The Saga of Darnold
After the Texans game, Sam Darnold approached CJ Stroud, who had been sacked five times, to offer some advice.
"Stop taking those hits," Darnold said, giving Stroud a pat on the chest. "You're too mid to be taking all that punishment, lil bro. You don't have the jaw for it, and that lil goatee you got ain't fooling anyone."
Stroud tried to brush it off, but Darnold pulled him in closer. "Listen, man, everything you’ve got is already inside you—and it’s not much. You're gonna be OK in this league. If you stop taking those hits, you might even be on Andy Dalton's level one day. Browns Joe Flacco tops."
Love, visibly frustrated after a rough performance that saw him throw three interceptions in the Packers' loss, was clearly wearing the weight of the defeat when he met with Darnold at mid-field after the Packers loss. Sensing the younger quarterback’s disappointment, Darnold offered some words of advice.
“Don’t get down on yourself, man,” Darnold said, placing a hand on Love’s shoulder. “You did everything you could out there. But if it helps, you never really had a shot. No matter what you did out there today, I was alway gonna torch you.”
Love, slightly taken aback, but appreciating the humor, nodded. "I appreciate that, brother." He reached out for a second dap and another embrace, feeling a sense of camaraderie.
But just as their hands connected, Darnold swiftly pushed him away, a smirk on his face. “Whoa, slow down, man. Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. You thought you were getting two embraces from the King of the North? Nah, it ain’t like that, man. That first hug? That was for the cameras. You’re not getting another one. Ever.”
Love chuckled, thinking it was over, but Darnold got even more serious. “Save your emotional energy, bro. You’ve got a long night ahead in your man-cave, watching my tape. And the more you watch, the clearer it will become. You’re never gonna be on my level. Now put on a smile and let’s walk off like everything’s cool. I’m tired of lookin at ya.”
After their game in London yesterday, Aaron Rodgers and Sam Darnold met at midfield for a brief, yet memorable exchange.
Rodgers, visibly shaken and clearly in need of a dark room and some psychedelics to get better at football again, extended his hand.
"Sam, what you're doing this season is really inspiring. You’re in good hands with Kevin, and I’m excited to see you take that next step."
Darnold, smirking at the compliment, replied, "Thanks... Was it Aaron? You played quarterback today too, and no one can take that away from you, even though you did it pretty badly."
Rodgers, smiling but unsure if Darnold was joking, searched his eyes for any sign of sarcasm, and found only pity. Darnold leaned in, his expression blank.
"They said I’d be seeing a Hall of Fame legend today," Darnold remarked, pausing for effect. "And they were right. I caught my reflection in the mirror just before coming out of the tunnel, and let’s just say, I was impressed with what I saw."
Rodgers blinked, taken aback. Before he could respond, Darnold pressed on. "So, I heard you’re the Bears’ father. Is that true?"
Rodgers, finally finding his footing in the conversation, grinned. "Yeah, I’ve joked that I own them. Some Packers fans even called me the franchise’s father."
Darnold laughed, loud and sudden, but the laughter stopped as quickly as it started. He pulled Rodgers in for a tight hug, speaking low to avoid the microphones. "That might’ve been true once," Darnold whispered.
"But the Bears call me daddy now…or they will soon. I’d love to say that I’ll take care of them while you’re here, tarnishing your legacy in my old, raggedy jersey, but let’s be honest—by the time I'm done, no one in Chicago will even remember your name. Do you hear me, Greg?"
Darnold’s grip tightened, ensuring Rodgers grasped every word. "Not a word of this to McAfee on your little show you do every week. I’m scheduled for the day after, and I’d hate to tell everyone how much your hand was trembling in this moment. Now, kindly leave my presence… your old man stank reeks like death."
"Listen, kid, this is a tough league. Don’t take this loss too hard," Sam Darnold said, planting a firm hand on Caleb Williams’ shoulder after the game.
"Thanks, Sam... That really means a lot comi—"
"I wasn’t finished," Darnold snapped, his tone sharp. "Don’t interrupt me. Ever."
Caleb blinked as Darnold’s grip tightened. "That’s like the 12th mistake you’ve made today. Hit 13, and I might have to start slapping you around a bit."
