The Drunkard's Player Profiles: Russell Okung

Whatever, dude.

You are tired of going to the bar every Monday to try and get some answers. Your friend has all but disappeared, and you still are not any closer to learning the truth of this nondescript drunk guy. And he is seriously nondescript: every time you try to tell people about him, all that comes out is "smelly" and "sweaty". That describes seventy-five percent of Seattle!

And yet, you can't stop. You won't stop. There he sits, less than a meter away from you, chugging on his drink and licking his fingers.

You just don't care anymore, it has become old news. I mean, so what that he knows all of this absolutely true stuff about your favorite players? So what that you are pretty sure he read your mind last week? Does any of that matter? You could buy twelve of this guy for ten cents. A wise man once said "life ain't nothin' but bitches and money", and this cat has neither.

You open your mouth to tell him that, to let him know exactly what you think about his alcoholic obfuscations.

You hear the words, but are they yours?

"What do you know abut Russell Okung?"

How is your brain? Good and stable? Great, 'cause I am about to explode it. The history of this cat is more obscure than a DHS Checkpoint.

The essence of Russell Okung is beyond the comprehension of our minuscule human minds. His current form is the distillation of a millenia of megaannums, condensed into a single being. His knowing encompasses the breadth of creation. He has seen the birth and death of a billion suns, the c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate, and the inception of The World-Eater.

Russell Okung ain't nothin' to fuck with.

He is the insatiable, all-consuming maw of oblivion. His is the absence of emotion; Defensive Ends pour their anger onto him like torrential rage, and Okung leaves their desiccated husks behind like the remains of a moulted insect. He is a two ton death-dealer who possesses no regard for you, nor your hopes and dreams. You are a 1950's housewife, and he is Don Draper. With the emotion of a machine, and the grace of a ballerina, he will dance on your broken body. Trying to match yourself against Russell Okung is playing Russian roulette with a full cylinder. His footsteps on the field are the heartbeat of inevitability, as he grinds the souls of opposing defenses into a fine dust. Do not pity his victims, for you know that Okung doesn't.

They should not have flirted with a supermassive black hole.

Russell Okung's arrival on Earth was heralded with neither the fanfare, nor dread it deserved. He is one of the few Seahawks who was not recruited to our cause by Mr. Peter Carroll, for he came by his own volition with a purpose already in mind. Okung sensed that he was needed, and so he came.

Floating, alone and silent in the emptiness of space, Russell Okung abided. His mass was vast yet immeasurable, for he existed at a point where/when gravity became infinite and outside the confines of scalar coordinates. His sentience was spread throughout the known universe, even beyond the temporal wall at the edge of creation, and he observed.

His tendrils of thought detected an anomaly, and the entirety of his sentience focused. The anomaly existed on the planet Earth, and it was a...human? No, it was a crossbreed: a human and a celestial. Not common by any means, but nor was it unheard of. That was not it, there was something else...the being that was Okung froze, and for the first time in his eternal existence, he was taken aback. This being, this Archangel, was a creature of relatively diminutive size. Yet he was attempting to play Quarterback. The Singularity shook itself into wakefulness; such a thing should not exist!

Fascinated, the being began following his career.

There were glories, sure, but there were also unspeakable challenges. What? I said they were unspeakable! After years of struggle, the barest fraction of a fraction for The Singularity, the young Archangel had almost led his forces to the ultimate victory. He moved to his left, preparing to launch the final assault that would destroy his opponents, and achieve victory. There, he was soundly defeated by a bug-eyed man draped in red and gold. His army was crushed, and The Archangel was dismantled. The disrespect was blatant. The man who looked like an evil Quagmire pulled a pulsating blue orb from the wreckage, and installed it into his own bicep-licking construction.

The Singularity could not bear to see The Archangel laid low. It pained him to watch as The Vanguard was crushed and broken. Evil Quagmire's face was so punchable, and yet it had not been punched! No, it was unacceptable.

This could not stand.

Okung shrugged, and time altered. Ignoring geodesics, Russell began to at once condense and expand his form, and move towards Earth. He arrived at his chosen time, and descended. The Singularity is an astronomical amount of nothing, and in order to move about as one of us, he had to assume an avatar. He chose to mimic us in a way that would represent his own innate attributes: massive, inexorable, and dark. Initially his skin was black, and I don't mean that it had a large amount of melanin due to genetic adaptation to sunny climates. I mean his skin was black. It was not so much a color, but a graveyard of colors. He was forced to adapt a more natural skin tone, lest he be flagged for having character concerns.

Through machinations (both subtle and unsubtle), he was chosen to join the newly minted ranks of Peter Carroll (who was very excited). He was the first, and it would be behind him that all others followed. The Singularity bid his time, learning to use his new, ungainly body. As his skills neared perfection, he was able to bring some of his connatural abilities to bear. It was at this time, that The Archangel finally joined him.

