The most interesting drunk guy at the bar is here to prepare you for this season of slaughter. The Seahawks ride again.
A bitter wind rises in the east.
Formed in the rolling billows of the Sea of Atlantis, it careens up the coast before spinning north, dirt and debris fluttering in its wake. It flows along the walls of Big Newton's Jungle Town, over the bay of The Nameless Marooners, past a populated field of green gyrocopters, and down into a skeletal city.
It slices its way through the shattered frames of a once-great metropolis, disturbing nothing but dust and bones.