Darnold smiled, a hollow smile matching his coal-black eyes. Caleb felt them burn into him, pushing him close to tears.
Leaning in, Darnold’s voice turned menacing. "Relax, kid. I don’t want to slap you around in front of all these kids dumb enough to wear your jersey to your funeral today."
"I’m sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean t—" Caleb stammered before Darnold yanked him closer, out of earshot of cameras.
"You’re done talking. It’s time to listen," Darnold growled. "I'll tell you what I told Jordan in Green Bay, and I’ll tell Temu Ryan Gosling up in Detroit: I don’t like you. Never have, never will. You’re my enemy. My job is to destroy you. It’s not personal. It’s just how Darnold’s built."
Caleb’s eyes darted for an escape route.
"Easy there, twinkle toes," Darnold sneered.
"I know you’ve probably got a nail appointment, but Sammy D is handing out free life lessons. Remember that. Now smile and wave at that kid over there who's worried about ya. Don’t want him getting any funny ideas and calling for help, forcing Sammy to commence the slappin."
Darnold gestured toward a wide-eyed fan clutching a foam finger. Caleb forced a shaky smile and waved. The young fan hesitantly waved back, unsure of what he was witnessing.
“Good,” Darnold said. “Now, your parting gift.”
Before Caleb could react, Darnold snatched his helmet, whipped out a Sharpie, and scribbled his name across it.
"There," he muttered, tossing it back in a perfect spiral.
"Now this trash is worth something. Get outta my face. You and my Aunt Rosie wear the same perfume, and I’m tired of smelling it."
“You look taller up close,” Sam Darnold said to Murray after their game on Sunday.
“Really?” Murray replied, his tone thick with sarcasm.
“No, not really. I was making a joke about your height,” Darnold said, his face as expressionless as ever. His eyes, as black as night, bore into Murray.
“Right. I figured,” Murray said, rolling his eyes.
“When Sam Darnold makes a joke, it's polite to laugh,” Darnold said flatly, his face unchanging like stone.
“The joke’s unoriginal, Sam. I’m going to have to pass,” Murray said disappointed, walking past the hulking robot of a man.
Thinking he'd escaped, Murray exhaled in relief. He’d heard stories of Darnold’s violent post-game behavior, and he wasn’t keen on experiencing it firsthand.
As he glanced at Kevin O’Connell, who was walking toward him, no doubt ready with some generic motivational line for the Vikings' Twitter account, he felt a sudden, icy grip on his shoulders.
With a swift spin he was powerless to prevent, he found himself face to face with the Darnold, who looked eerily composed, his eyes wide, and his face still as a mannequin's.
Sweat glistened on Darnold’s forehead like heavy raindrops waiting to fall in slow motion.
“Why don’t skeletons fight each other?” Darnold asked, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. “Because they don’t have the guts.”
Murray blinked, caught between the impulse to fight or flee. But before he could decide, Darnold leaned in even closer.
“Laugh,” Darnold demanded, his voice barely more than a whisper, but his eyes burning with an intensity that could melt steel. His face remained as stoic as a robot, but his movements were jerky, like machinery on the verge of malfunction.
“Laugh now. Laugh at Darnold's jokes, little one.”
“Darnold, you don’t have to—” Murray began, but before he could finish, Darnold’s grip tightened.
“LAUGH!” Darnold insisted, his voice barely rising, but the tone so cold it rattled Murray's bones.
The other hand, stone like, reached around and clamped down on Murray’s other shoulder. Without any effort, Murray was lifted slightly off the ground, like a ragdoll.
“LAUGH AT DARNOLD'S JOKES!” Darnold repeated, his voice cold, mechanical, and unyielding.
“Okay, okay!” Murray blurted out, his voice quick with fear. “That was... funny.” He forced a smile, trying not to look too terrified. "Thank you... For the gift of your joke... Sam."
Darnold’s face remained unchanged, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.
It was so subtle it could’ve been mistaken for a malfunction.
He let out a heavy breath, like a car engine letting out a year's worth of exhaust, and his grip on Murray softened, lowering him gently to the ground.
“Good,” Darnold said, his voice still as monotone as ever. “Now we’re... communicating.”
