The alarm clock wakes Lee from a deep, dreamless sleep. There's no need to dream when your awesomeness in real life would trump anything you could possibly conjure in your subconscious. He opens his eyes and stares at the buzzing clock. His piercing gaze sends a wave of terror through through the little appliance and it hurls itself against the wall, shattering into a hundred pieces. Choosing suicide over the wrath of Mr. Lee. Understandable.
Sean swings his legs off the bed and grumbles his displeasure. Pulling the sheets back, he examines the rusty nails he had been sleeping on and makes a mental note to have them sharpened. Barely even felt them burroughing into his skin. Has a game today and really needed a good night's sleep. Not a big deal. He'll get over it.
Picks up his cell phone and calls Chuck Norris. Asks the martial arts champion what it's like to go through life as a pansy. Chuck calls Lee a heartless bully and hangs up the phone in tears. Sean smirks and and shakes his head in disgust. Wimp.
Gets to his feet and stretches. Bones creak and muscles ache. Lee winces and groans at the stabs of pain. Just kidding. His body's a machine, incapable of pain. A finely tuned weapon of destruction. Unfortunately, even wrecking balls need maintenance. After evacuating his bowels and cleaning himself with steel wool, Lee looks at himself in the mirror. Pulls a blowtorch from under the sink and burns the stubble from his face. Satisfied at the closeness after rubbing his chin, Sean proceeds to scrub his teeth with a wire brush dipped in Acetone and gargles with a healthy gulp of battery fluid. Swallowing it, of course.
Steps into the shower and dumps a bucket of muriatic acid over his head. Lee thoroughly scrubs his body with the carcass of a porcupine he killed on his last camping trip. Bare hands and teeth. Didn't need anything else. He hangs the rotting beast on a hook in the shower and dries himself with the blowtorch from under the sink.
Goes back to his bedroom and throws on a T-shirt and some shorts. Strolls into the hall and pauses at the top of the staircase. Then, suddenly, the linebacker hurls himself down the stairs. Tumbling head-over-heels, Lee smashes against everything on the way down. He bashes holes in the sheetrock. Spindles and shards of broken bannister fill the air. Stair treads crack and splinter under the impact. At the bottom, he stands and dusts himself off, looks up, surveying the damage. Sean shrugs and goes outside to get his newspaper.
He tosses the paper on the kitchen table and pours himself a big bowl of broken glass and old lawnmower parts. Sean covers the bits with pus he squeezed from that wierd thing growing on his Uncle Sal's hairy back. He spoons it into his mouth, crunching away as he chuckles and giggles at the latest exploits of Marmaduke and Ziggy. Licking the bowl clean, Lee places it in the sink and grabs his keys and gym bag.
On his way out the door, Sean calls Chuck Norris and wishes him luck in the up-coming pansy-of-the-year contest. Norris, predictably, bursts into tears, cursing Lee for stealing his crown of awesomeness. Sean sighs. Antagonizing Chuck Norris has become boring.
As Lee heads for his car, a familiar face trots up to greet him. Buster, a neighborhood pooch, runs circles around Seans feet. He squats down and scratches the dog behind it's ears. Buster looks at him inquisitively. "Sorry, pal," Lee explains, "we don't play Philly today. But when we do, I'll be sure to send Vick your regards." Buster accepts the explanation with a tail wag and bolts down the sidewalk, out of sight.
Lee pulls into a convenience store around the corner from his house and enters the establishment. Two men holding pistols stand in front of the clerk. They spin on Sean, threateningly. He slowly lifts his sunglasses and glares into the eyes of the would-be robbers. One urinates in his pants and faints. Falling face-first into a barrel of spicey pickles. The other shudders violently and collapses in a heap, muttering the chorus of Judas Priest's "Electric Eye" over and over in cracked tones. Lee lowers his sunglasses and casually takes a Zero bar from the shelf and pours himself a Cherry Icee. He tosses a ten spot on the counter as he leaves and tells the stunned clerk to keep the change.
Parks his car in the player's lot at the stadium and Jerry Jones is waiting to open Lee's door for him. "How are we doing today, Sean?" the Cowboys' owner asks meekly.
"What did I tell you about that, Jerry?"
"Sorry. Mr. Lee."
"Here", Sean takes off his sunglasses and hands them to Jerry. "Make yourself useful."
"Yes, sir, Mr.Lee." Jerry takes a cloth from his pocket and cleans the lenses of the sunglasses. Hands them back to the linebacker then asks, "Can I get your bag for you?"
"What do you think?" Jerry jumps and grabs the gym bag from the back seat. "Put the bag in my locker and fetch me a coffee."
"Will do, Mr. Lee. You can count on me."
Sean grunts. "Don't get over-confident, Jones. Last week you stuck my bag in the hot tub and brought me a cup of vinegar with a hair in it."
Jerry sheepishly stares at the ground. "I'll do better, Mr. Lee."
"I doubt it."
Sean leaves the owner to his tasks and heads into the stadium. DeMarcus Ware meets him at the door to the lockerroom and hands Sean a warm, moist towel and his flip-flops. "Did you have Carter clean them like I asked?" Lee asks Ware, holding up the shoes.
"Yes, sir," DeMarcus answers. "Bruce took care of it."
"A bird dropped a prize on my car on the way in," Sean begins. "Have Bruce wash it before he suits up. His North Carolina education should be able to handle that. Maybe. And tell Romo to do something about his ears..... or I will. They're freakin' disturbing."
"Gotcha, boss," Ware bows his obedience.
"Begone," Lee dismisses the All-Pro with an indifferent wave of his hand.
Sean Lee sits at his locker in full gear, waiting for the word to take the field. One more time, he calls Chuck Norris. Tells the former lord of awesomeness to make sure he's limbered up. Because when Lee's done with the game, he's going to come over and give Chuck a first-hand view of his own sphincter. Norris weeps. Lee sighs.
At last, the word comes. Sean Lee's final thoughts before taking the field are to remind himself not to kill the guy wearing #81. Golden Tate doesn't play for the Bucs. On second thought, it doesn't matter. Hell, might as well just kill everybody anyway. Good luck, Tampa.