Part 1: Time Patrol,
we keep things ticking…

It is 100 years from now.
The storms came, the tides surged, cities sank.
The oceans have doubled their size.
Only the high ground remains.
An entire metropolis hangs magnetically suspended 1000 feet above.
Crime and corruption rule below.

There the Odoroki struggle with speed tribes and wave gangs
for power and control of Brutal City.
Deep in the shadows all are at war with
The Dark Ocean Society.

The time files are engineered to preserve all known history from the molecular to the political, in virtual reality.

The Russians launch Vector; Built to infiltrate and rearrange history.

Fast Wave A.I. response teams are deployed.
The battle to rewrite history
is now being fought in every corner of the past.
The computers are safe,
The past is not…

What happens when a self-informing A.I. Killer begins imitating humans?
What if a human being started imitating that end result?
What happens when they finally meet each other?

The following documents and transcripts only begin to tell that story.

Official Department of Security Clearance

Hayanami Fast Wave Design
Self informing A.I.
Hunter Killer Platform
Code Variant 07

Time patrol, we keep things ticking.

What they don’t know

Brother to the Odoroki,
Executioner for the Dark Ocean Society,
And I speak perfect tribe.

By the way,
My name isn’t Roth

Bounty Killer
How about a little fire, scarecrow?

A trail of clouds drift silently across the lunar face.
Just enough light to see.
Just enough dark for mystery.
Perfect for those who wait in the shadows below.
Those who walk eternally, beneath a Dragon Moon.

My name isn’t Roth,
never was.
before this game
my name was Rotinski,
or maybe it was Rotienevsky or something...
The Big Apple Affair - 1982

I played the part of a psycho
Russian mobster in the 80’s.
It was a great part,
everybody died..
even me.

Wait ‘till you see who they recruited for that part in the next chapter...

Before that I was Rorizaki,
Self explanatory, hai dozo.
Tokyo Story - 1747

Before that, it was Ramirez..
Miami Beach - 1985

My all-time favorite so far was Rozelli…
A hard-boiled, ethically challenged,
gumshoe dick from Chicago in the 20’s.
I had to chew spearmint gum,
and wear white socks,
with black leather shoes.
Windy City Caper - 1922

Had a ball,
everybody died.
Not me though…

Word around the campfire,
Russ and I are being deployed
ASAP to the Belgian Congo.
By my best guesstimate,
that would be right around 1961.


Come on baby, do the twist

MAY 5th, 1961


Three engineers, heavily wounded.
Blood everywhere.
Four private contractors.
One operator on 30 cal.
Rescue underway.
Helicopter way fucked up.

Literally means, “lifting of the veil”,
Or as I prefer,
“lifting of the skirt”
Though, I've never lifted a skirt in search of truth,
I have, once or twice, confronted the Apocalypse down there
and experienced “a moment of truth”.
“OKUDEN Kantsukuri,” Mirror of truth,
also, the name of my favorite Japanese sake...

Alright, I’m drifting again.


What the hell is going on here?
As usual, I couldn’t really be sure.
But for sure, as usual, I was going to get blamed,
Every-time the boss of Brutal City decides to detour my ass,
my team and I take it up same,
just sayin’...

Our latest trip down the danger trail,
was going to take more than a Union Oil Map
and a loaded forty five to outrun Polio and his gang of merry men.

Real name Paulho, Brazilian-Portuguese for “slum-dog shithead from Favellas, in Rio, finally makes bad, stay tuned for worse.”
This was not Polio’s and my first tango together.

I’m thinkin’ 120 MPH plus,
struggling to keep our ass off the desert floor.
Maybe, it’s time to reacquaint some of the pencil-dick suits who sent us here, with a little
knock, knock who’s dead?
You fuckin’ are!
Hey, sometimes good guys don’t wear white.
But first, we had to make it back to base…
Oblivia Roxov
Oba Roxov,
All that was great,
And all that was problematic with the Russian Secret Service.
Gently, squeezed into a pair of 5 ½ inch stilettos.
And that was great,
And all that was very, very dangerous about Oblivia Roxov.
Oblivia Roxov, quadruple Russian agent.
Not quite as dangerous as “Land’s Edge” after midnight.
The two together were positively incendiary.
Those pants did all the talking, she never said a word.

