defenses to block out all the haters. There is No Time 2 Sleep in the Thirty-Two Kingdoms. Even now scouts are arriving with word of an approaching force. The ground shakes with their very steps. We must prepare.

But will we be able to? Our forces are severely diminished, our defense is depleted, and our spirits creak in the winds of doubt. No Deathbacker. No Mutant. No Rock Golem. We are quickly running out of heroes.

It is with these thoughts echoing within our minds that we watch the first of the enemy amass atop the Cascades.

Azure-skinned humanoids, gargantuan in size, bang tree-sized weapons together as they roar down at us. Their armor appears to be constructed of hardened apples. Big apples. They laugh at our relatively diminutive size, and one keeps calling us "wise guys", which is pretty weird. Their apparent leader is a long-limbed, dour-faced creature who either has a massive amount of flatus on board, or his face is just stuck that way. Regardless of the status of his lower bowels, the blue giant chops his hand down, and the whole herd of humongos begins to lope towards our already wounded walls.

Well, shit. This is it, lads and ladies. It has been a pleasure drinking with you, but this is the end of our road. Last call and all that. I'll see you on the other side. It might have been different, were we healthy. But we aren't. We are too injured, too depleted, too sick to win this war. Just lay down, and give in t

WAR HORN

Wait, what is that? Reinforcements!

And as we turn, there he stands; hands on his hips, and chin held high. His pale, pale skin is nearly translucent in the high noon sun. His slight frame evokes images of extremely powerful fawns frolicking in deadly wildflower fields. His smallish hands only fumble a little bit as he tries to lift a pretty moderate sized dagger. He hefts his weapon with the upper body strength of a very large dying moth. Brian Walters! He is the sum of all of us (if that sum was then divided by our population, because much like my ex-wife, he is Mean). Alright, I know he's not the reinforcements we were looking for, but at least he can...like, throw his body in the way of a charging Azure Giant. Maybe, if we give him enough opportunities, he'll even be able to fair catch a

The door behind Brian Walters explodes outwards, knocking The Pale Average ass-over-teakettle, and throwing him into a nearby bale of hay, or weed, or whatever.

There, framed by an unholy light, stands The Deathbacker.

His injured limbs have been replaced with black machinery, powered by the stolen souls of those he conquers. A faint, silvery-blue smoke rises from the hollow looking-holes of his horned helmet. As he begins to stride forward, the wailing of Vernon Davis can be heard.

Chancellor ascends to the top of the wall, and surveys those before him. The drooping eyes of the Giant's Captain find the piercing absence of Kam's own gaze. A deep, visceral rumble finds its way into your brain and stays there, echoing until you want to puke out your happiness.

Kam Chancellor is laughing.

We about to smang it.

TO THE FILM!

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It wasn't perfect, but we were successful.

Russell...uh...wasn't his best with delivering the ball where it needed to be.

He had to rely on deception to get what he wanted...

Honestly, I thought Carr would be destroyed by seeing a REAL quarterback.

But don't fret, we have plenty of heroes left to annihilate the Giants.

I mean, Brian Walters (Bralters) alone is a match for those sucks.

Russell will be laser focused.

And, little do NYG's WO's know, but Kam Chancellor is BACK!

We'll be looking our best for this game.

So yeah, I guess you could say we're ready to smash The Vagiants...