A war horn sounds.

An aerial shot of rolling hills, strewn with jagged stones and festooned with human bodies. Marshawn, decorated with great swaths of blood and gore, raises his head in alarm and scents the air. With a rumbling growl of pleasure he drops the burst-open Niner's helmet and begins loping towards the ocean, dreads caught in the wind like a banner.

Slow pan of a darkened lab. Various machine parts lay scattered. Schematics written in an ancient language cover the walls. A wayward screw begins to tremble from inaudible vibrations. A seam appears on the floor and a hatch begins to open. Slowly rotating as it rises from the depths, a platform upon which stands a still figure. The platform comes to a stop, and the only sound breaking the silence is the quick whir of gears, and the click of plates interlocking. The figure's Synthetic DermArmor ripples with the actions. Faintly, a choir can he heard chanting. Opaque forks of electricity arc throughout the room, and the thing slowly raises his head. The holy light of eons shines through his Optical Recognition of Behavior Sensors (O.R.B.S.). Russell Wilson, our robotic angel of righteous anger, steps down from his pedestal and begins flexing his limbs; testing this new iteration of his form. His audio platform processes the distant horn's cry. In 2.1 milliseconds he plots the most efficient path, and begins to run.

Michael Bennett stands at the grill in his palace, deep in the uncharted mountains of Hawaii. He is nude, save for five gold ropes and an apron that reads "Welcome to The Hurt Locker". He is turning a razorback on a spit. The horn's call echoes through the jungle, and Bennett sighs sorrowfully. He unties his apron, throws it to the ground, and hops in his catamaran.

Earl Thomas sits on a throne. A baby sits in his lap. He hears the warhorn, and dumps the baby on the floor. Hoisting his jetpack on, he begins to ascend. It wasn't even his baby.

An extra-long limousine pulls up to the VMAC. The rear door opens and scantily clad men and women begin to stumble out. Some fall, laughing, and slowly crawl towards the grass. Fifteen minutes pass. The last woman walks bowlegged from the car, trying to maintain her dignity. Steven Hauschka slowly exits and yawns, arms stretched towards the sky. A stained bathrobe covers his hastily buttoned suit. Smash zoom to his face. He lowers his sunglasses, and winks at the camera.

Brandon Browner is sitting in his library, distractedly flipping through his First Edition copy of The Handmaid's Tale . He hears the horn, and jumps up. He then remembers he plays for the Patriots. "Mother f*cker" he whispers to himself, and sits back down.

From the deserts of northern Africa. From the deepest clefts of the Atlantic Ocean. From the Halls of Montezuma.

They come.

From windswept mountains, and rain-soaked jungles, and piss-stained cities, and the gilded timelines of Twitter...

They come.

------------------------

Dearly beloved, I have gathered you here today because it is time for us to prepare. Gird your loins, sharpen your weapons, and perform your calisthenics; another warring season waits just over the horizon, and we must be prepared to raid. Every army is going to give us their best this year, and it is up to us to provision the Seahawks adequately. Our blue-clad reavers will not be able to reap the ungodly amounts of destruction we have come to expect, otherwise. The crown lies firmly in our grasp, and our foes will seek to rip it from us any way they can.

The war of words has already begun, as enemy forces politick and disparage. Anything to gain an edge over us, they have even begun to appeal to the Council of The Zebras for aid, believing that declaring our tactics unjust will stem the tide.

They are mistaken. They have lied to themselves. They think to take a hard-stance, while still not certain how to vanquish us. Well, I got news for the rest of the Kingdom of Thirty-Two...

Your head in a hole and a line in the sand is a bad way to battle a god, boyo. Mayhaps you should strap up, or else don't pull them thangs unless you plan to bang. There will be no more mercy given, only violence. This year the Seahawks are about that Kill-'Em-All-Dead-Bodies-In-The-Hallway life.

This year, I hope you will continue to come and share a drink or nineteen with me while I regale you with REAL, ACCURATE, HOT FIRE takes on our champions. Pull up a seat, and stretch out your hearing holes, because I have got some stuff to lay on you. This season is not going to be for the weak of constitution, and I am going to need only the best women, men, women, and women around me at all times to make it through. This ain't no Will Smith concert, so drink your drank and let's get weird.

Now, raise a glass to our Dream Crushers.

Here's to 2014: let's bash some heads in.

-----------------------------------------

Perhaps I should make like Daniel Kelly, and let you know exactly what our Seahawks will be planning this season:

The Seahawks are, deservedly, feeling themselves hard as hell right now.

When you pull a stunt like we did (gang-banging The Denver Bronys like a prison riot), you can't help but peacock a little.

I mean, we try to keep it polite when we run into Denver at local parties or whatever, but shit is just awkward now. We're chatting with Jacksonville, Denver walks up, and we're like

Alright, fine. Maybe we did get a little carried away...

Regardless, you've got to put your behind in the past. This is 2014, and it's time to really let people know what kind of business we mean.

We finnah make some people's nose bones explode this year.

Most people will be finished just by the sight of Kam Chancellor rolling up...

People have learned that if you try to go to work on us, shit will backfire on you.

This coming season, we may offend some of the more "traditional" population...

But while they have their own way of doing things...

We have ours.

I prefer ours.