Land’s Edge,
the place is packed, packed with witnesses.
Ice in her eyes, she fresh breezes through that front door and
I’m all diminished capacity and mitigating circumstances.
Half the place is praying in advance for forgiveness.
She’s all tag, you’re it and creative differences.
Walked in, straight off the street of forgotten women
and I should have said no, but I’m not living anywhere and
We had everywhere to go…
The whole narrative went from “Howdy Doodie” to “Dragnet”,
“Outer Limits”, then one step beyond.

Vacuum packed baby jet says to me, ”hey bomb squad,”
back bumper semaphore “blink-‘n’-u-miss-it”.
Bang zoom to the moon,
And I go down like water gettin’ thrown out a bucket.
A bucket full of Rum and Cola,
Pagan fury, crazed urgency.
“Joy ride”,
“Escaped convict and the wardens wife.”
Just kiddin,‘ last one isn’t a real movie,
Just a video we ultimately made...
Stayin'’ cool, feelin‘ wonderfully threatened,
This red hot Bowl-a-Berries is bringin’ a smile to the hips of everyone in the place.
Breakfast of champions,
Magically delicious,
stakes had never been higher…

I was a wave tossed guy, unforgivin‘.
A lucid vision and a total lack of commitment.
Hard Candy’s squeezing her way thru all
the sociable scorpions and sexy rattlesnakes
Eyes lit up, shining like a new penny.
We’d both would have been hard pressed to identify any motivation,
more sophisticated than
“You and me baby, till the wheels fall off”.

The Leaky Tiki Bunker, Lands Edge.
Hell with a cover charge.
In regards to the purity of unarmed combat,
it was going to be a great night for all concerned.
Lost lonely Vicious, there was no smashing down the door with this one,
that would meet resistance.
This one would require quietly undoing the hinges.
like that genie in her lamp, she was going to get 3 wishes.
By the light of love’s lamp and passion’s candle
some burn their candle at both ends,
some burn theirs in the middle.
Talk about trying to capture lightning
in a bikini twice.
17 times the light in 1/3 the time.
The end result could be frightening
I was prepared to pay that price.



Subject: Filed command debrief
Issued from: forward operating command, uplink 2
Forward CC: Forward operating command district 2

Mission statement as follows:
Once upon a time is how the fairy tale tells it.
You won’t believe this shit,
is how the trucker sells it.
Gentlemen, Is it just me or am I now a professional waiter?
I used to be agent assassin cowboy Ranger, Whothefuck
which is as I understood, was good work if you can get it.

How about I break into a song, like Broadway.
“I can see clearly now, the rain is gone”,
and so’s somebody’s smile. If I even make it back to base.
What’s unclear, is a working definition for the term “Back.”

At what point, did I become a professional waiter?
I wait for download,
I wait for uplink,
I wait for transfer,
I wait for reassembly,
let’s just discuss reassembly for a sec.

When I got deployed, on this last Bamako gig,
it was backtracked to 1961.
Catch the boat to Tampopo, Rent a jeep, drive up to Bosko, sneak 2 clicks across a field into Ovilteen, or Nescafe or whatever it’s called and kill a couple of paychecks.
All right, I’m just making up these names, but the plan was simple and clearly, way too inexpensive, non time-consuming and productive for our brand.

Even fully greased, the reason I move so quick through these time ports is because I do not have super powers,
there’s no hovering out here,
there’s no plasma ray guns,
though I have seen the Major on two separate occasions actually run in smaller and smaller circles until he ran up his own ass and disappeared.

No fair.
I want a magic crayon,
I want to draw a doorway in the air,
Step through it and magically appear,
Like through the looking glass in your boardroom right now,
Or wherever you are reading this,
and punk-slap you so hard,
that half the car alarms in 1984 go off.

For the last time or more plausibly the next time before the next time,
I would formally like to request,
reassignment to base.

Stay Frosty,
Jim Duke Northstar 07



And speaking of navigational aids,
I had a hot little number waiting for me in a cool little dive,
Across the street from base back in Bamoko.
And right about that part, of her body where the hot pants started late and ended early..?
That aforementioned danger trail, turned ever so sublimely into a happy trail.
I had every intention, professional and otherwise, of tracing it like a Union oil map.
What else was a good tan line for?
Meanwhile here I am, trying to Ju-Jitsu a very unhappy helicopter,
over 300 miles of prime, Polio owned, fuck you pale face, African real estate.
I just wanna get back to base…

Up to my back wheels, way too far out here in the territory
and just when it seems nothings biting,
the bad guys and their concerned staff
are more than just standing by.
Don’t get me wrong, we had our war paint on.
We're getting ready to bolt our happy African stomping grounds,
and the Polio Bros.,
or whatever disease they are named after,
make a surprise guest appearance.
“Back by popular demand” (not mine).
Polio’s big hit? “This one’ll kill ya,”
and he means it.

