A Tale of Victory, of Hope and of The Great Willie Young

Too long Denver has stood as an outpost of villainy and fiendish scum high in the Rockies, a hate filled pustule on America's backbone, and while everyone else has been too busy burying their heads in the sand, ignoring the hideous and immutable truth about Denver, one city has valiantly warred with the evil hellbeasts that call Denver home. Yes, I am speaking of that proud and noble city known as Detroit.

Indeed, our most famous battles have taken place on sheets of ice, men on skates bludgeoning one another, Frenchmen bleeding out and turtling in the streets, hoping against hope that our Warriors of Light wouldn't slay them for their sins. But slay them they did, and for a time, there was peace. But Denver's inherent rottenness never went away and thus, it was time for another cleansing.

On a Saturday evening in Denver, in the shadows of the Rockies, our Warriors made their approach and then pounced, savage lions running through the streets, mauling the wicked and the obscene, hunting down and eating old degenerates in their sick beds and babies fouled by their Denver birth. Women screamed and staggered naked through the streets, and cried out to false idols who offered no deliverance in their hours of need. And our Warriors of Light shone throughout that dark land, burning the slaves of that darkness with their brilliance and their basic goodness.

At first, the charlatans and harlots of Denver had no idea how to react. They just stood there in slackjawed silence and watched their homes being razed, their lives ravaged by our boys. They tried to rally behind their captain, Kyle Orton, but he was hungover again, and as he staggered out of his barracks, he was blinded by the light of our warriors and then wretched and vomited all over the sidewalk. He raised a feeble hand to strike, but he had the shakes and was easily subdued. One of our warriors, Dre Bly, who had been exiled from the kingdom for treason but had returned after repenting of his evil ways, pistol whipped Orton in the middle of the streets, bloodying him in front of the people of Denver, who could only watch in stunned horror.

Orton's body was dragged away by the half-human/half-wolf slaves bred in dark and savage passes in the mountains. They were too dumb to fight back and our warriors cried great tears of pity as they watched them serve their evil taskmasters. We missed Ernie Sims, for his gentle hand with the animal kingdom would have surely won those abominations over to our side. They have been abandoned by God, but our pity moves us and we would protect and keep them as pets. But noble Ernie has moved on, and this is just the way of things.

Victory seemed assured. The city lay in ruins. Babies wailed for their lost mothers, whores who had slinked through the streets during the battle like junkies, naked and painted, shivering and shaking without their drug of choice - the barbarian dick that had been destroyed and mutilated by our Warriors of Light. And so those vapid whores did the only thing they knew how to do and they dropped to their knees in front of our warriors and they offered themselves up, but our Warriors vomited at the thought of their pristine temples of humanity being sullied by the whorish filth of Denver. They swept the harlots away, rounded them up in cages and sent them off to a clinic in suburban Detroit for cleansing and deprogramming. And still, their babies howled.

And where were the men? Those who had not perished in the initial onslaught cowered in caves in the mountains, shivering and shaking with fear, piss running down their legs, their pants browned with shit, their hearts withered and dead. Wide eyed and stupid they pressed themselves against the cold, dank walls of the cave and ignored the howling of their babies. Dominated by fear, they turned to madness, stripped themselves of their human facade and began to root through the mountains like savage beasts, eviscerating live antelopes and fornicating with cougars and even the occasional bear.

And yet, our Warriors sensed that it was not over. It had been too quick and too easy, and although victory was surely at hand, we still knew that desperation would spur one last terrible push, one last ferocious fight. The wild men would come back, cornered and bruised as they were, and they would bare their teeth and the inevitable slaughter would be dreadful and would echo throughout eternity. No songs would be sung of this last horrible battle, no tales spun. No. This would be ugly and filled with merciless bloodletting. The cries of the dead, their dying wails, would be the only song any of our brave Warriors would ever remember.

