Jurrell Casey is An Instrument of War.

Jake Roth-US PRESSWIRE

Abandon hope, all ye who enter his domain.

Fair warning and disclaimer: there will be some implied NSFW-ish language and a dead Jaguar player before this is over, if you have any issues with that feel free to drop me an email and I'll work to clean it up before producing the next one. If it doesn't, read, as it pleases you, and hear the tale about to be told filled with excitement, intrigue, and some really whacked out stuff.

Jurrell Casey is an instrument of war.

Literally an instrument. Call him Rap Game: Young Doomsday Tuba. Or don't. Like Jurrell Casey gives a hoot.

He was forged in the fires of Mount Etna by the God of All That Glitters and Is Also Gold to beat the freakin' brakes off of anyone who fancied taking a swing at the shrewd, crafty mothertrucker that bangs away on hot metal in the center of a volcano to get his rocks off. Long story short? Dude was, and still remains, as bad as they come because of the two oil drum sized rods hanging off his port-a-john sized torso that the rest of us call "arms". Don't call him dude because that humanizes something that is so unimaginably inhuman that it's laughable that he's even allowed to dwell on this plane of existence in the first place. The levels of suffering that this man is allowed to cause on Sunday's is a felony in only 38 states because the other 12 are too chickens*it to do something about it. Everything GWAR has ever done is based on this brute's real-life exploits. He'll cut your fingers off, and mail 'em to your mama, word to Juicy J, thanks for being the Beyonce of Three 6 Mafia. Jurrell Casey was spat out of hell, and hell doesn't want him back.

With arms like concrete rods covered in razors covered in flaming cactus needles that ooze extract from the ghost pepper, legs like pistons, and a torso that might as well coated with a fine layer of Lexan glass on steroids, Jurrell Casey is lusus naturae in its' purest form.

Jurrell Casey is a terror to behold.

Try, if your mind will even let you, to remember the first time this monster took his position at the front of the ramparts to do battle on those Elysian Fields. Weak minded jungle cats decked in sparkling teal armor wept until their ducts ran dryer than England's sense of humor. What stood before them was not from 'round these parts. Indeed, what stood before them was not one of us. Even those on our side could not smile, for they understood the condition of these zoological mistakes. If whatever God you pray to never intended jungle cats to be teal, then he damn sure never intended for this leviathan world-eater to walk the earth either. The Jaguars stood at the entrance to the tunnel that led to their final doom. While the skies in Jacksonville were clear, they could hear the unmistakable roar of thunder. But there was no lightning to accompany this thunder. Only the boom. Visors cracked, shoulder pads splintered, dust came raining down from the tunnel above their anxious heads. What servant of Lucifer waits on the other side of this stupid looking inflatable Jaguar? "Best to wait this one out." said the golden-haired rookie. It was his first rodeo and it showed. Three years later, it might as well still be his first rodeo, because it still shows, most notably whenever anyone in another colored jersey gets even remotely near him, but that's not the point, on this day, Blaine Gabbert had the Fear of God instilled in him.

Blaine's eyes weren't good, anyone who had seen him lock onto what he thought was a wide receiver and flick a ball three rows into the stands at a pretzel vendor or some idiot in a poorly constructed paper-mâchè cat head knew that, so I'd wager that he probably doubted what he saw that day. "That's funny," he thought to himself "when did we get a hill?" And then the hill lurched forward, stretching its' monstrous calf muscles. It rose to its' feet, blotting out the sun and shattering the minds of anyone dumb or unfortunate enough to be looking at it. The stadium outside shook as though the inhabitants of Hades were beating on the walls and beneath the ground. They wanted out, they wanted to see their champion kill. Blistered skin and rotting fingers clawed to reach the surface, this was their boy and they aren't the type to miss a show, besides, how else are they going to get rid of all those empty seats in Jacksonville? The Sunshine Commander's mind had no strength left to take in what he was seeing and it could not control the unyielding wave of terror that ran through his every nerve-ending. His legs failed him, his breathing became heavy, the cold sweat he'd been working up ever since he stepped onto the stage and accepted his fate as a Jaguar became unbearable, he fell to his knees and, trembling in a crumpled heap on the floor, getting a prayer for life out as quickly as it could come. His teammates knew there was no hope, no prayer, no desperate appeal for salvation, that could protect them from what they saw, every horrible detail, every inch of sinew and hellfire, pacing just outside their door. And in that moment, Blaine Gabbert's brain collapsed. Casey shifted his weight. Atlas had shrugged. He was ready for war.

The men who remained in that tunnel knew that what they felt was no longer fear and terror, it was awe. They knew that the underside of Jurrell Casey's cleat would probably be the last thing that ran through their frontal lobe, crushing their skulls and flinging gray matter into the stands. "Man, that's pretty effing punk rock."

Jack Of The River remained unconvinced. The bigger they are, the harder they fall and all that. He was deploying his troops and that was final. He had sent his hordes to wage war against their rivals from the north plenty of times before, why should this time be any different? Because, idiot, the offspring of Cthulu and a goddamn bullet train or some sh*t is about to impale your running back's soul and stick it in a goddamn Shrinky-Dink oven you freakin' goon, now drop and give me fifty before you lose your jo- oh wait, you were already fired. A bridge too far, indeed, motherf*cker.

Moving on.

As the whistle blew to signal the beginning of the game, Brad Meester looked up at the sky, a sight he knew he would probably never see again. As his head made its' way back down towards the ground, his eyes fell upon the death-engine that took its' place lined up not seven inches from his face. He sighed, gripped the ball, resigned himself to his fate, and awaited the "hike" that would end his life. The ball was snapped and that was that. No suffering, no pain, no regrets, just out like a light: a tiny, insignificant light and the first victim claimed by the swirling hurricane of pure, righteous anger that now donned the number ninety-nine.

Jurrell Case is a Tennessee Motherf*cking Titan.

Don't forget it. Sent by Gods to fight alongside his brothers in blue, and to make every punk-ass rat-bird, sparkle kitty, dolt, and...Texan, because that's a dumb enough name as it is, curse the day they got too big for their britches and stepped up to the metaphorical plate. You have been warned.

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