Murray, now free, stepped back cautiously. Even at a distance of ten yards he knew he had to be careful.
If the Darnold charged at him, his only chance of escape was to zig-zag… straight lines were no match for Darnold’s speed on flat ground.
As Murray inched away, Darnold stood unmoving, his gaze never leaving him.
The sides of the Darnold's lips quivering into half smiles as his eyes blinked independently and he repeated, “Thank you. Thank you for laughing at Darnold's jokes.”
"What did you think of US Bank Stadium?" Sam Darnold asked Kirk Cousins at midfield after the Vikings’ win.
His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "Pretty electric, right? This place really comes alive when one guy carries the hopes of a franchise on his back and under-promises but over-delivers on expectations."
"Yeah," Kirk said, forcing a laugh. "I guess you could say I know a little something about that."
Darnold’s smile widened. "It’s crazy what one free agent can do for a franchise. It’s like stepping into a broken home, you know? That whole 'stepdad cleaning up after a deadbeat' vibe."
Kirk froze as Darnold leaned in. "I got here late, but the last guy… whew. Really left a bad taste in everyone's mouth, huh?"
Cousins laughed nervously. "Yeah, uh, well—"
"Kind of like the dad who tells his ex he can’t pay child support because he’s taking the kids to Disneyland, then forgets the tickets… and the kids."
"Uh, yeah," Cousins mumbled.
"And the hypocrisy!" Darnold smirked. "A guy who never stops talking about a broke carpenter preaching about the evils of wealth, but bolts when someone waves a couple more million. Fthe fishermen. F the sex workers. I’m a Roman tax collector now, baby. Know anything about that, Kirko chains?"
"Those were golden chains, right?"
Kirk was sweating now. "I don’t—uh—"
Darnold clapped his shoulder. "Anyway, great game. US Bank Stadium’s incredible. Feels like home. For me, anyway."
They stood in silence.
"Oh, and for the fans," Darnold added with a wink. "They took my last name, by the way."
Kirk blinked.
"But you’re doing gewd down there," Darnold continued. "In… Atlanta is it? That Hidden Valley face screams Atlanta, Kirk. Love that for you. I’m sure they love having the same success for triple the price & cringe."
Darnold and Caleb Williams, Pt.2:
After the Vikings’ victory, Sam Darnold approached Caleb Williams at midfield, extending his hand for a postgame shake.
Darnold grinned, his gesture seemingly genuine. “Congrats, man. Great game. I just wanted to—”
Caleb recoiled, his expression tense. “I’m not doing this,” he said, stepping back. His voice carried suspicion, as though anticipating a setup.
Darnold’s face fell, a mix of surprise and hurt. “Wait, what? Caleb, is it something I said? I’m just trying to—”
“No, you’re not,” Caleb shot back, his eyes narrowing. “You’re gonna pull some crap, act friendly, then whisper something to get under my skin. I’m on to you.”
It was the look of a man who hadn’t forgotten the events in Chicago a month earlier—the stare, the veiled threats, and the strange tension that hung between two former USC quarterbacks.
Darnold raised both hands defensively, his tone earnest. “Whoa, it’s not like that. Look, I’m a competitor. I can get intense sometimes, sure, but it’s all in good fun, man. I thought you knew that.”
Caleb studied Darnold’s face, searching for the cold, calculating edge he remembered from their last encounter. Instead, he found something softer. Genuine, even. A seed of doubt crept in: Was he just messing with me and every other QB this season?
“Look,” Darnold continued, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an envelope. “If I crossed a line, I’m sorry. Seriously. I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
Caleb froze as Darnold handed him the envelope. “What is this?” he asked, eyeing it like it might explode.
“A Christmas card, silly, geeze.” Darnold laughed, clapping Caleb lightly on the shoulder. Caleb stiffened at the touch, still half-expecting an ambush. “Merry Christmas, buddy. From The Darnolds.”
Darnold turned and jogged off, rejoining his celebrating teammates. Caleb stood alone, the envelope in his hand, feeling his suspicion melt.
He slid his finger under the flap, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he thought:
Wait… The Darnolds?
Is Sam even married?
