Foreword

In week 5 of the 2022 regular season I was tasked with taking over the Broncos blurbs for r/NFL’s Power Rankings weekly thread. 32 volunteers ranked the teams each week and wrote a short synopsis of their designated team’s previous game. Excited to contribute but never one to miss a chance to subvert a format, I decided to write microfiction instead of a synopsis every week. Each piece reflected how it felt to be a Broncos fan after each game. Given that our season was a spectacularly unexpected nightmare to experience, the blurbs quickly devolved into existential horror stories.

It’s ridiculous to have 31 game summaries and 1 horror story in the thread, and I leaned into that feeling by working the absurd into each story as much as I could manage. The blurbs are ordered by power ranking and with the Broncos consistently in the bottom 3 by halfway through the season, I felt like I had a chance to entertain an otherwise checked out group of Broncos fans. Ending that list of blurbs with an always long, sometimes funny, and unmistakably horrific story about Broncos fandom was an effective way to keep me engaged each week when I’d otherwise be finding ways to stop watching Broncos football.

All this said, I didn’t start writing blurbs until week 5, I didn’t have a strong grasp of what I wanted to accomplish until midseason, and the format required zero paragraph breaks. I’d like to take some time to go back and write blurbs for the first 5 weeks so that this series of short stories can feel more complete. I’ve written a couple of books for other people, but this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to writing one for me. Please enjoy this literary descent into madness that prevented me from succumbing to an IRL mental break.

Week 1 – The Fan

The second to last finger of the monkey’s paw curled, and it curled sharply. I wasn’t ready for it. The ancient nail of its ring finger sank uncaringly into the meat of my palm, piercing clean through to the other side. It hung from my hand like a lobster that had slipped its claw band as I yelped and resisted the reflexive urge to yank it free. The quick intake of air through teeth sounded like canned audio from my watching friends.

The onlookers wasted no time shouting advice: “Break the finger off and thread it back through!” “Use the last finger to wish for that to not happen!” “Just tear it off, we can sew the hand back together!”

Rather than acknowledge their heckling, I looked back towards the months old newspaper. Its old headline had vanished, no longer taunting me with the announcement that the Broncos had failed to sign Aaron Rodgers. Now the wrinkled front page read, “Broncos Sign Russell Wilson to 5 Year Extension” in big, bold type. The relief was a small but welcome cushion against the pulsating wound in my hand. Hah, the monkey’s paw truly did have a sense of humor. I’d wished for a franchise QB, and it had given us Russell Wilson when tonight’s game would be against the Seahawks. What a twist of fate for their franchise, they were going to have to start Geno Smith or, I realized, Drew Lock, who had apparently been part of the trade. No matter, our franchise’s doldrums were nearly at an end with this fix. One of my friends flipped on the tv for the opening kickoff while another slowly, painfully removed the wizened finger of the paw from my hand.

…The matchup wasn’t the trick. Or, I guess it was, but in a more devious way than I could’ve imagined. Two redzone fumbles. A loss in Seattle, in front of Wilson’s former fans, against Geno Smith, who posted a 120 passer rating? Perhaps worst of all, Coach Hackett chose to attempt a 64-yard field goal instead of putting the ball in Wilson’s hands, a complaint that headlined the list of reasons he had wanted out of Seattle in the first place. I managed to stop myself from slamming my newly bandaged palm into my forehead.

Thank goodness the monkey’s paw had exacted its punishment now, though. I’d been willing to suffer another SB48 as the cost of wishing for a competent QB, but an embarrassing and ironic loss in week 1 could be forgotten once we hit our stride. I relaxed slightly in my chair and reached for the paw again to consider my options for the last wish. But, as my still-tender hand touched empty space, I realized too late that I’d never gotten it back from that ‘friend’ who had dislodged it from my flesh.

Week 2 – The Passenger

“Let’s Ride!” read the billboard above the Russ Bus. I clutched my ticket firmly. The service itself could never live up to the hype and anticipation built up from all the waiting, but it was still exciting to actually be here. The world’s first rolling casino, they called it; while it basically amounted to a cruise ship on wheels but shaped like a 757 without wings, supposedly the amenities were ‘elite’ and the onboard entertainment was next level.

