And as the bleachers grew cold beyond the windchill, fans of the green & feverish-yellow drunkenly stumbled out of the ramshackle Lambeau Stadium and into a world where they be less known as the Pack, and more the team twice failed against the Lions of Detroit. The fallout gave way to hot air leaving the entire state of Wisconsin, a rainbow arcing over the darkest corner of the universe, and smiles of relief unexpectedly washing over the general human populous of earth.
Alas, upon the other side of the world’s rejoice: Bakhtiari’s injury-riddled body was immediately shipped to the mountains of Ingolstadt where a scientist would seek to create a 2nd Frankenstein, Dom Capers quietly texted God in the corner of the locker room to be mercifully acquitted of his sins and released from hell, and Aaron Rodgers hit a patch of ice on his way speeding home from the game. Rodgers’ car suffered little to no damage in the collision, alas he declared the car to be totaled and blamed it too on Anthony Barr.
The garbage team’s defense was carried home by Blake Martinez. He deduced because he had done it for the entire season, why not one last time. Once dropped off at the nursery for petulant man-children, Ha Ha Clinton-Dix gave Martinez an obscene gesture and then blamed him for his shortcomings. Martinez grinned, and thought (just as he had the entire season whenever his eyes fell upon Clinton-Dix), “Not even the Browns deserve the likes of you”.
Although the last game be long finished, Tank Commander Hundley was still running from the Detroit defensive line, making intricate Fran-Tarkenton like cuts up and down the field. There stood the last unfortunate fan to leave the trash stadium: an elderly white man dawning a silver mustache, deep in the stands looking upon Hundley’s poor body still going through the motions. The elderly white man’s mind wandered into a theory that perhaps Hundley never actually knew he was playing football- or that a game was happening- or that he was a quarterback, and that perhaps Hundley just began running whenever he was told the game had begun. “Perhaps” the elderly white man murmured to himself, releasing a gust of warm breath into the dry frigid air.
Upon exiting the dumpster stadium, the elderly white man tripped on the last step and fell to the ground. Instead of pulling himself up, he lay there and look at the coldest Wisconsin sky. The Wild Turkey pulsing through his arteries numbed the pain of the cold, and equally allowed his mind to drift into a state of psychosis and delusion. “If this be it, then take me now, Lord”. A defunct silhouette of a gentleman in the distance appeared from the shadows- seemingly from nowhere, almost as if darkness had cradled him in her arms as her own, and then decided to walk him into the light.
“God? Is it you? What be this evil of non-post season hell you bestow upon the great land of Green Bay?” shouted the elderly white man, now strewn about the cold ground. The gentleman stopped in his tracks, and produced a bottle from the musty inner-stitches of his long trenchcoat. The bottle, like him, seemed to appear from pure darkness and suddenly into view. Taking a heartily long pull that would put even a resident of Oshkosh, WI into unconsciousness, the gentleman grew more resolute in the death drink.
“Speak to me!” demanded the elderly white man. His silver mustache now quivering with fear of who this dimly lit figure could be.
“As the last fan standing upon the last game of this fair season, I grant you but one wish to aide your band of garbage-green and stale-mustard-yellow miscreants for next season. Aye, old man. Wish but carefully, for the universe will counteract whatever it is that you set into motion.”, whispered the gentleman.
“Ted Thompson! Man in black, I beg of you! See to it that Ted Thompson never take the helm of the Pack again!” cried the elderly white man.
“Your wish is granted, old man. A bit of caution as I earlier mentioned. The universe will balance this request… and if the Vikings are Super Bowl victorious this year, blaming yourself shall be your only recourse. You must live with that, and you alone.”, beamed the gentleman.
“Mercy, man in black! Mercy! Who be you, if not God?” cried the elderly white man, now pulling himself up.
“I be the harbinger of loss, season-ending circumstance, negative fucks given, and loose cannonism.”, quipped the gentleman.
“Jay Cutler???” the elderly white man questioned.
And upon the annunciation of even his name, the gentleman, like the Packers post-season hopes, faded…
… into the darkness.