Rapping with The Drunkard: Saint Francis's Bast*rds

Ever was it destined to be thus.

Put your drinks down, this is important.

We are brothers, they and us. Separated in the womb of creation by ideology and color scheme, we were sheared from the same rags, and our recombination was writ large across the mind of human consciousness the moment Man inflated a pig stomach. Romulus and Remus, Cain and Abel, Mufasa and Scar: our battles have rocked the cosmos for millennia.

And here we stand again, on the precipice of this final battle. Our two great forces march towards each other, murda on our minds, and only one can stride forth from the coming conflagration to claim the Crown of the Thirty-Two.

One of you might be listening to me right now, and nod your head in agreement. "It's true" you say to yourself, "we are very evenly matched." Now, I understand that you are agreeing mostly because you are aware I am always right, but I want you to take a deep breath, face the mirror, look deep into your own eyes, and punch yourself in your teeth.

We are not evenly matched.

The Forty-Niners believe themselves to be far superior. They have a massive vanguard, a bull for a back, a predatory defensive corp, and a long-limbed  god-king of Persia for a Captain. Beside this, they have Harbaugh, the GOVERNMENT, and a legion of whistle-mouthed Zebras on their side. What can we do? What hope do we have of surmounting all this?

I will tell you what we are going to do: We are going to defeat them. Here. Now (not right now, like in a few days or whatever). They may have a bull, but we have a Beast. They are coming to our city, to OUR fortress, daring us to stop them. And stop them we shall, brothers and sisters and non-gender specific siblings! A line has been drawn in the turf, and we shall suffer no Niner to take another step.

The Niners? More like The "Nuners"!

Wait, that's not right. Nuns are celibate, and the Niners are about to get fucked.

There is absolutely no question about whether or not The Seahawks will emerge victorious on Sunday. We need this one; our crusade depends upon it. But just for a moment pretend that in the darkest crevasses of your wolf grey soul, doubt has seeped in, and spreads its charred tendrils throughout your lush faith.

"What if They win?" you ask yourself out loud in the middle of a business meeting.
"What if we lose?" your tremulous voice cuts through the silence of your mother-in-law's funeral.

High in the utmost tower of the VMAC, located just above our osprey aerie, Russell Wilson sits perched on a granite pedestal. 144 screens surround him, each delineating every defensive play the Forty-Niners have run in the past fifty years. His eyes remain closed, as he absorbs the information through his pores. Suddenly, your doubts waft through the crisp, marine air and into his perfect, caramel ear hole.

His eyes snap open, a golden light pouring forth from his blazing sockets. He slowly rises from his seat, and turns to look into your doubting core. A frown drags the corners of his mouth towards the distant earth.

And lo, Russell has become Death, destroyer of teams. All Twelves follow in his wake.

Look upon his beautiful gaze, mortal, and know despair.

A shockwave surges through Seahawk Citadel, as Wilson drops from above, scattering the turf's dew into the slight breeze. A vortex of mist cloaks his righteous frame, until it too dissipates in the evening air. We are backed onto our own five-yard-line. The psychosphere of the city is electric rage, held in check by Russell's outstretched hand. Across the battle line, red-cloaked figures prowl, steam gushing from the holes in their face masks. Patrick Willis jams a stern finger in Russell's direction, then slowly drags it across his throat: an ancient San Franciscan sign of greeting. Wilson crouches behind his Vanguard, takes one last look at the Niner's sideline, and with a primal scream, unleashes hell.

The Vanguard scatters into offensive formations as a tide of Niners courses towards Wilson. Aldon Smith attempts to knife through the blockers, but that action has never benefited him, and Russel evades his lumbering steps easily. To his right and left, Willis and Bowman are both bearing down, and it appears certain that our Captain shall be crushed between them.

Suddenly, a radiant light flares forth from Wilson's helmet. A crown of holy fire dances upon his head, and with a negligent wave, our Archangel dismisses the feeble Niner linebackers. Russell Wilson tucks the ball under his gorgeous bicep, and prepares to scourge these wastrels of humanity.

What happens next? Well, I guess you are going to have to watch the game....

(We go to the Superb Owl, that's what happens next)

_______________________________________________________________________________

Now, let's break down some of the film from this coming week!

Last week the Saints believed victory was in their grasp, yet could not hang on

The Saint defenders were unable to escape the inexorable drives of Marshawn Lynch.

I expect this week to go much smoother, considering Sherman has the brain of a tycoon and the reflexes of a cat...

...and Earl is nearly invisible in the secondary. Until he strikes.

Meanwhile, Russell will pick apart their Secondary with his miracle passes.

And essentially have his way with the entire Niner's defense.

Russell generally hides behind his line. When that fails, he bamboozles the defense with his Archangel powers.

This is like Sherman, who baits Kaepernick into throwing his direction, then springs his trap.

And Michael Bennett be havin' Kaep all like...

Meanwhile, Kam will punk Gore mid-run...

And we'll float on to victory, with our Archangel leading the way.