Gonzo

Rapping with The Drunkard: The Carolina Hurricanes

The most interesting guy at the bar is here to tell you all about the Seahawks, the Panteras, the Referees, and whomever else decides they need a say in how this games goes.

By Craig Johnstone Oct 22, 2014, 9:09am PDT

All is lost.

Life is an abyss so dark and deep that I fail to see what cause we have to continue. The call of the carrion crow echoes around our sad little camp, cramped amidst the burning hills of The Carolinas. We huddle for warmth, wide-eyed and staring at the consuming flames. Periodically we flinch, as another agonized cry bursts forth from the infirmary tents. Our battle has been waged, the war has been won, and we are left broken and grasping. These haters, indeed, did hold us back.

They told us it would not work. They told us we would fail. We should have been content with our victory. Could we not have settled for a kingdom; why did we dare strive for an empire? Look around. Chancellor limps towards his bed, supported by Earl. The sheen of sweat covers them both, as they struggle against the chains of exhaustion. Lord Byron Maxwell lays stretched out on a cot, clutching at his shattered leg, breath hissing from between his teeth like a snake coursing through dead leaves. Russell Wilson walks through camp, his arm in a sling, his good hand touching a shoulder here, gripping a wrist there. Despite his efforts, hope has been lost. What brought us to this precipice?

Betrayal.

We should have known. Our path seemed too clear. The omens bespoke too many fortuitous turns. We were cautious, we were careful, but we never expected the attack to come from the inside. Rife with disease and deception, our forces could not resist the blade at their backs. And like a rotted log, we shattered upon impact.

Ser Percival deceived us! He wheedled his way into our bosom, and charmed us with his crooked grin. But behind those lidded eyes, and that silky Virginian drawl, lay the envenomed fangs of a pit viper. One-by-one he turned our captains against each other. He supplied our enemies with our most secret tactics. And then he left us, weakened and reeling.

And now we are doomed. What hope is there for us? Our only recourse is to crawl back to our citadel, and nurse our broken spirits and our crushed dreams. Out in the darkness, we can hear the Panthers calling. We will not be able to hold them off.

I see some of you nodding. You agree, then? You agree that our quest is over and failed, and our last option is to save ourselves to fight another day? Well, then I only have one more request of you...

Pour your drink on the ground, because it is wasted on you. Then stand up, and walk out of here, never to be seen by us again.

Listen people, there is no "saving ourselves". This is it. This is the last chance we will ever have. We will throw ourselves upon the weapons of our enemies, allowing those behind us free view of the neck veins that pulse unguarded before them. We will never give up. If we have to crawl to our next battle, only to attempt to drag these mother fuckers down by the ankles and finish them off with the rocks our bleeding hands claw forth from the broken ground, that is exactly what we shall do. We can never be vanquished. We can never be stopped. Our hunger is limitless, our quest is eternal, and our desire to destroy will not be extinguished by one or two defeats.

So those bow-legged bitches from The Dee defeated us. So the horned Goat Men of Saint Louise barely held on against our crushing assault. All that shows is that we can be hurt, and can bleed like any other beast of land or sea. Our enemies have been driven into a frenzy, thinking us weakened and vulnerable. they advance, backing us into a corner.

The last place they want us.

Fighting from behind slides onto us like a well-worn glove. Long odds are as familiar to our force as the face of our emerald mother. We are a pack of wolves, and with snapping and slathering fangs, we shall drive back our aggressors.

So strap that helmet on, pick up that axe, and knuck if you buck. it's our time to grind. What punk ass dares to stand before us? Show yourself and prepared to be murked. Who is left? The lumbering Apple Giants of New York? DEAD. The Crimson Song Birds of Arizona? EASY WIN. The Mining Denim Hawkers of The Bay? Well, as for them...

We will pop the trunk. No one wants to see us right now. They can't see us. We are the Seattle Street-sweepers, en ons sal elke domkop wat probeer om ons te stop reg in hul dick sucker klap. Feel me? Our souls are made of teflon and murder. We are the hatebreed.

You ain't about that life.

Peasants. Shut your mouth when in the presence of kings. In one year, the Seahawks have spent more money on spilled liquor then any other team has in their life time. We are wolves to dogs. Get bodied. Praise be to Allah.

Anyway....let's go to the film!

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These games recently have been very unsatisfying.