Rapping with The Drunkard: Washington

The most interesting drunk guy at the bar is here to tell you all about that team in Washington and how it should be called The Red Tails. That's a cool name, and the Tuskegee Airmen were neat.

By Craig Johnstone Oct 3, 2014, 7:23am PDT

Bloodied.

We have been attacked, assaulted, besieged. Much like an egalitarian streetwalker, we have been blown back. We became accustomed to winning in decisive fashion. We assumed every battle would consist of us knocking the doors down with our super girthy weapons, seizing all the precious booty, and leading a parade straight to the OG spot.

But alas, such celebrations are not meant to be.

We were thrown back from the scorching walls of Sandiago, as Philip of Rivers lay waste to our exhausted and depleted defenses. The automated aggressor, Peyton Manthing, was knocked onto his heels for nearly the entire breadth of a battle. All it took was him finding the smallest of scales missing from our armored breast, and with a strength none of us suspected he possessed, a bullet pierced our flesh. With a roar we reeled, clutching at our wounded hide, lifeblood spilling forth onto the trampled turf. Were it not for the steady hand and dead eyes of Russell "Sosa" Wilson, we may have perished for good.

Forming our offensive Vanguard into a wedge, Russell led a charge deep (eighty yards or so) into the heart of the Mule's forces. At last he reached The Manthing, standing calm and helmeted amidst his scattered defenses. Serenely, carefully, with no more emotion than your nana pulling weeds, our Archangel rived into Peyton's chest and pulled forth his still beating heart.

Game over, Fivehead.

Perhaps it is good that we have tasted defeat. Perhaps taking a dose of our own medicine is exactly what we needed to correct our focus. Not that we plan on getting high on our own supply (thanks, Frank). I don't know about you, brothers and sisters, but I am done losing to these thirty-one other mongrels. Last season, and up until this week, we have been warriors; self-possessed, honorable, and merciful. No longer! It is now time to lay aside our swords, and heft our cleavers. We must become something else.

We must become Reavers.

There is no more room for law or quarter. We must harrow our way across the kingdoms, leaving naught in our wake but the weeping of women, the gnashing of teeth, and heads spiked over the burnt husks of stadiums. With venom spreading its way through our core, we turn our gaze towards the East. We look to the rising sun, and the cesspool of a city it illuminates.

This week we begin our march towards the pitted and pocked field of Washington, eager to taste both vengeance and carotid blood. Kam Chancellor especially is excited for this opportunity. I don't know if you people knew this, but The Deathbacker is a Big Tymer over in the Vee-Ay. He still fly. Woman love him. First he'll smash your gate down, then he'll smash your girl, bruh. He's going to hit Kirk so hard they pull him out of the game twice, that's a Cousins twice-removed. I imagine Russell, and Percy will both be eager as well. Maybe we'll see an Easley cameo! The OG Deathbacker.

(Instrumental version of "Hold Me Back" begins to play)

A horde of Seahawks crests the hills overlooking Raljon, Maryland. A seething mob of marauders dances and chants, jeering at the pale-faced men below, cowering on the frozen field of Federal Express. Bennett and Sherman cavort through the mass of murder-machines, driving their defensemen into a frothing frenzy. Earl paces, eyes boring holes into the Washingtonians. Kam stands and waits, his inaction emitting the energy of a falling megaton bomb. The Beast howls, his fallen dread still clutched tightly in one massive fist. At their head stands Russell, his features still. He slowly raises his arm, and our entire force takes a surging step forward, bucking against the yoke of self-control. His arm stays up; a poised guillotine. Below, the Washington Redacteds take a hesitant step back, their eyes locked onto the foreboding limb. The Seahawks jump in place, teeth bared, breath hissing into hoarfrost from between clenched jaws. With surety settling upon his brow like a crown, Russell Wilson lets his arm fall forward, mimicking the chop of an axe. The Seahawks explode forth, yearning towards the field below.

Screams rise forth from The City of Magnificent Intentions.

Hail To The Russell

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Alright, Danny told me it is imperative I break this tape down. So let's hit it!

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Ayyyy, beating Denver is cool as hell!