On Surly, pinned with the pride of predictability, hung the poster Helobious—a twisted tapestry of tattered dreams and tarnished triumphs. Much like Sarkisian’s stagnating offense, the image of Helobious was a parody of power, a bold but barren banner that promised greatness yet delivered nothing but a hollow echo of hollow hopes. Helobious, in all his garish glory, was a grotesque gargoyle of grit that never quite grasped greatness. The poster himself sagged with the weight of unfulfilled potential, his thoughts faded like a forgotten dream, a faded reflection of the ferocity that was never realized.
Sarkisian’s offensive playbook mirrored the missteps of Helobious—both men stubbornly stuck in a state of self-absorbed, self-defeating stagnation, trapped in a cycle of ambition without action. Just as the eyes of Helobious gazed outwards, longing for a world he could never touch, Sarkisian’s eyes seemed fixed on an ideal offense that was too distant, too delusional to ever materialize. His post, pinned precariously to the top, was a picture of pompous persistence, clinging desperately to a promise that was perpetually postponed—just as the Longhorn offense, trapped in Sarkisian’s endless echo of ego, meandered aimlessly with no real direction, no real spark. Both Helobious and Sarkisian, in their own ways, had built elaborate illusions of greatness, but neither could escape the inevitable collapse of their own conceited constructs.