It is 8:00 p.m when you arrive at the bar.

You sneak in, surreptitiously melding with a cackling squadron of young women, and move to find an open table out of sight of the bar, but not too far away. You are now free to observe and hear the Mysterious Drunkard unmolested.

He sits in his normal chair, wearing his normal clothes, his normal drink in his hand. His sweaty hair is matted to his head, his large glasses are perched on his nose, and his hairy hindquarters peak over the back of his Arizona jeans like a beautifully unique sunrise.

The same as every other weak. All is normal.

Except the suited man who sits next to him; brief case laying closed on the bar top, untouched Old Fashioned at his elbow, condensation pooling on the polished mahogany. A fountain pen lurks in his hand, hovering over a piece of pure white paper, prepared to dart. The juxtaposition between the two is comically sad.

You stare intently at the interaction. The drunkard takes a long pull from his glass, and shakes his head, belching loudly. The Suit frowns, tucks his pen into his breast pocket, and leans back; folding his hands in front of himself, and staring hard at the reeking man next to him.

He remains motionless for many long moments, before suddenly sitting forward and whispering in the Drunkard's ear.

The booze-hound throws his head back, and lets out a laugh

Thomas Cable, Mr. Peter Carroll's chief general. I have not spoken of him in a coon's age. His past is more disreputable than most, as it takes a blackguard of a man to be able to control The Beast. But control him, he does.

The nape of Sine Bestiam Vincula's neck resides firmly in the thick, sweaty grasp of Cable's ham-sized fist.

Cable is a dark-hearted mercenary warlord who cares nothing for the wishes of his men, or the knees of his enemies. Approach his battle Lines, and prepare to have your ass chop-blocked for all the fucking marbles. He is a hulking, ogre of a man who will ram his fist into your stomach so hard it will break your spine, and then drink iced mead from your cracked open skull. He has carved a path through thousands of battlefields, and put more bitches to the sword than Wilt Chamberlain. He is a tiger-humping rage engine with a soul for slaughter, who has brought entire Franchises to their knees with a single swing of his beringed hand.

Tom Cable is the apex Guy Ritchie villain.

It has been generations since Cable rode into battle on the back of his razor-tusked hellboar, massive weapon swinging to-and-fro, the lopped off helmets of linebackers spinning across the field like cheap dreidels that I made out of clay. There was a time when Tom Cable led his army of raiders smashing against the bulwarks of his foes, spittle flying from his voracious maw, sun gleaming off his shorn pate. He would wade through blood for the barest whisper of a touchdown, his black clad legions so plentiful they nearly masked that shitty field they played on. He swept through the enemy ranks with a grace and agility that belied his size. Cable could not be stopped, or reasoned with, and he would kill a snitch (not saying he did, not saying he didn't). He even waged war on Lord Carroll and our Blessed Seahawks, and such was the genius of his anger that he dealt us a sound defeat.

It was then that Thomas Cable became known as "The Butcher of Oakland".

A red storm descended upon the Land of the Bay, as the undead Lord of Oak gave The Butcher total reign. His victories grew by the week, his name was heralded, and the heads of his foes bedecked the walls of his Coliseum. Their rictus grins mirrored his own blood-spattered smile. Cable was a double-barreled extermination cannon, who wrought wrath with the deftness of a dancer. He fought like a lion, often using unconventional tactics to baffle his opponents. His intention was unmitigated violence, and he bestowed this gift onto every enemy he faced on the field. The Butcher's fury was a tempest, and he was the eye of the storm. If eyes-of-storms are massively maniacal warlords who piss dubyas and shit victory.

It was here, at his peak, that he was betrayed.

Jealous of his mercenary's success, the lich king of The Bay began conspiring with THE GOVERNMENT and their handmaiden, Jimbo Harbaugh. Together, they hatched a scheme to cast The Butcher of Oakland down, and lay him low...

Now, let me pause in this undoubtedly veracious history and learn you something, kid. Jim Harbaugh is the worst kind of human being in the world. He is a treacherous, bootlicking snake who attempts to lord his dominion over his obvious betters. His weak-minded yammering has been known to spontaneously lower the casual listener's intelligence quotient. Let us all pray for the day that the The Deathbacker finds him alone, piss-stained and cowering in a darkened room. Diversify your portfolio, man-child.

