Warrior General Games

The stench was lessening, after the initial onslaught of an hour or so ago. The Raiderfan had finally passed out, but luckily appeared to be ok, resting calmly on the floor beneath the table he had forcibly taken from the quivering Dolphins fan who, as he fled the tavern, kept yelling "I swear to God, I'm gonna bring Bill to get you!"

The Dolphin fan's cosmopolitan sat, undrunk, next to the still burning clove cigarette.

Kurt Warner sat at the bar, playing with his half drunk shot of tequila. It wasn't the good stuff. Just the house pour, which in this case was Cuervo Gold. Used to be he could always go for the Patron or the Cazadorez or whatnot. But no more. That all ended when the "Greatest Show on Turf" turned into the "Greatest Fucking Letdown to Rams Fans" after who the hell knows what happened, and they turned into a team that couldn't beat the fricken Niners again. It was a nice run, dominating the Whiners after years - no, decades - of humiliating defeats to the cheaters. But now the reality is that Kurt no longer was the "Greatest" of anything. Just a few ints away from cleaning up the aisles of the grocery store again (ok, so he'd own the damn store now - perhaps the whole chain).

Kurt slammed back the last of the Jose, and decided to do something about the Raiderfan. He really didn't know exactly what to do about him, but he nonetheless swivelled the barstool to the left (thinking nostalgically that he might see Orlando Pace there to greet him), and carefully stood up from his comfortable place at the bar.

The Raiderfan was still content. There was no vomit yet.

The Dolphin fan's cosmo looked inviting, but the now faltering clove ciggy kind of played havok with Kurt's sense of religiosity. Drinks are fine. But cloves? Evil. There was something in Leviticus that mentioned about the downfall of the Clove Smokers, so you know, you never can be too careful.

Kurt began to move toward Raiderfan to do... well... what? To do what? To save his soul? Obviously long gone. To revive him? What for? To bring on just another needless tirade about the "greatness of da Raidas" before he passed out again?

Kurt considered the options. Revive Raiderfan and deal with unpleasant consequences, but doing good by the Lord. Leave him there to sleep it off, assuming nobody will mess with him until the morning. Remove his Janikowski jersey and replace it with a Warner jersey. Put him out of his misery... er... nevermind.

Finally, a moment of clarity as the bartender shouted out "last call." It was so clear to him, suddenly, as if he just saw Holt blow by the CB on the left side, you know, back when his receivers were fast and not just big and studly. He realized what needed to be done regarding Raiderfan...

*grabs popcorn*

Originally posted by wallysmith
*grabs popcorn*

Tries to get some of Wallysmiths popcorn and realizes there is hole in the bottom of the bucket. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

continue........

Didn't you see the name of the topic? "Late night thoughts!"

It's only 5PM here. Patience, grasshopper...

Where are you? That was posted at 12:45 AM

Laugh at their average of 4 wins in 5 years?

Cali, my man. Cali. So it was posted around 11:45 PM. I think they keep mountain or central time?

Anywho, it's not "late night" yet...

Ray, you might be on to something...

Pete Rozelle was initially irritated by the alarm that woke him from his peaceful nap at the Country Club. The call roused him from a noontime snooze that followed a perfect morning which consisted of bloody marys to start, followed by raquetball (with the old ladies with the colored hair and cosmetic surgery), a mud bath, and then a nice round of mini golf. It was one of those irritating courses where they have the moving obstacles that no matter how you time your shot always knock your ball into the out of bounds area.

Anyway, Pete was irritated to be woken by the Red Line. But, when the Red Line rings, you pretty much have to answer it.

Pete grabbed the phone and put it to his ear. "Ya, this is Pete. This better be good."

"Oh, it's good alright."

"Curly? Is that you? What the hell do you want with me? I'm trying to enjoy my retirement here!"

Curly Lambeau didn't answer immediately, instead choosing to go with a long, or as they call it in some genres, a pregnant pause, before responding.

"We have a problem. It affects you. It affects me. And it affects anyone who is interested in the sanctity of the game that we helped create. I know I'm sounding fairly melodramatic at this point, but first, remember that both of us are dead, so just having this conversation is pretty much out there, and secondly, remember that people from different generations reaching out across those generation gaps to come together and solve a worldly problem is very much fan-friendly. I mean, who wouldn't want to see, say, Thomas Jefferson walk into the Oval Office today and have a sit-down with Dubya? Think of the progess! That's where we come in. You and I have something to fix."

"What do you mean 'we have something to fix'? I'm just living out my afterlife here, hopefully in peace. And now you're riling things up? What the hell could be wrong with the sport, which last time I checked was making more money than you and I could have imagined even after the effects of a wild night in Chicago hadn't worn off. Have you seen how much money that loser Terrell Owens is making?"