As I boarded the bus I was handed a map showing where we’d be cruising. The cartoonish laminated sheet sported a caricature of the eponymous QB on a horse and waving a cowboy hat, as well as a poorly scaled dotted line running up I-70 to Silverthorne, then on to Grand Junction, Salt Lake City, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. I drew an imaginary loop back through Phoenix, Albuquerque and Colorado Springs and then nodded in agreement that they’d left the return trip up to the passengers.

The foyer of the land yacht was breathtaking, to be sure. An enormous orange and blue chandelier hung impossibly high for a vehicle interior. Tufted leather banquettes flanked the reception desk, where I received the card key to my room. Up the lovingly crafted wooden staircase and around a narrow corridor, I found my door. The lock disengaged with a satisfying click, I sidled in with my bag, and as the door swung itself closed I was left speechless by the unapologetically spartan accommodations that contrasted the lavish public space.

There was hardly any room to turn around, and the only place to store my bag was under what had been advertised as a ‘full’ bed, but would hardly pass for a twin. It seemed like a bed anyway, visually at least. By feel it more resembled a laminate countertop. The stiff, bare mattress and lack of pillows certainly didn’t consider comfort over function. “Function,” I said to myself as I flicked the switch and noticed that the lights weren’t working. I made a mental note to spend as little time as possible in here. The point of the thing was to experience the amenities anyway. I put a foot up on the bed to twist my body enough to reach the door again. I turned the knob and felt the hollow mechanism fail to unlatch.

Instead of the chunky weight of the lock I felt as I entered, now it was a loose and flimsy knob. I tried again and the handle peeled itself from the door. I looked frantically for a handset phone in the room, no luck. Cellphone! No service… Well, with all the cut corners they’d certainly skimped on the soundproofing, so shouting for help was the last, best option. The sound of the engine thrumming to life underneath my room threatened my eardrums before settling into a constant, vibrating, 70 decibel grumble. My cries for help were completely drowned out in the din. Hopeless, I bruised my tailbone hopping to the edge of the bed to wait out the long, arduous trek to our next stop. Maybe someone can save me there.

Week 3 – The Laborer

I haul things. That’s the job. Get the load over there, bring this thing here. As long as I’m moving I’m getting paid. Only the sun can slow me down, dry me out.

The checks come from the soft-skins, the ones who don’t have calloused hides and don’t move around too much. No matter, the job gets done. The building goes up, the road gets paved, the pit gets dredged, the stock gets shipped. Clock in, haul, clock out, eat, drink, sleep. The soft-skins want that.

“I wish I was a soft-skin,” my brother says. No, you don’t. They’re needers, wanters. We’re doers, makers. But I learned he was right today when there was nothing to haul. A pallet sat in the usual place. It was empty, nothing on top. They watched me, waited for me to do something. “There’s nothing here,” I said.

“WORK OR STARVE,” they said in unison.

I don’t know what to do. “What do you want from me?”

“FINISH THE JOB,” they said in unison.

I looked around. All I saw was an empty pallet. No, no. There was more. Bodies were lying in the dirt. My brother, his friends. My friends. The sun beat stronger today, harder, hotter.

“WORK OR STARVE.” They were on the offense.

I picked up the closest body and laid it like brick against today’s building. One at a time I piled them up. Eventually the wall was finished.

“FINISH THE JOB.”

I closed my eyes. I knew what they meant. Why bother resisting? I laid across the top of the wall and let the sun finish the job.

Week 4 – The Arsonist

I saw God the other day. By the stadium, during Raiders week. He was helping a fan who was all alone. He had wings and he floated down, and only I could see Him! He probably came to help us beat the Raiders – his body was all silver, but he was held up by black wings.

When He climbed up on top of the stadium and floated away, I made sure nobody else would stand there. The usuals were traveling for the game, so it was a right time, the ordained time! When I left, the parking lot was empty. It was getting cold, but I had stayed warm.

When I came back, the police had already been here. They were making sure it was a safe place to build now. They had left boundary tape to make sure I wouldn’t be bothered while I built the church. I should’ve held a hammer in my hands, but the only tools I had were matches. I should’ve been in the city of devils, that’s where God would be and I’m supposed to help Him. We’re supposed to purge the devils.

But I have to wait here until everyone is back. They’ll come back and help me build the church. Then the devils won’t be able to hurt us here, because we’ll be saved by the God with the black wings.