Let’s cut to the crash,
this freaky-deakey fucktard is doing big business at gunpoint,
discovers my metaphysical pickup truck is diagonally parked
in his parallel universe.
No metaphysics before happy hour.
My pickup truck has only one bumper sticker...
”this truck’s been in 11 accidents,
and hasn’t lost one...:”

It was time to play it like they paid me,
and I was gonna make sure Mr. Polio got the best vaccine possible.
Truly a night to remember,
and we were just getting started...



Out here in the territory, we live by a different kind of truth,
this is the dark ocean.
Eat thy neighbor,
abandon all hope ye who enter and don’t back up,
severe tire damage.
Me? I'm carefully programmed bad news waiting to be delivered.

I’m an equal opportunity affliction.
Steel toes and a distant concern.
I’m a tek 9 in South Miami,
And if I produce it, someone’s losing it.
I’m a verdict of life plus forever,
and no jury’s gonna convince me different.
I’m a morally insolvent animal act.
No stars above me,
skies bible black.
I’m more dangerous than a new pair of sneakers at an inner city school.
I am not the art of letting things alone.
I am not the son of Satan,
I am the devil’s son in law.
I’m all you can eat, at the fuck you buffet.
A great black wave of consequence,
every goddamn day.
I am Moby Dick in a goldfish bowl,
swimming just off the port bow
of your 4 star, ass clown, garage-a-trois.
I am a black power hogzilla, steel belted radial strap on
in offroad mid-level fury and turned up to stun.
I am ancient tales of the demon Baku,
Eater of dreams.
Ok, just kidding about the Baku part;
gave the kid his first job..

Enough of the prelim’s,
this wasn’t rocket surgery,
every day down here’s a rainy day,
you don’t save up,
stay frosty,
manda bala...


Presenting the Christmas-Early Sniper Team
led by captain jiminy Christmas and his spotter, easy early, with their team of highly trained, international covert operators pictured below. this is the only existing photograph of the entire team...
unfortunately, due to operational security
we are prohibited from depicting any likeness or visual descriptive pertaining to mission parameters.

Hello welcome wagon, this is neighborhood watch and tonight’s going to be a good night…
Now it’s time to say goodnight to all our company...
Brother Theresa here fellas. All dressed up and ready to fall in love...
M-I-C... yo, see this Motherfucker..?
See what? I don’t want look…
Ting, you out there?
I am the God of Hellfire, and I bring you…
Stop: Now your name’s too long…
I like better, now you call me too long,
That’s what she said.
I ain’t using that nickname on the radio.
No, I prefer. No more only last name “Ting”.
You all have nickname... I want also.
You make shitty joke, but this time I keep.
From now on I insist, you call me “too long Ting…”
I’m gonna throw up.
K-E-Y… Why? fuck ya’ll... thats why…
You’re kidding, is that the…
Shut up, I love this song…
Listen to that voice...
Hey man, what did music ever do to you?
That voice reminds me of overdue dentist appointments...
Do they have dentists in the navy?
You’d never know it...
Ok, here we go…
Oorah Marines, sir!
Hooah, Be all you can be in the army...
They let him in the Navy?
No, he snuck in. But they let him stay...
Clearly not because of his shooting.
‘Cause his singing voice was mutiny on the high C!!
I’m gonna barf
Okay we’ll be right back after these next few gunshots…
Don’t go away,
We’ll shoot you...
Don’t make him angry,
I’ve seen him shoot a guy...
You gotta be kidding…
From 800 yards out, thru a window, thru the pillow
and right behind the divan.
Christ, right behind the divan, that’s gotta hurt…
AARRRGH {sounds of vomiting}



The first time in history somebody recorded witnessing the Pink Mist was the afternoon little David took out Goliath, using the one shot, one kill approach. Technically that makes him history’s first sniper. Pink Mist in Dave’s case, accounts for the splatter that ancient stone probably caused bouncing off Herman Munster’s control panel. A surgical kill-shot that even if it didn’t kill ‘em rite away ; caused at very least, a mind-blowing headache of biblical proportions. One mind any weapon. The 3rd Credo I like is;
“If there’s going to be trouble, it should be at least 6 to 800 yards away from me.”

