Week 4 Death Blossom!

Lately, I've been playing a lot of Call of Duty 4. That shit is badass. Last Sunday, I no-scoped Abdul751 while falling out of a three-story window. During my post-snipe celebration, I slipped on a beer bottle and fell, hitting my head on the coffee table. Through a deep haze of ominous theme music and cough syrup mixed with codine, I experienced a vision:

"Death is a primitive concept; I prefer to think of them as battling evil, in another dimension!"

This confused and angered me. What is this scaly prick doing in my house? Why does he talk like Yoda, except in complete sentences? More importantly, does he know about the bank job? I had to take action. Right after I picked up the shotgun I keep stashed under the couch, I searched the condo in for the intruder. No scaly prick. Oh well.

This week, I miraculously defeated chronic masturbator and known pedophile Ryan in a hard-fought battle for the history books. His band of obese stupor heroes, known collectively as Fat Spiderman, crawled back to their parent's basements and quietly maturbated to Kirsten Dunst's paparrazi photo collage. DIE. CUNTS.

Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player that has failed me, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your letters and files baked into cakes during my lengthy stay in a Federal prison.
This week, my victim is Ryan Grant. He fucking fumbled, crawled for less than 50 yards and basically got issued his fucking extra light loafers to walk in the gay pride parade. This twat still has not found the endzone this season. That's why his fucking card has been pulled.

First, I have to finish my beer.

There, all done. Next, I text my good friend, Xenia Zirgavna Onotop. She tells me she's just finished squeezing the life out of some fatass general with her thighs of steel. Then she flew his prized experimental helicopter the fuck out of that bitch. Oh, that Xenia! What a minx! I wire her the usual payment: $100,000 euros and a few free carwash tickets and the Spit 'N Shine.

[int. Packers' steam room]

[Xenia enters wearing only a towel]

XENIA: (takes off towel) Oops.

RYAN GRANT: (looks up from GQ magazine) You're not Manuel!

XENIA: Are you as strong as you are observant, comrade?

RYAN GRANT: huh? What the? Get off me, bitch!

XENIA: (squeezing him around the head with her legs) MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!

Ryan Grant's head is crushed, filling the steam room with an audible crunch sound. Xenia uses his sweaty towel to clean his useless, inbred brain matter off herself and giggles at Tom Brady's picture on the cover of the bloodstained GQ magazine. Far, far away, I nervously pinch the ends of my new mustache, plotting my next moves to conquer 11th place...