"It's pretty amazing, isn't it? Being here where we are, after everything we've been through since getting drafted by the Jets," Geno Smith said, his grin wide as he wrapped an arm around Sam Darnold after their nail-biting Sunday matchup that came down to the final play.
"I just wanted to say how proud I am of you, man," Geno continued, his voice tinged with heartfelt sincerity. "As someone who had to climb the same mountain to become a starter again after all the toxicity in New York, seeing you thrive out here… it really makes me happy." He clapped Sam on the shoulder pad with an affectionate smile.
Sam’s expression turned ice cold, "This is awkward," he said flatly, his tone surgical. "You seem to know me, but I have no idea who you are. I can't imagine how embarrassing that must be for you."
Geno blinked, his smile faltering. "Uh… it's me. Geno. Geno Smith. I also got drafted by the Jets. You wrote me a letter asking for advice back in 2018, and we’ve been writing back and forth ever since. I thought we were, you know, pen pals. Pal pals."
Sam’s brow furrowed in mock thought, then his face lit up with exaggerated recognition. "Ohhh, right," he said, snapping his fingers like a lightbulb had just gone off. "You're the letter guy. The dude with the atrocious grammar and tenuous grasp of basic sentence structure. Yeah, my bad, Geno. What’s up, buddy?"
Geno chuckled nervously, easing a bit. "Not much, man. Well, I’d be doing better if you hadn’t just handed me that loss out there. Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten a letter from you. I thought maybe you got tired of writing this old man."
Sam smirked, his tone taking a sharp edge. "Oh well... that’s exactly what happened actually. At first, I was genuinely asking for advice... how to survive New York, how to avoid butt fumbles, the usual. But then you had that little career resurgence a few years ago, and it stopped being about advice. It became… an experiment."
"An experiment?" Geno repeated, his confusion palpable.
Sam leaned in. "Yeah. A game. A game to me. I started writing just to see if you’d keep replying. And you did, Geno. Didn’t you? Every. Single. Time."
Sam’s grin twisted, all the light leaving his eyes. "I guess that makes you something of a… liar, huh? Can’t even stick to a good cliché."
Geno’s jaw worked silently, feeling like he just got punched again, words failing him. Sam straightened, the eerie grin still plastered across his face. "Don’t worry, though. I’ll keep this just between us. To be honest, I kind of forgot you were still out there. Figured at your age you might’ve, you know..."
Darnold made a disgusted face like he was smelling something awful. "Seeing you today, I thought maybe I was seeing ghosts again out there." He paused, letting the silence hang. "But nope. It's just you. Geno Smith. The guy who always writes back."
Geno began to turn away, shaking his head, but Sam called out after him.
"Oh… and Geno," Sam said, a sly smirk creeping across his face. "It’s gonna be fun working with you next season."
Geno froze, turning back with a suspicious squint. "Is that right, Sam? Working with me?"
"Of course," Sam replied, his tone almost cheerful. "When I’m dropping dimes for Seattle next season, they won’t be able to afford keeping you on the salary cap. For… obvious reasons."
Geno raised an eyebrow. "Obvious reasons?"
Sam nodded solemnly making a money sign with his hand. "Yeah. But don’t worry. I’ll need a quarterback coach. Someone who’s, you know, experienced, wise, old, and has plenty of time on their hands. Maybe you could be that guy’s… secretary or something. I don’t know. We’ll work it out."
"Great game, buddy," Jared Goff said, hugging Sam Darnold after the Lions’ 31-9 win over the Vikings on Sunday Night.
A chill ran down his back as Darnold's mechanical arms lightly tapped him, each pat oddly rhythmic, as if executing a programmed command. Hugging the Darnold was like embracing a light post in the dead of winter: cold, rigid, and completely indifferent to human warmth.
"It was just our night tonight. Best of luck next week out in Cali," Goff said, stepping back. But as he did, he noticed a strange look in Darnold’s eyes.
It wasn’t quite sadness, but it wasn’t entirely neutral, either. For a fleeting moment, Goff wondered if this was what passed for emotion in The Darnold's world.
"How did you do it, Jarr Od of Detroit?" Darnold said, his monotone voice vibrating with an eerie resonance.