Sidebar: Pink Mist is a choice.
I prefer exploding 1/2 the window frame with one or two 50 cal. Christmas presents first. Couple of those bad boys gets everyone’s attention and increases focus exponentially.

Blowing out all the door frames from four football fields away won’t fill your dance card but certainly encourages all the little Indians in the igloo to head for the roof. When they begin peeking around the chimneys the guys can start filling the frosty night air with holiday cheer and Pink Mist. From all of us to all of you…

And since we’re getting to know each other;
Pink Mist was how I started about 10 million wars ago. Today, I think of it more like three “number 2 happy meals,” with five extra ketchups and two super size strawberry shakes on the side. Mix carefully with skull and hurl that all over the bad guys living room wall.
Now you tell me I’m not a fuckin’ Picasso.

I x 27.7 ÷ 25
Trips to Heaven
Start with this (Unless I miss)
And I don’t miss
Luv, Peace and Heavy Weapons
Gotta Match Grade
Free Floating Heavy
When He’s angry he spits
Come get some of this
And I never miss, nothing but the hitz
Trips to heaven begin with this
Mathematical rhyme
Lets sing it one more time
You’re a non-believer
Get a good luck charm that works out to a thousand meters
Bringin’ the violence / Bringin’ the pain  
In 14 languages, your name
Written on a Teflon tip
(Come get some of this)
War Child Comin’
Dialing in the dope
Let me tell you how pretty you look
Thru a mil dot scope
I x 27.7 ÷ 25 and we’re good to go
Warchild callin the shots now
Runnin’ the show



A Jock and a Rock

Homeboy, only one stone thrown, brought down Lurch like a stack of birthday cakes in a storm surge.
What happened next is a source of debate. The bible’s version stops with Goliath’s “Broadway career” ended prematurely due to injuries. However, researchers have uncovered new evidence that clearly indicates the following:
At the exact moment the great behemoth’s lifeless body slumped into the dirt, little David lept to the side of the monsters skull, whipped out “little Elvis” and skull fucked the grunting beast right in the ear. The Giants soul, desperate to escape the agony, attempted to flee down the highway to hell.
But little David managed to grab the shrieking demon by the ankle, dragged it back up into daylight and skullfucked it’s soul until that was dead too.

To be perfectly honest,
the whole thing stank and stank hard.
Betrayal, snitchwork, and rotten peach.
This cluster fuck had peach’s fingerprints all over it.
They knew we were coming, they knew what time,
they knew what color socks I was going to be wearing.
Just joking, they didn’t know what time.
Inside job, inside man, and if it was who I thought it was.
I was gonna pull his nostrils all the way back over his round little head and pop his whole skull inside out.
But first, we had to get back to base…

Beheading Cut

Ok then, let’s bring out our first guest...
He’s young, he’s hot and tonight,
we’re gonna kill him...
We’ve only just begun.
Showtime boss…
is Proud to present…
The Belchmaster Mini PP/RSIII
Personal Protection Rectal 3-shot shotgun
Pulverizing personal protection
without even pulling hand from pocket
ain’t life full of it

Changing the Game from the Ground Up.

This summer
Is Proud to present

Stocking Stuffer gift idea,
get ahead of it with the

Petite and discreet
Bun busting fun
in a palm size shotgun
Easily concealed
quickly revealed
12 gauge one-shot fire and forget convenience
long on justice
light on lenience
The princess belchette 1-shot 12 GA Palm size
Rectal shotgun

Season’s Greetings from
Changing the Game from the Ground Up.



This op was supposed to be quick in and out.
It was all over but the winning.
Gimme a break...
Let’s write this one together.
Natural resources discovered,
Politic, Intrigue,
bad guy Begins command performance.
I’m called in,
Great battle commences,
I win.
Turns out they don’t serve “usual” at the Bamako McDonalds.

What we expected this time;
Rescue a few engineers,
save a couple missionaries,
assassinate power mad warlord dictator,
Install Doctor / Teacher,
sleep with good looking missionary daughter,
and get back to base...
Like a quick trip to Vegas,
keep it light losses, balance out later.
Over-stuffing and extra deserts at the all night, Elvis buffet.
Used to do that on spring break.
Feed 8 guys on one ticket,
sleep with the good looking waitress,
and get back to base...

