The burning of murder seers the air.
A figure stands alone amidst a field rife with gore and viscera. His gaze transfixed on an object resting in his hands. A horned helmet cloaks his visage, and the blackened pieces of foes' vehicles adorn his crude armor; a carapace built of subjugation.
Resting in his gloved grip is the noggin of the warlord Megatron, a tanned lion's head mounting his crown, and a surprised expression permanently etched onto his face.
With a dismissive gesture, The Deathbacker discards his trophy. Megatron's arrival was heralded by horns, his departure marked by a hollow *thud*. Shadows retreat from the towering enforcer as he strides towards his vehicle. Even the inanimate vapors of the night respect this terrible force encapsulated in the shape of a man.
Baron Ringwerm leans against his Interceptor, watching Kam's approach as he absentmindedly brushes grey matter off the hood blower. The toothy smile painted across his gas mask stretches from ear to ear, and seems to flicker in the light of the Seahawk's warcamp. At a gesture from Chancellor he climbs into his ride, laughing to himself as he punches the engine to life.
The Deathbacker hauls himself into his own vehicle (a hulking truck, the plow of an arctic train bolted to the grill) and turns to look at the train of flatbeds surrounding the camp.
There lay the Seahawks injured, and they are many. This trek across the wastelands has not been the joyride they had all envisioned. Being pushed back by the inbred hordes of the Goat Tomb. Mired in snow, fighting for their lives against Captain Smug and the rotund hordes of the Dairymancers. And now they ride for Ginger's Jungle, to crush the perfumed skulls of The Bangles under the eternal flame of Seattle's hatred.
The Deathbacker pats the massive warhammer belted into the seat next to him, and kicks his Bamblasta into full gear. The massive tires spit out blood-soaked clay, and he surges into the vanguard. His fists tighten on the wheel...
There aren't enough gallons of blood left in this barren wasteland to quench The Deathbacker's rage, but he will crack every sternum he comes upon in the pursuit.
Let your punishment commence.
Well this year has not gone as planned! We been tested, and trailed, and tribulated, and every where we turn a new player falls down with a bum testicle or something! Listen, Marshawn has one leg, Tharold has nine toes, and Burley has three fingers. We're missing more numbers than Eli Manning!
But guess what, ladies and gentlesquares....
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Hungry dogs runs faster, and this is the first time I can remember our beloved blue and green being and underdog in five-thousand years. We are being doubted and criticized. Scoffed at, and disbelieved. People think we can't win. They think we can't beat Andy Dalton and the high-flying Bengal offense. The Bengals.
My ex-wife was a Bengal: hot jersey, ugly helmet.
Look, Bobby Wagner is going smash Dalton so hard the empty place where his soul is supposed to be will rattle. Russell Wilson is going to rain hellfire onto the Bengal's secondary like they uttered the word "Yahweh".
The Bengal's secondary? More like the Bengal's tertiary. Those sacks of wet garbage don't have the cojones, let alone skill, to try and do battle with Mr. James Graham (who may be partially transforming into a real tiger, honestly [orange & black]).
The Seahawks are indiscriminately gunning people down like the one good scene from True Detective season two, and I can't imagine those chumps from Cincinnati will be able to do more than cower in piss-soaked fear.
Now, I know what you're saying: "but Big Drunkard, you're so cool and the only one who truly knows how to please a woman! Also, what about Jimbo Atkins and Carlos Dumblop?! Won't they embarrass our offensive line, which has the blocking ability of a thirty-year-old hymen; only keeping out the most flaccid of penetration?!?!"
First of all, that's offensive. The Drunkard is an equal opportunity pleaser, and doesn't withhold his lovin' from any creature. Secondly, yeah you're probably right.
But who cares?! You ever see that scene in Over the Top where Sly turns his hat backwards, and then slays fools to sleep like daddy said it's bedtime? Yeah, bro; we're a bunch of truck drivers, and Cincinnati is some pansy ass pretty boy from Lake Minnetonka that's about to get mollywhopped by a scud missile.
Seek and destroy.