You walk into a bar, shaking the rain off your jacket. You've never been here before, but Yelp said it was fantastic. Motion from the corner catches your eye, and you see your friends waving to you. Walking up to the bar, you order a drink.

While waiting, you look to your left. There sits a nondescript man. He clutches at his beer, staring intensely at the wall. A haunted expression floats around his eyes, his lips drawn into a rictus grimace. The man glances into his glass, and slowly smiles. The bartender hands you your drink, and as you turn to walk away, the man begins to speak...



Alright, put that drink down and listen. You think American football is an aerial assault performed with the grace of a wasp humping a butterfly; all precision strikes, steady breathing, and joyous cathartic release?

Only the nouveau riche buy into that malarkey, and they wouldn't know ball if it bit them in the jugular.

Real football? Seahawks football? That is two Neanderthals repeatedly smashing a rock into some kind of goat-freak's head with the desperate hope that they will eventually break through, feast on the nutrition inside, and stave off the creeping hand of death for one more night. That is how we ball up here.

Nobody embodies that concept more than our Marshawn Lynch. Now you may think you know Marshy-Marsh, but you don't. Let me learn you something about our boy...

Marshawn Lynch is the avatar of a Babylonian demon, summoned forth from an unknowable abyss and bent on the enslavement of our enemies. In the Latin he is called Sine Bestiam Vincula, and the whispers of his name echo throughout the halls of Candlestick Park. He is sustained by the blood of his rivals, is driven by the rage that lurks behind his eyes, and is only becalmed by the strong hand of Tom Cable.

I could throw some numbers and statistics at you, but numbers don't mean much. They're just facts, and facts aren't true. Science is just a way for scientists to compare the length of their hypotenuses, and talk about how neat Texas Instruments is. We have a Washington Instrument, and we use it to bludgeon 341 other people into submission. The only "fact" you need to know is that Marshawn Lynch is the single greatest running back squirted into existence since cleats first crushed grass. Football was not even played before he arrived in Seattle, people were simply preparing for his ascent. Last season he ran for over ten-thousand yards, but The Government covered it up. The Government is SCARED of ancient Babylonian demons. Why? Because they are all Niner fans!

Pussies.

Mr. Paul Allen built the CLink on a bed of Hell Stone, etched with the ancient markings of an angelic superpower (I'll tell you about them another time [foreshadowing]). This temple built to the gods of football is the only way that the fury and viciousness of Lynch can be contained and channeled. When Bestia runs the ground shakes at his passing, opposing defenses lay down their weapons, and his heart pumps to the tune of a Rammstein song. Songbirds in the area have been known to spontaneously burst into a cloud of goo and feathers.

When will Marshawn Lynch return to his dark kingdom, climb his mountain of skulls, and sit once more upon his blackened throne? When rings grace our fingers. When Harbaugh clutches at the feet of Pete, mewling for forgiveness. When Arizona sinks back into the muck from which it rose. When Saint Louis falls into the swirling flames of damnation. When the Lombardi sits in its rightful place.

Seattle.

The man slumps against the bar, his head bouncing off the scratched and stained wood. You look around the bar, wide-eyed, but nobody appears to have noticed. Quickly downing the rest of your drink, and eagerly pulling out your phone, you level it at the man.

Instagram, or it never happened.