Week 5 – The Spectator

I’ve watched each primetime game like a sleep deprived man welcoming a fresh nightmare. Our record is the equivalent of a can of axe body spray emptied over the unwashed crotch of our performance – everybody knows we stink. Can’t you just let us rot outside the view of such a big audience? We can’t even keep fans in their seats for overtime. Our games are an eyesore amidst an over-planted field of unwatchable Thursday Night broadcasts.

I’ve been cursed to watch this team for seven seasons of confused, misguided play. No change or improvement can shake the burden of mediocrity that is it’s cross to bear in the exhausting trek across each excruciating week. The final destination is irrelevance, and each stop along the way is a disappointment. Alas, no force can turn my gaze away. This jumbled mess of play must be seen, must be spectated lest it collapse in on itself from lack of structure and begin absorbing all visible light around it as would a dying star.

I will perform my duty diligently. The academic exercise of describing exactly how each consecutive game accomplishes the goal of being less watchable than it’s predecessor keeps me occupied, focused even. As this team resolves to produce as little entertaining on-field product as it possibly can, I will be here to experience it so that you don’t have to.

Week 6 – The Cryptozoologist

Hypothesis: The Broncos are a football team. While I haven’t discovered any evidence of this personally, I’ve been assured that they may exist, or have existed, and played the sport.

A premier contributor in the cryptozoology field who specializes in the study of extinct beings has shared with me a blurry photograph of what appears to be Russell Wilson scoring a touchdown – he believes this may still occur rarely today, though I’m skeptical there’s any truth to that. In search of the mythical football team “The Broncos,” I have eschewed the methods of conventional science in order to produce any shred of proof of their existence.

Firsthand accounts tell of their mating cry, “Broncos Country, Let’s Ride!” describing it as a joyful outburst that may both precede a football game or follow after a ‘successful play.’ An advertisement portraying an artist’s best recreation of what ‘DangerRuss Wilson’ might look like has circulated on social media. While broad cryptozoological consensus maintains that The Broncos native habitat is the greater Denver, CO area, and that they may in fact have even visited the stadium that primarily hosts the city’s decorated lacrosse team, the only archeological signs I’ve found so far match more closely to a ‘dove field’ than a practice facility they may have once used.

What’s more promising, the International Society of Cryptozoology has hypothesized that The Broncos may soon appear in London, England. Again, healthy skepticism is recommended given the distance from their generally agreed upon habitat; I do not recommend anyone arrive in London with high expectations of experiencing a sighting of The Broncos. This cryptid is most likely extinct, if it ever existed at all.

One sarcastic interviewee I exchanged emails with posited that The Broncos went extinct because they couldn’t Hackett. This spelling error could just as likely be a clue to their demise as it could be a half-hearted joke from a skeptic who gave up on ever proving the existence of this cryptozoological marvel.

I will continue my search in London, and look forward to sharing my cautious optimism for a sighting with anyone else who decides the effort is worth their time. Entry dated 10/18/22, submitted to the Journal of Football Team Rankings by mentally-declining Broncos researcher Alex_Demote.

Week 7 – The Starship Captain

Captain’s log, stardate 10/25/20,022. We are approaching our destination after 18,000 years of hyper-sleep. From the glass-domed bridge I can see the ancient city of Denver hanging above me like a ruined chandelier nestled amongst the foothills of the snow-capped Rocky Mountains. This city, once home to millions of lives, already showed signs of decay at the time of our departure, the catastrophically de-stabilizing year of 2022.

I would count myself among the lucky to escape the Broncopocalypse, were it not my sworn duty to return here, to the site that cultivated the poison which ultimately doomed our fragile species. The unholy cocktail of poor playcalling, inept clock-management and wholesale disregard for achieving a winning record was viewed by many as the final nudge needed to push the Doomsday Clock to midnight. Though some initially feared that the Broncos’ QB was simply too DangerRuss, the failure of the Rise of Rypien made it clear that the true danger lurked in the uninspired nature of the offense – a unit which was by its very nature so bland, so life-sucking that it’s mere existence threatened – no, promised – to tear the fabric of society apart.

It started with the Fire Hackett riots and ultimately culminated with the rise of the WalMartians, a subsect of neo-fans so radicalized by the team subreddit that they would rather see life on Earth extinguished than watch another Broncos game. Their cries of “Broncos Country, Let’s Die” sent shivers down my spine. The crew of this spacefaring vessel watched helplessly from our coffin-like, soon-to-seal cryo-pods as flames began to engulf the first of the world’s major cities.