"Well, yes, TO is overpaid. That will be dealt with. But the more pressing issue is that Al Davis is in trouble. Not only is he in danger, but the danger comes from within the league. If the outcome that I am afraid of comes to pass, it could spell doom to the league. Soon, if we don't prevent what I am afraid might happen, we will be watching our games on the VS network in the wee hours of the morning, following the NHL broadcasts."

"Nooooo!" shouted Pete. "No way in Hell can I watch our league take a backup role to the NHL! Nobody in the frickin USA even watches that sport!"

"Not now, they don't. I think you see where I'm going with this?"

Pete slammed down the phone. His head now cleared from his rest and his morning drinks, he headed towards the bar to pour himself a big ol' shot of confidence, as he knew he was headed into overtime. His opponent? He wasn't really sure, actually, because Curly had been vague while specifically stating the problem (Curly was like that - vague and specific at the same time). "Fuck it. Bring it on! Don't do Al like that!"

Kurt approached the Raiderfan with a heavy heart, and yet, with a heavy assed mug in his hand in case shit broke out. Something needed to happen, and this Raiderfan appeared to be just the right guy to get the ball rolling.

Al Davis had to be killed.

But really, it couldn't be an outside job. That would just rally the Raider Nation. They would demand a replay, and then, when the replay was run, and they didn't agree with the outcome, even though it was interpreted exactly to the existing rulebook, they'd just be even more pissed off, and the only people in the country who would profit would be Alcoa and any other of the manufacturers of tin foil. That would be a lot of hats that they'd have to supply foil for.

Kurt knew he didn't have it in him to pull the trigger. He had no ill will towards the Raiders. Hell, the Raiders had been irrelevant for the most part of his career. They had the one SB year, but Al had sent their coach to their eventual opponent, so that opponent knew exactly what the Raiders were going to do, so it was game over even before the typical issue occurred of Raiderplayer getting in legal trouble the night of the game.

But, how to convince the drunken Raiderfan that he needed to seek out Al Davis, and end it all?

Kurk stood over Raiderfan, the empty shot glass of Cuervo dangling in one hand, the SB ring strangling the ring finger on his other hand.

"You know," thought Kurt, "I was once an MVP. I was at the top of the NFL. I could have had any woman in the world if I wasn't married to my little mop headed charmer. And now, I'm here in this bar. Drinking the Devil's juice, feeling sorry for myself. But who can blame me? Really? I'm in FRICKING ARIZONA!!!! This has to happen. The vision was right. This isn't Orlando Pace, Torry Holt, Isaac Bruce, Marshall Faulk. This is freaking Arizona. SOMETHING NEEDS TO HAPPEN, AND IT STARTS NOW!"

Kurt grabbed a half drunk Miller Lite off the table above Raiderfan, and poured it on the face of said loser. Raiderfan sputtered, shook his head around, checked his tatoos, and shockingly came to, sitting up as if Janikowski actually lived up to expectations. "What the fuck! Dude! Umm... Where's my beer?"

where do you get these??

Out of a can of Bud Light, usually.

Kurt really didn't enjoy this part of his responsibilities, truth be told. Sure, he made a commitment in his early youth. And yes, that commitment was loaded with heavy responsibilities that he knew would one day come due. The path of a Jedi Master is not one to be taken lightly.

The training he had to endure was seemingly endless, and in fact tedious, painful and boring. He never really understood at the time how continously restocking the shelves at the Piggly Wiggly had anything to do with enhancing his latent Jedi talents. He really felt that flying through the air, or overturning Humvees that took up two parking spaces, would be a way cooler way to practice his innate talents. Tom would have nothing of the sort, however.

"How many times do I have to make you watch 'Karate Kid' before you understand the need to focus on the simple tasks before advancing to the great tasks?" Tom would say time and time again. "Why in the world do you think I was on 'Bosom Buddies' years before my triumphant role in "Saving Private Ryan?' Huh? It's because we have to start small, learn the basics, before we try to save the world!"

Kurt hated it when he brought up "Saving Private Ryan." It always seemed like, ok, well I guess the conversation is over now. Bastard.

Regardless, Tom's fervent and focused training of Kurt in the ways of the Jedi Masters eventually paid off, as Kurt moved from the grocery store to the Super Bowl and the position of power of which he currently holds - if not in public perception. The public, it should be noted, currently considers Kurt a has-been, an older guy attempting to hold on to a starting job, or if that fails, to be a "mentor" to a young and apparently irresponsible spoiled brat from Tinsel Town who needs to learn a thing or two about humility and team play. But, as it related to his Jedi duties, he was in the perfect position to be effective.

And so Kurt, newly appointed Jedi Master, was faced with his current task. And it started with this drunk Raiderfan on the floor futilely groping for his missing beer.

"Typical Raiderfan," thought Kurt. He focused his mind for a second on the refrigerator. The door flew open, and a ice cold Miller Lite flew from the top shelf in the fridge through the air and into Kurt's hand. "Here, hope you like it foamy."

"Dude...." was all the Raiderfan could say.