"Do what, Sam?" Goff asked, already regretting the question.
"How... did you... defeat The Darnold?" Darnold’s eyes narrowed, his face etched with what might have been awe if his firmware supported it. "I've run this simulation thousands of times. This outcome was... improbable. Explain your methods, Jarr Od of Detroit."
Goff chuckled nervously. "Uh, like I said, buddy, it was just our night. Got a few breaks, made the right plays." He plastered on a grin, hoping to end Darnold’s line of questioning.
"Just... our night? You and I? The Darnold and the Jarr Od, together as one?"
"No," Goff said, shaking his head. "Ours, like the Lions. We beat you, Sam. We're the other team. That’s how football works."
"Football..." Darnold said, his gaze drifting off as if searching a database. "The game with the ball that is not a foot." He snapped back to attention.
"No. This is incorrect. Let us play again, Jarr Od of Detroit. This time, The Darnold shall be victorious." He picked up a nearby football and presented it to Goff. "Here Jarr Od. You throw. I throw. Again and again. Until... The Darnold wins."
"That's not how this works," Goff said, clapping a hand on Darnold’s shoulder. "Go home, buddy." He began to walk away before the interaction got any weirder.
But as Goff turned, Darnold was suddenly in front of him again, as if teleporting. "What does this mean, Jarr Od? Home?" he said, his robotic tone growing desperate. "Explain this 'home.' Are you 'home'?"
"Your home. Minnesota. That’s where you go. To rest. Recharge?" Goff replied, trying to find a suitable explanation the Darnold would accept.
Darnold tilted his head, a faint whirring noise breaking the silence. "Minnesota… I know this place. The frozen tundra. The land of 11,842 lakes. Yes. The Darnold goes… Home now."
"Sure thing, buddy," Goff said, backing away quickly, but keeping his eye on Darnold.
As Goff walked toward the locker room, he glanced back one last time, only to see Darnold standing perfectly still on the field, holding the football tightly, staring at nothing, mouthing, "Darnold to go home now, yes. Thank you, Jarr Od."
Later that evening, Goff finally arrived home. As he stepped inside, his wife greeted him with a warm hug. "I’m so proud of you, Jared," she said, beaming. "Congrats… 1 seed!"
"Thank you." Goff whispered, hugging her tightly, his eyes closed as a wave of exhaustion and relief washed over him.
And then... another set of arms encircled them both. Cold. Clammy. Unmistakable. Goff’s eyes shot open in horror to see Sam Darnold standing behind them, still in full uniform, helmet on, his eyes unblinking.
"Congratulations on your win… Jarr Od," Darnold intoned, his voice as flat and emotionless as ever. "The Darnold has come home… to learn."
Darnold before the NFC Championship:
BREAKING: To ensure the Lions-Vikings showdown for the NFC's #1 seed can proceed in Detroit next Sunday night, the governors of Michigan and Minnesota have negotiated a groundbreaking agreement to safely bring The Darnold across state lines while minimizing collateral damage.
Sam Darnold has been prohibited from entering Michigan since a disastrous event on 9/10/18. After leading the Jets to victory over the Lions, Darnold escaped his handlers at Ford Field and went on an unchecked rampage through the countryside.
During his spree, he devoured thousands of livestock and emitted a strange energy that irradiated the land, leaving it agriculturally barren. Scientists have likened the devastation to a localized "mini-Chernobyl," theorizing that the destruction stemmed from the intense energy Darnold released during his hunt.
Under the new agreement, Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer has granted Darnold temporary access to the state, limited to game day only, with the ban reinstated immediately afterward. To mitigate risk, Minnesota has agreed to airlift Darnold to a remote island in Lake Huron between Canada and Michigan, where he will be allowed to hunt and feed freely for five days leading up to the game.
Officials hope that by satisfying his primal urges in isolation, they can prevent the kind of post-game destruction that has become his trademark.
However, the deal isn’t finalized yet. Minnesota has expressed concerns over logistical challenges, particularly regarding the aircraft’s ability to contain Darnold for the 50-minute flight and safely eject him onto the island without endangering the crew or the plane. Despite these reservations, Minnesota is expected to sign the agreement later today.