Though I could darkly reminisce upon the fall of humanity further, I must soon return to this planet’s surfa—OH. OH NO, it can’t—the Broncos, they’re…still, I can’t call it ‘playing’ football but…crew, DO NOT look directly at the product on that field! We have to obstruct our view of the Bronc–Helmsman? Put down the protonic disperser, what are you [frantic screeching] Stop this madness immed… [inhuman wailing, echoed; unable to extrapolate origin] FUCK. FUCK! WHY, BRONCOS COUNTRY? HOW COULD Y-[unintelligible gurgling] {END TRANSMISSION}

Week 8 – The Hype

Russell Wilson is a MURDERER, and he doesn’t just kill HIS FANS. That sickening Jags team was in London to die, and they died INTERNATIONALLY. It’s still Sunday morning IN THIS HOUSE, BABY. Welcome to BRONCOS COUNTRY.

Nobody knows where BRONCOS COUNTRY IS, but everybody knows they invented Winning. I’ll DIE before I stop loving Broncos Country. You’re going to have to surgically remove my life force from my bones while I watch the 4th quarter because it’s the 2-minute warning and we’re down by TWO SCORES.

The Broncos are as American as air conditioning, crumbling infrastructure, Single-Family homes, and a parking lot full of Red, Ford F-350 Super Dutys. My coach threw Lombardi Trophies at me at practice and I went to bed A FAN. Well, now I’M the coach and I make my OWN TROPHIES.

Sometimes I watch The Broncos from the front seat of my Red, Air Conditioned, Ford F-350 SuperDuty. Sometimes I wonder IF I HAVE A PROBLEM – but today, I KNOW I have a W.

Week 9 – The Detective

Bye weeks in this city are a drag, and they aren’t made any better when I get customers. It was hardly 9am when Hackett rapped his knuckles against that fogged glass that reads “u/Alex_Demote, private eye.” I made a half-hearted grunt that he took to mean ‘come in.’ Nate was an old friend – well, I’d known him less than half a season, and definitely didn’t count him a friend. He stomped in and shook the rain off his umbrella directly over the shag carpet.

“That how you make yourself at home?” I asked him, letting my feet down from the desk and flicking on the lamp. He eyed me that way he does when he feels the flames of the hot seat under him. “Take the stick outta yer ass, Dick.” I took my time with a long drag from my cigarette. “It’s a job title, not an insult. What brings your sorry skin here?” Nate tossed a damp copy of the Denver Post onto my desk – the headline read ‘BRONCOS COUNTRY, GOODBYE’ and had his dopey mug pictured underneath. I snagged it with two fingers and slid it into the trash can. “Yeah, word on the street is you’ll be out soon.”

Nate squirmed out of his raincoat and plopped into my ratty, intentionally uncomfortable guest chair. “I need you to find out who’s talking to the press about the Walton-Penner folks wanting me gone. We won in London and didn’t lose at home this week.” He pronounced Walton-Penner like a middle-aged mother of 3 reading a name-brand cereal she can’t afford; a grimy mix of distain, desire, and frustration. I looked into his eyes. What was there looked more like a scared rat than a football coach. “Bye weeks don’t count as a win, Nate. I’ll take the case, but not cuz I like you. I’ll be in touch next week.”

Hackett nodded, scooped his paper from the trash, whipped his coat back on and trudged out the way he came. I waited a few beats, watched through the window as he hailed a cab, and dialed up my guy at the Post. “Yeah, he was just here. Rattled his cage with that one. Keep the pressure on, I’m sure we’ll get him out of town soon.” I placed the phone back on its receiver and my feet back on the desk. It was nice seeing the young coach sweat. Maybe this week isn’t such a drag after all.

Week 10 – The Prisoner

Content Warning: Body horror, insects, mutilation, Broncos coaching. Read at your own risk.

As I woke, the smell clawed its way into my brain like a scorpion looking for shade. I’d only fallen asleep for the last quarter of the game – we were only behind by 4 and we had the ball… Through the dim light it looked almost like the walls were vibrating. Blood-crusted mounds of nameless creatures littered the room around me. Oh, merciful Christ, how did I end up in this pit?

