"Ah, Seattle. My home during happier times," Quinn thinks to himself. There were so many good memories. He coached up a number of players on the best defense in the league. A group of players so fast and physical they won the Super Bowl.
"Great times," he whispers so softly even Quinn isn't sure he actually said it. He enters his hotel room and locks the deadbolt with a solid thunk. He nervously fumbles with the chain lock. He scans his room. Quinn checks under the bed. Behind the shower curtain. The lock on the windows. He finishes up by sliding the room chair underneath the door handle and opens up a bottle of Fireball from the minifridge.
"Time to get fired up." Half of an airplane-sized bottle in, Quinn starts thinking about the Seattle defense. Back to early 2015 where he was the top coaching candidate. Teams were desperate to sign him. He was wined and dined. But it was always the Falcons. They money was great. They offered roster control. They even agreed to add mini pizzas to the cafeteria.
They just never mentioned what lived in the secretive indoor practice facility in Flowery Branch. Quinn began drifting off, his mind full of rugby tackles, and not an unstoppable deity with an insatiable thirst for blood. He wouldn't let this nightmare keep him up another week.
Suddenly those familiar red eyes fly into his consciousness like a lightning bolt.
COME HOME, DAN, AND BRING ME ANOTHER SACRIFICE.
It can't be. He's 2,200 miles away from the mysterious bird god. It is speaking directly to him from it's home in Flowery Branch before it finally adorns its new temple, the Mercedes-Benz stadium. Quinn knows exactly what he must do. He has only a few options for escape, and each decidedly worse than the prior: death, Arkansas, or Tampa Bay.
He must again sacrifice a member of the Atlanta Falcons and see if they survive the bird's trial by fire. The result, many things with the Falcons, will be controlled entirely by the ancient, metal bird. Each week one person must be blamed for the team's failing, and another most take the glory for their performance. Quinn leaves his hotel room, and quietly knocks on another door on the floor.
"Hey, did I wake you? Sorry, but can you help me out real quick? We gotta run by the branch."
You just can't argue with 4-1.
What you can argue against is Mohamed Sanu's $32.5 million contract in light of his egregious fumble to T.J. Ward and otherwise completely pedestrian stats through the entire season. Sanu is really more of a third wide receiver. It isn't his fault he's paid like a very good number two, but that problem can only be solved by the violent falcon god. If the sacrifices pleases him, Quinn might have the chance to beat his old team next week.
Thomas Dimitroff, Arthur Blank, and Rich McKay read from the sacred texts. Their voices match in tone and cadence. Is it Greek? Pig Latin? Egyptian? No one can say for sure. Well, unless someone who recognized one of those languages heard it.
Who wins player of the week? If you could have bet on this in Vegas, the odds would have been so great any bet would have made you a millionaire. That's right. Out of nowhere comes Vic Beasley.
The pass rush has been talked about for so long but never seen that many started to think it never existed. The mythical but storied pass returned tonight, thanks to Beasley. 8 tackles, 3.5 sacks, 2 forced fumbles, and one breakout game for Atlanta's young pass rusher. This is the dominant game fans have been wanting to see, and Beasley delivered against the Super Bowl champs. Bravo. Reminiscent of Jon Abraham, Beasley took over the game.
Quinn has made good selections. The falcon is pleased. It moves to rest underneath the Falcons practice stadium until next week.