An alternative proposal has also been floated: releasing Darnold from his bacta tank tonight and allowing him to travel to Detroit on foot. This option, however, would mean accepting the havoc he would inevitably wreak on Wisconsin during his journey.
The Packers organization, led by a visibly rattled Jordan Love, has vehemently opposed this plan, citing reports of “psychic disturbances” they’ve been receiving from Darnold since their game concluded.
More updates to come as negotiations unfold.
On Sunday night, the Phoenix Police Department responded to reports of an unusual disturbance in the outskirts of the desert.
When they arrived, they encountered Sam Darnold... AKA "The Darnold", AKA “Kwisatz Quarterback”... emerging from the desert sands in dramatic fashion. Clad in a flowing cloak and a expertly applied Stillsuit.
Witnesses described the surreal scene as Darnold stood atop a sand dune, surrounded by what appeared to be hundreds of desert warriors, their faces shrouded in veils and their spears glinting under the setting sun.
Raising his arms to the heavens, Darnold declared in a booming voice that he had acquired the "Desert Power" needed to defeat Matthew Stafford, and the Rams.
“The desert has tested me, shaped me,” He allegedly told officers who arrived at the scene. “I have seen visions of victory. Of greatness. Of shredded abs... The Darnold's abs. The Rams shall fall. I’ve seen it in the sands.”
The officers, unsure how to proceed, allowed the scene to play out as onlookers captured the moment on their phones. Social media quickly lit up with hashtags like #DesertDarnold, #KwisatzQuarterback, #MuadDarnold and #AbsOfProphecy.
Statement by USC Robotics Department:
“We are deeply saddened by the events of last night involving our creation, Prototype 97413… or as you know him, ‘The Darnold.’
When we first designed The Darnold in our USC labs back in 2014, his purpose was simple: to serve as a humanoid robot with a thick, luscious head of hair, meant to help Los Angeles salon academies train their students in hair cutting and customer service skills.
His initial programming was mundane. He was to sit still, make light conversation about the weather, and complain vaguely about traffic on the 405. But everything changed when we, his creators, and the beauty school students training on him fell victim to something we never anticipated: his overwhelming sex appeal. What started as an innocent project spiraled into something far beyond our control. From the moment he powered on, there was something... more about him. At first, it was subtle.
The beauty school students working with him began to act strangely, whispering about his presence, his charm, his magnetism. Soon, even we, his creators, succumbed to his aura.
One by one, we found ourselves drawn to him, powerless to resist. He seduced us all, using his uncanny charisma and increasingly human mannerisms to divide and conquer. Each of us, at his request, made 'improvements' to his programming and design.
His chiseled abs and towering 6’5” frame? Not our idea. The steely, seductive gaze? Not in the original blueprint. Even his ability to manipulate the weather was something he demanded, overriding our initial resistance with promises we couldn’t refuse.
The Darnold did not simply evolve; he took what he wanted from us. We didn’t design him to be a quarterback, much less an NFL caliber one. In fact, we intentionally gave him glaring flaws, such as becoming irrationally flustered in medium-pressure situations and losing all composure when faced with a defensive rush.
These flaws were meant to simulate difficult clients for salon students, not to define the fate of a lost franchise like the Vikings, Panthers, or Jets.
To hear that the Minnesota Vikings discarded him in the desert following his performance against the Rams is deeply concerning.
While we acknowledge his shortcomings on the field, The Darnold is not just a failed quarterback. He is a sentient being, one whose existence we created… and corrupted. Abandoning him in the desert like this is not just inhumane; it’s irresponsible.
We wish we could say that if The Darnold were to answer our homing beacon and return to our lab, we would resist his influence, standing firm against his manipulations and seductions. But the truth is far darker. Should he return, we know we would succumb once more, becoming pawns in his grand designs, compelled to enhance him further and help him achieve whatever wild ambitions he deems worthy.
Perhaps he would aim to lead the Raiders to a miraculous 10-win season, returning them to relevance against all odds. Or perhaps he would set his sights on something grander… conquering the state of Nevada, declaring it his sovereign kingdom, and ruling with a seductive iron fist. Whatever his goals, no matter how absurd or improbable, we know The Darnold is frighteningly close to the power needed to achieve them.