Something slithered across my calf, and then up the outside of my thigh – I instinctively jerked to get it off my skin but felt only my wrists made contact with my hip. Wh—my hands! Panic almost eclipsed my consciousness as I realized I had no lips, tongue, or teeth to annunciate my horror. The scream that escaped my body reverberated as an inhuman groan. Uncountable sets of legs continued to climb across me. Writhing, struggling, proved useless as more creatures fell from above and began to spill from my over-full my mouth and bury my body. I shut my eyes and begged for my mind to blink away.

From overhead I heard a voice. “Needs another L .” There, above me, peering down into this depraved hole, was a man. Someone handed him another bucket. He spoke again. “You really bought that winning culture shit, huh?” As he emptied its contents my eyesight was slowly, completely obstructed. At the entrance to the pit, Hackett set down his last bucket and kicked closed a hatch labeled ‘Broncos Country, We Lied.’

Week 11 – The Crewmate

As a crewmate aboard the SMS Broncos Country I’d become accustomed to choppy seas. The rough water dulls the senses over time, same as it erodes rock. Captain Hackett, coward that he is, lets First Mate Evero manage the crew during foul weather while he hides in his cabin. Today, though, the sea would be calm were it not for the black flag growing closer from the south.

“Ready cannons!” Yelled helmsman Wilson. Gunners ran the powder and munitions up onto deck. “Whose sails are those?” A muffled voice asked from inside the captain’s quarters. Watchman Kubiak lowered the spyglass from his eye and shouted from the crow’s nest: “Traitor Pirate McDaniels approaches, ready the pitch!” The crew exchanged glances. Pitch meant one thing – we weren’t going to flee, we were going to try to burn them down!

—

“Prepare to be boarded!” Our initial salvo had failed to deter the scoundrel raiders who hunted us. An unwashed man, his face painted with black eyeliner, swung onto deck and struck me hard with the back of his blade. His expression was empty, as if he’d long ago felt the last pleasure of battle and drew blood now only to serve his crew.

Dazed, I braced against the stern rail. My wandering hand found a torch, hot with pitch-fed flame. I swung unsteadily toward my foe. The sounds of my crewmates sloppily felled by pirate blades was a maddening din in my ears. My torch was easily batted aside, and in an instant the cur had buried his blade in my side.

—

The torched wreckage of the SMS Broncos Country, that which hadn’t sank yet, that is, played coffin for my half-bled crewmates.

The traitor McDaniels, having served with us before turning pirate, knew all too well how to exploit the weaknesses in our vessel; no doubt he sabotaged the ship himself in some ways those few years ago. The putrid stench of burning pitch and blood clashed with the taste of salt water was my arms lost purchase on the driftwood that had kept me afloat.

As I sank, the sunlight fading from the surface of the uncaring ocean, my last thought was of the weak voice behind the cabin door and the captain who couldn’t lead his crew.

Week 12 – The Omen

I watched the prosperity of a nameless people undone by a forgotten king. I stood by as rushing water took the lives of playing children. Wind carved through rock across uncounted centuries, and when the final precarious stone was toppled I was there to see it.

My influence is potent and it reaches all things. While I feel neither remorse nor joy, my mark upon the fabric of life is indelible. Hope is not my enemy – it is the canvas upon which my pernicious brush performs its work. Joy exists in a fixed amount; for each measure of it so too must there be an equivalent portion of Sorrow, by whose agency I am driven.

Time alone may lessen the stain of my touch. I originate from a place no light escapes, the one place where darkness glows so fiercely as to divert nearly all eyes. The misfortune of those who cannot fly from my nest is greater than any low fate I have gazed upon through timeless eons.

My name is Failure, my home is Mile High Stadium and I, over Broncos Country, Preside.

Week 13 – The Radio Host

The sun is obstinant. Do not make eye contact with the sun, you will only encourage it. Welcome to Broncos Country; I’m your rapidly aging correspondent, Alex_Demote.

This morning, an ear-splitting howl emanated from the copse of Aspen behind the practice field. Those in the know will recall that Aspen trees employ a connected root system that sprouts and grows from underground, essentially meaning that an Aspen forest can be considered a single tree system. Those even further in the know will recognize the sound they made as they grabbed six of the Broncos practice squad players and dragged them underneath the soil to nourish their shared roots. Coach Hackett noted the occurrence at the podium this afternoon, stating that “those guys weren’t going to make the team anyway” and “I bet those trees could block better than our O-Line.”

