Rapping with The Drunkard: The Raydas of The Town

Without a sound, Russell Wilson lets the sundered Panther head fall to the blood soaked ground. He stands, sweat evaporating off his still form in a cloud of exhaustion, and surveys the scene that surrounds him.

The hacked and broken bodies of giant felines litter the field. Seahawks continue to lay where they collapsed, nestled among the exposed viscera of their opponents. Marshawn Lynch sits, solitary within a sea of chaos, a low rumble like a red glow emanating from behind clenched fangs. Richard Sherman talks animatedly at a muttering Tharold Simon, who continues to bash Sir Purr's head against the ground, liquefying a brain long since turned to jelly. Doug Baldwin, Paul Richardson, and Ricardo Lockette walk amid the fallen; pulling free a trapped comrade here, crushing the windpipe of a still thrashing cat there. Robert Turbin stands stoically beside Russell, reading a map and nodding to himself. The map is upside down.

Behind our forces, the jungle city of The Bank burns. Michael Bennett leads a cavorting group of defenders back towards our camp, their bags packed full of plunder. It was a ferocious and close fought battle, but our defense held this day. They stood strong during The Teal Panther's final onslaught, stymying the raking claws of a panicked Cam Newton. Wilson allows himself a small smile; all is more beautiful when stitched with the threads of victory.

The smile slips away as he turns to the infirmary tent. Bobby Wagner struggles to his feet, assisted by a limping Zach Miller. They work to organize the overly large contingent of wounded, and assist them with preparations for the long march back to Seattle and the Rain-Swept Citadel. Reports came in during the night: the black sails of The Raiders have been sighted pouring forth from the Bay of Oak to the south. Where there are black sails, there are cobbled crafts bumping Keak da Sneak, and filled to the brim with nightmarish freaks and grotesquely beskulled weirdies.

All haste must be made to return home, and push these BDSM psychos back into the ocean.

There is a special hatred burning within us for this coming battle. These Raiders are an age-old enemy. Through the eons we have battled for supremacy within the West, often being driven into the ground by the skull-faced General Stabler. They are a force that employs some of the most aberrant creatures known to the Thirty-Two Kingdoms, villains rife with unholy mutations. In fact, our own Beast hails from the warped and twisted lands of The Town. Within his veins pumps the blackened plasma of a Raider bloodline, making his defection to our cause all the more celebrated.

But when these punk asses land upon the shores of SoDo, they will not find a mewling and cowering Seahawks team. They will find a squadron of tired, hungry, and bloodthirsty marauders arrayed before them, eager to warm themselves amidst the sanguineous spray of battle.

After the trials we have faced, war is nothing more than a warm body, curled atop the furs of our beds. She is an old mistress, whispering dark tidings in an ancient tongue (also, an excessive amount of shoddily constructed erotic short stories).

I mean, listen...these cats from The Bay are weird as hell, y'all. We're talking like skulls-on-the-shoulders that spit acid, gorillas with tentacles on their vaginae, dudes that walk on pogo sticks with crab claws for arms, and lawyers that dress up in leather and gimp masks. It is an entire kingdom of people that took American Horror Story WAY too literally. Luckily, all the self-inflicted mutations sort of turned their brains to mush, and now they can't form complete sentences or figure out how the Dow Jones point system works.

I'm not saying that the Seahawks are going to ghostface their way through this horde of misbegotten hellspawn without any problems (I'm not NOT saying that, either). What I AM saying, is that the Seahawks are going to stoke the Kill-Engines, fire all systems of the War Tide Initiating Platform, and for the first time this season, unleash the full expanse of Seattle's Juggernaut of Woe against a foe too dim to realize they are fodder for our unjust crusade.

The Raiders haven't seen a machine as bloodthirsty as ours since their advanced screening of RoboJox.

They ain't about that life. They don't understand what's about to come rolling down the mountain at them. We stay steady mobbin' through they army like the quiet whisper of the fingers of God, caressing the scorched face of a doomed man. We are jacked up on Panther blood and Nestle Quik, eager to bury our bared blades into the bloated domes of Raider Nation.

Yo Derek Carr, come see 'bout us. Khalil Mack, come see 'bout us. Andre Holmes, come see 'bout us. Benson Mayowa, you already know what it is, so just lube up and roll out.

Man is a tortured creature. Life is rife with unreasoned worry and insubstantial fears. Men and women have so much to lose, that they exist locked in static environs, petrified of existential quicksand. Not the Seahawks. Not the Twelfth Man. We broke their game.

We made beasts of ourselves, and now know no other drive than that of the hunt. Run with us or run from us.

TO THE FILM!

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Beating the Panthers made me feel some type of way...

We busted up Carolina and stole their lunch, although looks can be deceiving.

But all it took was one good shot to walk away with a win.

After watching a few Raiders games, they don't seem very effective.

Though, Derek Carr is not too shabby at letting it rip.

Right when it seems like they're bungling, they pull it out. Not graceful, but effective.

But, The Raiders have no idea what's coming...