And so it happened. The Denver Captain, the drunkard Kyle Orton, rousted himself with the help of his half-man/half-wolf slaves and fueled by an injection of King Cobra he rallied the wild beasts of the mountains to his side and ferociously counter-attacked. Our reserves tried to hold the line, tried to maintain their dignity in the face of this savage and hellish assault, but they found themselves giving ground. Madness reigned. Fell beasts tore and mauled the flesh of the innocent and the virtuous. The Captain, Kyle Orton, laughed and chugged from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. He breathed fire and blinded our warriors with toxic piss.

And so the battle raged on, a cacophony of terrible violence, which echoed around the mountains and then screamed down into the valleys and washed over the nation. Even here, hundreds if not thousands of miles away, we could hear and feel those savage screams, could understand the dying wails of both the virtuous and the wicked, and we shook with a primal fury, knowing that once again, the evil of Denver had risen.

But just as things seemed their darkest, Drew Stanton, a young dirt farmer who had gained renown as a pluck merchant in East Lansing, broke through the Denver lines and slay an evil and terrible beast. Our hopes rose and our hearts shone with the fire and the light of the divine while the Denver hordes wept and gnashed their teeth and cursed the very darkness which they worshipped.

But the battle was not won. Not yet. Their captain, the drunkard Orton, had retired to his home, passed out drunk, dragged away by his hideous and pitiful slaves. He had been replaced by a heathen Irishman named Brady Quinn. Quinn, a notable failure in life, had been chased from his home in Cleveland after being hailed as that city's savior. A false messiah, a prophet of chaos and general wickedness, he had left that city ruined and in shock. Naturally, Denver was the only refuge for such a man.

He rallied his remaining forces, wicked men all, and began to drive against our virtuous reserves, good men who had much to prove. The battle seemed to swing yet again towards the forces of evil and our brave captains, the noble Matthew Stafford, the heavenly St. Calvin, the young and virtuous Jahvid Best, the powerful lord of the House of Spears, Ndamukong Suh, the aging yet valiant Kyle Vanden Bosch, along with many other fine captains, watched anxiously from their positions on the sidelines. They had done their part, had bathed in the enemy's evil blood and had gnawed on the bones of the wicked. Now was the time for the young and the innocent to prove themselves worthy of being called Lions.

But still the Denver forces drove deeper into our defenses, marauding like savage and evil pirates, doing unspeakable deeds to the bodies of the fallen innocent, fornicating with each other as they went, slashing the eyeballs out of decent men and using them as ugly and grotesque replacements for their own missing testicles. It was despicable and even The Lord wept at such a scene. Things seemed dark and it appeared that once again Denver would escape their punishment, but then a heavenly trumpet sounded and the ground shook. Men on both sides paused and stared in wide eyed wonder, their mouths agape and some even dropped to their knees in prayer while other fell to their faces in worship, uncomprehending the brilliance and the majesty of what was now before them. For the Great Willie Young had arrived.

Indeed. In our darkest hour, that immortal warrior roused himself from his slumber and decided to make war with the heathens of Denver. He thundered through the Denver lines and slew the false prophet Quinn, beheaded him and stood victorious and proud while our warriors cheered and the Denver savages all fell to their knees, begging for mercy from the Great Willie Young. The battle was over. Denver had fallen, and the Great Willie Young climbed the highest peak and bestrode it like King Kong, bellowed to the heavens and let the whole world know that Detroit had once again sacked Denver and that the Great Willie Young was on our side.

Could the battle have gone better? Certainly. While our captains are great and valiant, our reserves failed to prove themselves. They were delivered from a shameful defeat by the Great Willie Young, who rose up like a storm and utterly destroyed the hopes and dreams of that black land known as Denver. He is truly the great deliverer, an immortal with a heart made of justice, light and titanium. I only thank God that he is on our side. But why wouldn't he be? We are both of the light, both champions of all that is good and noble in the world, and after years of oppression by the darkness, he has come to aid us in our eternal fight. Denver is fallen, beaten and wrecked, but it is only a beginning. It is not the beginning, for both time and our struggle are circular and without beginning or end. It is merely a beginning, but it is a beginning of a story that promises to thrill our children and their children's children for thousands of years. There are many valiant stories left to tell and there will be many dark days and many villains to destroy, but such is life.