You've been craving this.

It took hours to convince people that you needed to go buy milk, but you finally did, and now here you are. Standing in the doorway of the bar, rain dripping from your hood, target acquired.

The man sits on his normal stool. He licks his fingers, stirs them around the bowl of nuts on the bar, and sticks them back in his mouth. He does this again. And again.

Choking back vomit, and swearing off peanuts for the rest of eternity, you approach the nondescript drunkard.

He briefly looks up at you, and then his eyes go back to staring at the napkin in front of him. A double-helix is sketched across it.

"Can you..." you begin. You have to pause, and take a breath. Demonbacks? Robot-angels? You wonder if you're truly prepared for what this man might say.

"Can you tell me about Richard Sherman?"

Richard Sherman is an accountant. He comes here on Wednesdays, orders 2 fingers of Evan Williams, and talks about his kids. Pretty boring, really. I'm not sure why yo...

Eh? Oh, the Seahawk. Why didn't you specify, jackass?

THAT Richard Sherman is corporeal dubstep. One minute Brian McKnight is singing over a broken boombox playing an old cassette tape full of dying cats, and the next your reality is dissolving around you as a deluge of bass gang-bangs your hearing holes. If that doesn't make sense, then you need to listen to that the kids are listening to.

Richard Sherman is a robotic death vulture circling the secondary, waiting to feast upon the still beating hearts of the puss-cake wideouts who dare to dance where angels fear to tread. And that's a true fact, young blood.

Here's the thing: you and I know Richard Sherman as a Russell Wilson fearing, blue-blooded Osprey. But he used to belong to none other than Jim Harbaugh. That's right...Commander Bitch-Brains himself. I've told you before that The Government are all Niner fans, right? Well, they got tired of being bottom to the Seahawks, so they enacted a Top Secret Mission. It was called Operation: Dumbo Drop, or Project: Runway, or Mission: Starscream. Listen, I don't remember what it was called, but that's not the point...

At the time Jimmy Harbaugh was a research coordinator for The Government. He had the idea to take the genome of an above-average college receiver, and genetically splice in some bits 'n pieces: a little mandrill, a dash of mountain lion, and a healthy application of Whoopi Goldberg. He increased the golem's neurological capability, ensuring it would always know what the quarterback was thinking. Harbaugh wanted the perfect receiver, yet he had not found an adequate soul to fill this vessel.

So James Harbaugh turned on his favorite song, and scoured The Government's records until he found the perfect solution. A fellow researcher, Dr. Peter Venkman, had captured a vagrant spirit from Northern Ireland. This "entity" had the perfect mixture of brashness, and offensive capabilities: a banshee.

I see that look on your mug, I know what you're thinking. "But banshees are from Ireland, and Richard Sherman is...you know...of, uh...a different lineage." I get it, Cleatus. Haven't you ever heard of the Black Irish? Problem solved.

Harbaugh infused his vessel with a banshee soul, and alas, that shit actually worked. Problem was, his creation wanted no part of his tight-ass football team. Harbaugh tried to force Sherman to focus on being a Receiver, to practice following orders, and to remain silent. Harbaugh is not a dumb man, he just lacks a few things, like imagination, empathy, human decency, humility, basic civility, common sense, a moral compass, an innate sense of social propriety, the ability to realize one's place in the world, and a pair of testicles. What was I saying...? Right, Harbaugh's not dumb, but he just could not get it through his stupid face that Sherman the Banshee would not be forced and coerced. Harbaugh turned to the only tactic he knew--he belittled and beat Sherman.

The Banshee took this abuse. In a moment of divine fortuity, he stayed quiet. He waited, and plotted, and harbored his rage. Stoking it. Allowing it to burn low.

The time came for Rich to leave the training grounds of Stanford, and join his creator's ranks in Who-Cares-What-That-City-Is-Called. In one of the world's greatest betrayals, Sherman turned his back on his artisan, and ascended to the side of Peter Carroll.

There, in Seattle, the restraints which Harbaugh had carefully crafted into Richard Sherman's capabilities were meticulously dismantled, a new motivator was installed, and The Banshee was allowed to obtain maximum control. As many knew he would, The Banshee chose defense and became the cornerstone of a Legion.

With the strength of a mandrill, Sherman knives opposing Receivers into the turf.

With the killer instinct of a mountain lion, Sherman destroys "quarterbacks".

With the sass of Whoopi Goldberg, Sherman styles his hair.

And with the unfettered rage of a banshee, Richard Sherman uses his voice to break the will of all who oppose him.

The intentions of The Banshee are inscrutable. Does he strive for conquest, like Marshawn The Beast? Does he quest for knowledge and purification, like The Archang3l? Only Richard knows for certain, but...I have some ideas.

Richard is an amalgam of various pieces; a made thing. He possesses the knowledge that most of us wish we had. Sherman knows the face of his maker. He knows the meaning of his life. He knows the reason he was created.

And he hates all of it.

Richard Sherman seeks retribution from the rest of the world. He longs to make those he faces on the field pay for the sins of his creator. He wants to lash them with his tongue until they beg for mercy, realizing the ineffectiveness of opposing him. He wants to subjugate the League, and prays to Russell that doing so will fill the hole inside him.

But what do I know? Richard Sherman is probably going to sleep tonight on a pile of money, with many beautiful women, in absolute peace. He probably never thinks about Jim Harbaugh, and the torture he put him through. He probably never listens to the critics talk about him. I'm sure he has nothing but love for the League.

Yeah, there's no way The Banshee is standing at his window right now, glaring out into the rain, eyes blazing, fists clenched, rage boiling in this throat...

The Drunkard looks as though he is about to go on, but instead makes a shooing motion towards you, and turns back to his drink.

You begin to walk away, but an idea has infiltrated your brain. What if you were to film him? Then you could post the video on FieldGulls, and everybody would know you were telling the truth. You pull your phone out of your pocket, activate the camera, and turn around...

The man is not there.

You panic. He was right here...he was just right here talking to your face! Oh my God, he really is a ghost! Heart racing, palms sweating, you turn to leave. You need to get of here. You knew there was something supernatural about him. You just knew tha..

The Drunkard stands unsteadily in the corner of the bar, surreptitiously peeing into the pot of a fake ficus. His hand is raised above his head, and from where you stand you can hear what he is saying.

"...but it's always the same. Playing, playing with the boys!"