In anticipation of the beat down in SD

On Sunday afternoon, Philip of the Seven Rivers will lead his band of azure equestrians towards Seahawk Citadel, and onto the field of battle. There, he will finally behold the almighty host arrayed before him. Clad in blues so dark they seem to absorb the light of day, we await them. Areas around our gear glow with an unholy green light, revealing the infernal demon engines that churn within our chests. Philip's eyes dart to-and-fro, his mind incapable of processing the horrors before him, as frozen images flood his mind. Beast Mode's bared smile, revealing the dull, metallic sheen of his fangs. Kam Chancellor's visage, inscrutable behind his blackened helm. Earl Thomas's twitching fingers, moving with the subtlety of a particle collider. Max Unger's mustache, a hunk of pasta caught in it. Russell Wilson's dead eyes: observing, processing, calculating.

Philip Rivers struggles to swallow, and raises his hand. He roars 'Charge!" and drops his hand. At least, that's what he means to do. Instead a mewl, much like that of an ejaculating kitten, struggles forth from his gaping throat. All sound is drowned as a sonic boom explodes overhead. A streak of light shoots towards the massed Diegans.

Percival has arrived.

Click to expand...

hawkstrap":1xdmssav said:

I wish I was smart and funny and could write things of that nature.

Instead, kind of a dullard.

Click to expand...

MizzouHawkGal":4rvcbhjw said:

hawkstrap":4rvcbhjw said:

I wish I was smart and funny and could write things of that nature.

Instead, kind of a dullard.

Click to expand...

Agreed.Though the dead eyes and computer mind of Wilson is classic. Quick everybody we must do something our secret has been found out!

Click to expand...