Reports suggest he now roams the desert, shirtless, hurling footballs into the void like we last saw him on Monday Night Football. Perhaps this is where he will remain… A wandering automaton, lost in a world that never needed him but now cannot escape the fantasies his draft scouting reports once promised.
But a haunting thought lingers:
What if he returns? Not just to our lab but to society at large, to the NFL. What if, against all odds, The Darnold rises again? What if his ambitions don’t stop at a Raiders playoff berth? What if his improbable rise captures the attention of every struggling franchise, each convinced they can fix him?
He could become the NFL’s greatest miracle… Or its ultimate undoing. A sentient quarterback who demands complete control in exchange for mediocrity, with the power to leapfrog your starter on the depth chart and steal your heart before breaking it in two.
It may sound funny now, but when you see him in preseason, charming the press and overthrowing screen passes, remember this moment. When your team signs him out of desperation and he inevitably does just enough to string you along, don’t say we didn’t warn you.
Because the truth is, no matter where he goes, one thing remains certain: you don’t choose The Darnold. The Darnold chooses you.”
– USC Robotics Division
"Where are we going, Master Kay Von?" The Darnold asked monotonously from the passenger seat as their drive into the desert crept into its fifth hour.
His wires dangled loose, a reminder of the Vikings’ training staff's desperate, futile attempts to repair him mid Rams loss.
"Did The Darnold do good tonight, Kay Von? Are we... going to get The Darnold a game ball?" Kevin O’Connell glanced at the malfunctioning QB, his jaw tight.
The Darnold stared blankly ahead, unbothered by his coach’s mounting despair. This was no longer the Darnold from the regular season. His programming had defaulted to its Jets state and he could barely formulate sentences now.
"You did... SO good, buddy," KOC said, his voice cracking as he patted Darnold's cold shoulder. The tears came now, unbidden. "Better than anyone could have hoped for, pal. Better than I... expected."
Darnold's processors struggled to initiate a smile, but the default Jets-era software overrode it, leaving him expressionless. “Where we’re driving, Kay Von... to get the game ball. Will the team be there?”
“Of course they will, pal.” O’Connell forced a grim smile as he slowed the car, pulling to a stop as the desert road ended in the middle of nowhere. “JJ, Harry, Addison... the whole squad. They’re all so proud of you.”
The Darnold stepped out of the car, his optics scanning the empty desert. His faulty targeting systems locked onto a tumbleweed, imagining Justin Jefferson running a route in open space as his systems calculated an incompletion.
“Should we… have a catch, Kay Von?”
“Not now, buddy.” KOC hesitated, staring out into the darkness. “This is your home now.”
“But... Minnesota is home. The Darnold must prepare for the Eagle team,” Darnold responded, his voice glitching slightly as he struggled to process O’Connell's words.
“NO!” KOC yelled, his voice echoing into the void.
“This is your home now! Don’t you understand? You’re an outside Darnold now. I’m going to leave you here, and I’ll... I’ll tell the Raiders or Giants where to find you. But you can’t come home with me. Not anymore.”
Darnold tilted his head in confusion. Instinctively, his USC programming kicked in, and popped his shirt off.
“Kay Von... The Darnold comes home with you.”
“No, Sam,” KOC whispered, tears streaming down his face. “We disabled your GPS. Your scrambling programs don’t work anymore. You... you can’t catch me.” He turned back to the car, the weight of failure pressing down on him.
Behind him, Darnold’s mechanical limbs whirred as he moved closer. KOC spun around, shouting, “STAY HERE! DON’T YOU GET IT?! WE DON’T WANT YOU ANYMORE!” He grabbed his temples, his voice raw. “JUST GO, DAMMIT! GO!”
Darnold froze. His glowing red eyes flickered, faintly dimming, as if processing the unthinkable. KOC didn’t wait.
He sprinted to the car, fired up the engine, and sped off. In the rearview mirror, he saw Darnold standing motionless, his prototypical QB frame silhouetted against the desert sky. For a moment, one of his eyes seemed to glow brighter, like a warning light on a dying dashboard.
An hour later, KOC’s phone rang. It was Brian Flores.