And thirty-one other kingdoms wept.

The Singularity has manifested within himself more fully. He is the cornerstone of The Butcher's Vanguard, and he wades into war, allowing defenders to near him, to crest his event horizon. There, he consumes them. Once an enemy of ours nears Okung, he does not escape, for nothing comes from nothing. He is pulled in to the unyielding jaws of fate, and his essence is used to power Russell's quest for victory.

Okung is the unmoved mover.

With the jeers and screams of the crowd weaving a soundtrack to slaughter, Okung leads the Vanguard onto the field.

The lands of the north are cold, and frozen. Their denizens are an unfriendly bunch of shitbricks, and about as useful as a football bat. They employ giants to fight for them, and have won some of the greatest victories throughout known history. Their defenses have been heralded as "unbreakable": armies have folded and acquiesced before the giant defenders, without a weapon being drawn, or a tackle being made. It is with this in mind that the frontline of the defending giants crouch behind their bulwark. They laugh to themselves, relaxed in the face of the coming contest. They are firm in the knowledge of their superiority, and no force from the emerald lands of the West will shake that. Justin Tuck guffaws at a wry quip from Jason Pierre-Paul, slapping him on his shoulder armor in good-natured companionship.

Their laughter ceases, and their heads turn as they hear what this way comes.

Emerging from the frosted fog, stark against the white dusting of snow that surrounds him, arises a massive shadow. The Singularity approaches--he looms over their gate, his impassive expression surveying their defenses. He hears The Archangel approach, feels the unholy heat of The Beast, and sees The Vanguard arrayed beside him. Knowing the time for hesitation to be through, Okung readies himself, his flat eyes casually boring into the frightened souls of the giants behind their wall. The Archangel peruses his forces one last time, inhales deeply, and lets loose the dogs of war.

With an explosion of energy The Singularity rears up, grabs hold of the wall, and shatters it with the flexion of his arms.

Dust fills the air, and rubble litters the ground. With a yawp of dismay, the majority of the northern giants scrabble back in terror. The frontline has been bred better than that, however, and catching a glimpse of The Archangel directing the Seahawk host, they launch themselves forward in a counterattack. The frontline dashes themselves against The Vanguard, and are slaughtered. All except the young chevalier, Jason Pierre-Paul. He sees an opening near the massive Okung, and knows that he can get past him. With a burst of air, JPP flies forward, and moves through the gap near Russell.

He stops. His momentum is stripped from him. A weight settles on his form, and his body shakes with the exertion of keeping itself whole. With gargantuan effort, Pierre turns his head to look at The Singularity. There, in Okung's empty black orbs, he sees the full expanse of eternity, and his negligent place within it. He screams in despair, terror laced through his cries for mercy. The Singularity frowns, and exerts a fraction more of his will.

Pierre's rib cage turns to gravel, his vital organs deflate like week-old birthday balloons, and his back snaps in seventy-six places. JPP can now, literally, kiss his ass goodbye.

Dropped to the ground like a discarded child's toy, Jason has a clear view of his homeland. He can neither close his eyes, nor look away (mostly due to his cervical vertebrae not existing anymore). The last thing he sees, before the welcome darkness claims his vision, is Okung marching into the blinding white snow, The Beast at his back, and all of the north falling before them. It shall be razed to the ground, as Eli Manning looks on in dismay.

And when that battle is over, The Singularity will once again assume his place at Russell Wilson's side. He observes, protects, and generally just towers over people like the astronomical badass he is. He fights for us; he is the darkness, yet he alights a kingdom that cannot be shaken. Okung is a beautiful killing machine, and he will not stop until all of Wilson's battles have been won and the enemies of his companions have been laid low, their bodies crushed into infinitude within his stellar mass.

For nothing, not even light, can escape the pulverizing power of The Seahawks's Singularity.

As The Drunkard finishes, you hear a noise. It sounds like the creaking of a frozen rope pulled tight with malevolent tension, it's load swinging. You can't be sure, but it may have originated in the back of your throat.

"Was that the sound of my brain exploding?"

The man winks at you, and points to his own cranium. He slowly shakes his head, turns back to his drink, and laughs.

You stand unsteadily, and move towards the door with flailing purpose. An idea has begun to form in your mind, and you need to solidify it before it dies.

You are going to go home, open your garage, call your friends, and get to work. It may take hours, it may take decades, it may take the rest of your life, but you will not rest until you have constructed a time machine. With your blood, and your tears, and any other bodily fluid you can summon, you WILL construct a time machine.

Then, you will travel back to the year 1988, find Carl Sagan, and punch him right in his face.

"Thanks for Astrophysics, bitch."