Rapping with The Drunkard: Fury Road

A bitter wind rises in the east.

Formed in the rolling billows of the Sea of Atlantis, it careens up the coast before spinning north, dirt and debris fluttering in its wake. It flows along the walls of Big Newton's Jungle Town, over the bay of The Nameless Marooners, past a populated field of green gyrocopters, and down into a skeletal city.

It slices its way through the shattered frames of a once-great metropolis, disturbing nothing but dust and bones. The lonely wind rises to the peak of a massive building, disturbing the hood of a grizzled old man. The man pulls his cowl back into place, before turning to look over the troops training below him. A tall, thin man in golden armor crosses his arms as he walks out of the shadows, joining the grey-haired commander. The wind rustles his golden hair, before fleeing west.

Out over the plains it flies.

Out over Manglemouth's horse fields, and over the lumbering Northmen dressed in their furs and rubber armor, and past Megatron's factory it flies. It carries with it the dust, brine, and ash of a shattered world.

With a shift, the bitter eastern breeze plummets towards earth. It scatters the blackened carbon ash that can only come from the incineration of a once verdant environ. Spraying detritus behind, it roils until breaking over the boots of a tall man standing atop a needled tower, looking over a broken city. It races up the man's legs, billowing his cloak about him, and rustling through his thick beard.

With a flaring of the nostrils, the tall man inhales, and the wind dies.

He adjusts the cloth covering his features as he contemplates the strange scent contained therein. A memory echoes inside his brain. A memory of gold, and forgotten glory.

The tall, bearded man lowers the goggles over his eyes, flips a strap of tanned leather over a cable, and leaps from the needle-pointed tower.

Zipping down with a crash, he lands amidst a crowd of others. They stand from crouches, sit up from where they've been lounging, put their dice and cards away, and pay attention. He tells them of what he has seen, and what he has smelled. He tells them that the man who broke them, who took their glory, lives somewhere to the east. He tells them of the thousands of miles they will need to cross to reach him. With a slow, cruel smile he tells of them of the thirty other enemies lying betwixt them.

A cascade of laughter erupts from the Seahawks, and with whoops of joy they race towards their vehicles. The bearded-one who informed them of their quarry, turns and climbs into the turret of his own ride. Large pink letters name it "The Rumpshaker". Michael "Black Santa" Bennett reaches overhead and lowers the massive slug-spitter into his lap, cocking back the jackbolt. His steel-clad boot taps the pads of the lantern-jawed man below him, and with a nod Frank Clark cranks the war machine to life.

Red and black dirt sprays behind them, as they fall in behind Marshawn's lumbering Lamborghini, and within minutes the city that used to be Seattle stands empty.

The Seahawks have left, for now, to chase glory and to splatter brains across the windshields of their opponents. Cracks of gunfire split the night, and the chanting of these forgotten warriors can be heard fading with the sun.

The Seahawks ride again.

The Drunkard reaches over, and hits the Play button on his Bass-Boosted boombox. The whirring of a cassette tape is briefly heard.

"Kickstart My Heart" by Motley Crüe screams to life.

Well, well, well...how the hell you doin' boys and gentleladies?

It's a new season, and that means there's a new freighter-load of truth ready to be shelled out and into your hear-holez. I got, like, at least ten or eleven facts that I need to share with you. Not today, though. Not right now. I don't want to overload y'all's fragile systems with mass amounts of knowledge.

Alright, I get it, you're over hearing these facts. You're too smart now. My objective, and impossible-to-find information is older than Kurt Warner's nut sack, but not nearly as valuable.

Fie on all that shit, baby boy.

I'm fittin' to drop the facts on you, so scooch up and take a listen.

People think the Seahawks are dead. They think we are lost and can never come back to rechieve (re-achieve) glory. The masses of asses that talk football like it is some type of game played by children think we are shattered shells of our former glory. They say the Lions have passed us, and the Packers. The Packers! Great Odin's burning grundel, the day those mayonnaise-filled blubberbags surpass us in anything but BMI is the day I punt the keys of my Sunfire into the ocean and take up wine drinking.

AKA not going to happen.

Listen, let's get something straight: the Seahawks are not dead, they are not weakened, and they're not asleep. They are barely even tired. They are gassed up on muskox blood and viking coke, and ready to watch the world boil in its own spinal fluid. They are a Mad Max murder team, mobbing through the scorched desert of a burnt planet; clacking their guns against their kill-engines and hunting down stray quarterbacks.

It's open season on all f*ccbois.

Lift your chins up, brothers and sisters. This is where we want to be. Let the soft, plush, blue blood teams have their fancy rankings and free fellatio. What we have is gunpowder and dragon rage. We are the Danny Zukos of the NFL. Our squad is so gully we're approximately one football game away from a RICO case. We're the football equivalent to walking into a club and spraying a Mac-10 like it's activator. The only thing we wouldn't sacrifice for a win is a child, and that's because whatever blood god the Seahawks pray to doesn't believe in innocence.

Nobody snatches victory from us; not a Niner, not a Ram, and certainly not a Brady. You will be hearing from me this season, Twelfth Fam. I have a story to tell you about this roving band of war boys, and their quest for victory at all costs.

I hope you are ready!

Ding ding