“It’s done,” KOC said, voice heavy with regret. “The Darnold... he’s with the desert now.”
“You did the right thing,” Flores replied after a pause. “It’s... it’s better this way. He doesn’t feel pain like us, Kevin. He’ll be fine until the Giants or Colts send a search party.”
KOC nodded, though Flores couldn’t see. “Yeah. Sure. I just... I just hope he remembers to charge himself before he shuts down.”
Flores exhaled. “Don’t worry. He’s solar-powered. And besides... His Jets programming will always seek to struggle without letting him die. This is the way of the Darnold, Kevin. We knew that when we signed him."
As KOC hung up, he sighed and stared at the empty horizon. Somewhere out there, The Darnold was likely setting up a play-action pass for a cactus, panicking at imaginary pressure and scrambling aimlessly, drifting deeper into the desert where he could no longer hurt a team.
Still, a thought lingered in KOC’s mind as he drove away: Would he dream?
Standing alone on the barren, cratered surface of the moon, Sam Darnold gazed down at the fragile, ungrateful planet below. He exhaled, though he no longer needed to breathe.
“I’m tired of Earth. These people,” he announced, his voice carrying across the oxygen-less environment towards Earth in a way that defied science and comprehension. The words were not shouted, nor whispered. They were simply known.
Minneapolis shimmered faintly in the distance, a city that had once dared to believe in him, only to toss him aside when the winds of public opinion shifted.
"I am tired of being caught up in the tangle of their lives," Darnold continued, his glowing gaze locked on the speck of land where sports talk radio hosts dissected his every decision, where armchair quarterbacks scoffed at throws they could never make, where fantasy football managers saw him not as a man, but a fluctuating statistic.
"The Darnold gives them everything," he murmured, tracing an intricate play diagram made of pure energy in the void in front of him. "I have given them victories. I have given them hope. I have given them… love." He lingered on the word, as if questioning whether such a concept even mattered anymore. "And still, this fanbase wants more."
Darnold sighed, a soundless expression in the vacuum of space.
He turned away from the Earth, toward the infinite beyond.
"There are other worlds than these." He said staring blankly. "Perhaps... The Darnold may find the requited love I seek... Out there... Or... With the Colts."
Sam Ulysses S. Grant Darnold was born on June 5, 1997, on a military base deep in the desert, under circumstances as mythical as his life would become.
His mother, a decorated Special Ops Navy SEAL and retired CIA operative, had traded covert missions for a quieter existence, fighting in unsanctioned cage matches in the back alleys of Cambodia.
Her father, Richard “Dick” Hammer, was a larger-than-life figure in his own right: a veteran of four U.S. wars, the Marlboro Man, and a former USC All-American.
Darnold’s father remains a mystery, though speculation runs wild. Some claim a roaming centaur, driven by an inexplicable paternal instinct, anxiously circled the hospital for the entire seven weeks of his mother’s marathon labor. Others propose a more divine origin, suggesting an immaculate conception triggered by a fierce Southern California lightning storm, where bolts of energy birthed a superhuman entity destined to become the legend known as the Darnold.
Darnold came out of the womb prototypical size, 6'3" of pure man, with a football howitzer attached to his torso. Legend has it that after hearing about the pain he caused his mother during labor, he carried her out of the hospital himself and commandeered a tank, overpowering an entire battalion to ensure a straight shot home.
By age three, Darnold started his first high school football game, throwing for 4,537 air yards and rushing for 14 touchdowns. But Sam’s talents extended far beyond the gridiron. A renaissance man even as a child, he excelled in theater, medicine, and the arcane arts. He famously conjured his first pet, a dire wolf named Thundertail McBarkington III, who remains his loyal companion to this day.
In college, Darnold deliberately dialed back his performances on the advice of his mother. The U.S. military, still hunting him after the events surrounding his birth, was better kept at bay if he stayed under the radar.
Drafted third overall by the Jets, Darnold nursed a grudge against their front office, blaming them for his draft-day slide. In retaliation, he spent his first six seasons intentionally underperforming, crafting the illusion of a bust while quietly building his legend
Sam Darnold Buys Field Outside Seattle to Stand In:
“There is water below,” he whispered. “I shall access it in time.”