
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Forged in the Arena's training pits where feather-nadoes of fury raged daily, Talon Scrapper clawed its way outta discarded beak guards and pure avian spite. Imagine Mad Max meets Angry Birds, but somehow I'm narrating this glorified luggage tag? Absurd. Yet here it stands—battle-scarred and ready to cut a b**** in the name of... recreational disc golf?
(Exactly 300 characters of feathered existential dread)