Where was I? Right, James Harbaugh and Alfred Davis were in bed together against our Mercenary Warlord. They conspired to place an incendiary within his ranks who would fan the flames of dissention and mistrust. Thomas Cable accepted this man as a confidant, treated him well, and placed him in a position of authority. The man bid his time, gathering information on our Butcher, and in a moment when Cable was distracted with the planning of another great battle, this worm became a snake--and struck.

Cable fought back to the best of his ability, even ripping the spy's jaw off in the struggle, but the odds were too great. Thomas was struck down, his broken body brought before the undead husk that was once Al Davis. That crooked, desiccated monster cackled with glee and gave Harbaugh a high-five. Then they made out for a little bit. Cable was dismantled; his quartered body cast to the four winds. The sun had set on The Butcher of Oakland, and every one of the thirty-two kingdoms knew that his tale was done.

Except Peter Carroll has never known when to leave well enough alone.

He scoured the darkest, dustiest corners of the globe, following rumor and tale, until he had gathered the hacked, chopped, and screwed remains of Cable. He took them back to Mr. Paul Allen and his super cool laboratory, and there...they began to work.

The jagged, black edges of cast iron were molded into a skeletal framework that replaced Cable's meager and broken osteo-structure. His torn lungs were replaced with a blacksmith's bellows. His ravaged heart was not replaced, because he doesn't need that shit anyway. Peter Carroll tried to put suicide doors on him, but Mr. Paul Allen put a stop to that and made Xzibit go sit outside. Lastly, Jet fuel was flushed through his system and ignited with an unholy flame. Tom Cable arose, and immediately swore fealty to the Seahawks.

Cable became the left hand of Peter Carroll: the uppercut that knocks mark-ass bitches into the juice bowl at your roommate's wedding. While still a formidable man, the time he had spent cleaved into separate pieces slightly weakened him. He began formulating a plan: maybe he could not be the warrior he once was, but he was still a warlord. He began cleaving to him a hand-selected batch of young soldiers. Men who showed promise, intelligence, and the ability to ruthlessly detach a patella from a still moving leg. Like a pack of heavy metal orthopedic surgeons.

And so it came to pass that Thomas Cable's Praetorian ascended to his side. Closer than brothers, they are tighter than Sean Payton's anus mouth. These Seahawks became the Vanguard: the first into battle, mowing through the cannon fodder of Saint Louise, and raging through the ranks of the Red Birds with turbulent ferocity. They are a seething blue and green tide that quickly becomes red, and they practice their craft with the adroitness of a minotaur smashing a lost Cretan's head open with a blunt rock. These boys come Tonya Harding wid it, and no knee is safe.

Cable's Praetorian have a paucity of fucks with which they can give, and they do not spend any of them on the emotions of their enemies.

Now listen to me, son, and you listen good, Thomas Cable built this unit, and he intends to use it (Okung, the being who leads them, is a tale unto himself). Cable has not forgotten his betrayal, nor has he forgiven. He will stand in the frontlines, both his Praetorian and the full extent of Peter Carroll's authority arrayed behind him. He shall call Jim Harbaugh and his simpering band of swoll up sissies to him; a summons to come face him in Seattle.

And there he shall wait, standing in our rainy citadel. The Archangel and The Beast wait with him, and rank upon rank of Twelves. THE GOVERNMENT has sent word: they will accept Cable's challenge, and at the end of summer they shall send their handmaiden to us. And there Harbaugh will see the full breadth of the force marshaled against him, and he will begin to sweat. His brow will become wetter than a Golden Girls orgy, and his knees will quiver in fear.

Thomas Cable, The Butcher of Oakland, will smile. For at long last, the time of his retribution and vindication will be at hand. With a bestial roar and barked commandment, his Praetorian will begin their inexorable march...

Our assault will begin.

The Suit sits in silence, and it is as though his brain is struggling to digest this information. He shakes his head, and rises from his stool.

As he picks up his suitcase and buttons his top button (never the bottom button! Geeeeez.) he turns from the man, and looks directly at you. Staring into your eyes, he shakes his head disapprovingly, and leaves the bar. You shudder, following him out the door with your eyes.

As the portal closes, you turn back to the Drunkard. He sits there, limp, his unsupported mass slowly becoming one with his straining stool. You debate walking over to him, and checking his pulse, but decide instead to just go home.

Football begins in eighty-three days. You can't help but worry over what that means for the Mysterious Drunkard.