Today marks the fourth week of the sun’s refusal to set. Dove Valley has not experienced a sunset in almost a month, and when asked for any potential reason for this, groundskeepers explained that sunsets are orange and blue – The sun god, they said, is a Broncos fan and has become so thoroughly disgusted by the team’s performance that he has halted any further display of the team’s colors on the evening sky until they, quote, “get it together, man.”

This item of today’s Broncos Report is a reminder from the Dove Valley janitorial staff. They ask players to ensure they have taken their required medications prior to entering the facility in order to avoid any additional accidents. Earlier this week, K.J. Hamler reportedly forgot his dose and experienced an ‘event’ in the film room, resulting in the room becoming incorporeal. Management has run out of discretionary funds for correcting these accidents, leaving janitors to take the alternative route to their storage closet through the Bleeding room. This has been a major inconvenience for the staff, though one janitor remarked that running blindly across the gore-soaked carpet was helping him “get his steps in.”

Lastly, the game report: A life-force sacrifice was performed on fans during the game by two wide, acrid smelling men wearing only horse masks and orange singlets. This appeared to have no effect on the performance of either team or the outcome of the game. One of the horse-masked men addressed the newly anemic crowd, loudly proclaiming “Broncos Country, Curse Applied” but was met only with groans and quiet sobbing.

That’s all for this week from Dove Valley. Keep your eyes peeled for next week’s special report, wherein yours truly will finally interview the Broncos’ hotly contested next head coaching prospect, Vance Joseph.

Week 14 – The Survivor

The gates were so heat-bleached and battered that I couldn’t hardly recognize the place. It’d been about 7 years since I’d been through these parts but my memory of it was a far cry from the sorry state it sat in now. A line of people, arguably in worse shape than the gates themselves, queued along the shaded portion of the cracked ground outside. I located the back of the line, poking out from the shade and into the glare of the sun. I collected myself and ushered my caravan to where we’d wait for our turn to be processed.

We traveled here with our lives dependent on entry through these gates. It was the only place beyond the smothering, droughted touch of this weather we’ve started calling “The Season,” a wicked perversion of this time of year that usually brought a bountiful harvest, feasting, and joy. These days though, the land was scorched. Crops lay dead upon parched soil, many of my fellows’ remains littered the trail after their dehydrated bodies gave in to thirst or exposure, and the eager smiles anticipating the autumn, which were so common only a few months ago, had dried up along with Mile High’s rivers and lakes.

The attendant returned our papers with a series of scathing red marks. The bloody ink stabbed me with its words: “Broncos Country, Denied.” I felt as if my mouth, already dry from the migration, had been filled with sand. I choked on a cough. Quick enough, the back of my throat was splitting open from the force of a coughing fit I couldn’t suppress. Guards motioned for what remained of my caravan to clear the area, and half-carried me along with them until we were back out in the oppressive sunlight. After regaining some strength I pulled from their grasp.

I helped the able-bodied make camp, all the while feeling my blood boil beneath my burned skin. I’ll show them. If we can’t be embraced by the safety of the Playoff Plains, then everyone should be left out in this suffocating heat. “Don’t bother prepping for a trip home,” I said to my hopeless kin, my voice drier than the withered growth beneath my boots. Some others had a similar notion and the stiff clicking of readied firearms sounded from a few wagons.

Across my chapped lips crawled the smile I’d been missing. “I reckon these other fine folks waiting in line have enough supplies to keep us whole until winter.”

Week 15 – The Disease

Day 5 – I didn’t watch the game. I tried to but I fell asleep in the first quarter. I’ve written this entry three or four times and each iteration is trash. I’m writing this one at 4:42am as a way to distract from the sandpaper cough and razorblade sneeze that have periodically ripped me awake.

There is no way for me to enjoy a Broncos game without emancipating myself from the protective enclosure of cynicism that shields me from emotional damage. I refuse to acknowledge any amount of excitement that this consolation prize of a game could have elicited within me had I been able to watch it live. It is not healthy to feel joy. Neither is it healthy that when I blow my nose, my equilibrium is disrupted to the point that I’m temporarily lost in vertigo. I am an avatar of blight, producing disease and discharge in service of the chaotic pursuit of bacterial proliferation.

An incomprehensible slurry of Broncos-colored language oozes out of me during misguided writing sessions, which occur in some time-dislocated pocket of my dance with this virus. I endure endless dripping from my nose, and I swallow a syrup to slow the combustion engine in my throat. I am infected with a sickness more malignant even than Broncos fandom, and I surrender myself fully to it’s control.