Inside The Mind of a Bills Mafia Fan

Image SourceArticle image



Steam billows through my nostrils in the cold air. I issue a guttural grunt, reach back, and pinch my underwear out from the crack of my ass.

I look down. Beneath me, the enemy. Soft, matte top. Four sturdy steel legs. Used for poker games, shmorgash boards, baked-good sales. Beneath that, cold icy blacktop.

I look up. Above me, Odin himself. I point two finger-guns up, showing the big man that I am always thinking of him.

I run my hands down my chest. My fingers tangle and dance with my exposed chest hair. My palms simultaneously brush against my nipples. Hard as rocks. I double check to see they didn’t cut deep gashes in my palms. Thankfully, they’re unmared.

I issue a bellow. It is time. The Bills are calling from deep within. I look down from the top of my Ford F250 truck over to the Coleman miniature charcoal grill to my left. The small of Bratwurst wafts up and tickles my nostrils. It is going to be a good day.

I issue a second bellow. The Mafia is calling. I lift my Elbow up to Odin, like the mighty trunk of Yggdrasil cutting through the realms. My hand pats my fleshy, saggy tricep. It happens naturally, no thought involved. A primordial motion.

A third bellow escapes my lips. Squatting down, my legs are coile. Two anacondas beneath me, tight, ready to strike.

The powers that have been resting deep within me since last season are awakened. I spring skyward, towards Valhalla. I am coming, Father. Are you proud of the son that you begot?

At my apex, I strike. Twisting in the air, a ballerina without an orchestra. I fall fast, I fall true. I hit my target. Pain rips through my body and my mind. All I know is pain. I have no thoughts, I have no existence. The sweet, sweet embrace of the Earth is the only thing that exists in this moment.

“Go Bills”, I whisper.

I feel a wetness at my groin. I reach down, and confirm.

A single tear runs down my cheek. I have failed you, FATHER.

I bring my hand to my nostrils, and inhale deep.

To my surprise, it is not the bitter scent of urine. It is the sweet, musky aroma of ejaculate.

A smile breaks across my face.

“GO BILLS”, I scream heavenward.

The tormented shatter of the table rings through the empty playground. I am now prepared for game day.

Who Wrote This Crap?

Author image
Pope | @MelloFelloYello
Did you play on my drumset?