Long distance direct.
Post modern valentine,
for some brand-new ex friends of mine.
In fact, let me sing it to you, one last time.
Manda Bala.

Enter the polio brothers.
Courtesy the aforementioned major.
The two of them together,
farting, dunce cap backward, incompe-tards.
The world’s oldest living toddlers.
Staggering between the walls of life,
bonehead yogi and a bilious Barney Rubble,
Stevie Wonder-ing drunk on roller-skates backwards,
in heavy turbulence.
Unlucky for them, cupid was bringin‘ a whole new kinda’ valentine.
Just for grins and giggles,
I brought along the protype test model of the all new,
“Belch-Fire 8.”
“The world’s first fully-automatic rectal-shotgun.”
Designed with the bad guys behind in mind,
modifications include,
the junior miss flame thrower,
and the long-throw attachment.
Just me being imaginative.
They say you make your own bad luck.
Well, some of mine, just got on yours...

Remember pal,
down line, another place in time,
if your face I recognize,
you get this gift again.

Surprises, aint life full of it.
Put your finger on the trigger and keep pulling it.
After a while...
Doesn’t matter who you hit.
Manda Bala.

Some drink deeply
the waters of life,
most just gargle.
Working in this barf puddle valley
was like gargling a
“fresh to your doorstep,”
“delivered daily,”
“equatoially heated,”
“carefully humidified,”
“downtown outhouse, diaper fulla’ funk...”

I know, I know…
I'm a little insensitive.
Some would say cynical.
But out here in the territory,
you need to be as tough as your toughest customer.
We weren’t even open for business yet
and the line outside stretched half way across Africa.
Welcome to the tsokavali,
Bantu dialect for,
the “devil’s onion ring.”
Literately, “asshole” of the world...

Doesn’t matter who you hit



Okay, tape’s still rolling.
Word around the coffee cup,
Missionary’s daughter?
Told to head for the home of happy feet
long before Jabba the scuz
and his sand slime squadron
shared with princess, their very own brand of
Texas Thundersoul (Proprietary Formula).

This when the bad guys were a lot further down the trough.
They didn’t give a shit about her or for that matter,
the oil fields either.
Homeboy was bobbing for diamonds...
Downtown Bamako,
diamonds weren’t anybody’s friend.

She had enough time, before show time.
But in a Mother Theresa frame of mind,
she wasn’t leaving her friends behind.

In fact her friend’s behinds were on the menu tonight.
They just didn’t know it.

The house pets sensed something was non-linear.
Polio’s shit squad would only be interested in two of her talents…
Three if they bashed her teeth in.

It was becoming crystal clear to the whole compound,
more than rug burns were coming to a theater or drive-in
in Bamako soon.

The bad guys pajama party remix of “You Bet Your Life”,
was just getting started.
Someone was going to have to interrupt this digital pimp’s
“Bride of the Gorilla” sequel.
But as usual, the horse-shit,
was half way down the interstate,
before the truth even got her pants back up.

Let’s start at square one.
Polio makes his entrance.
All “what’s a fella gotta do to get a drink around here?”
And he’s smooth.
Not a trace of this could damage my reputation…
All the moral core-strength of a cannoli.
Whether or not
Bozo and his two bad four nickel pistols gave a shit.
What Hallmark said, was besides the point

3 things...

1. My logistics were good, but not that good.
We got there right after the first act…

2. The Texas thunder soul metaphor for 3rd world military gang rape;
While offensive and insensitive, was frankly outstanding.
Who’s writing this stuff?

3. Somebody’s dentist was gonna be rich.




My inner child struggles with unnecessary effort.
I have no problem with unnecessary force.
Shooters up, how copy?

Irie skippa’, one mighty tree standing station…

Why do they call him Tree?

Dude, he’s from Jamaica, he’s named after his haircut…

No way!

Way, dude!

And I and I, the great Tree, we make ex-pla-naa-shon.

Dude! Did he just say explanation?

My great fatha’, he could not read or write,
but count, he could.. an I am the third brother of five,

one... two...

Oh no, here it comes,

And me, the mighty Tree!..

Well, we did ask...

Trouble man, lasers up, all good downstairs?
How copy?

Solid copy “ese”, bad mojo heat and serve motherfucker.
Big trouble looking for a place to happen...

Outstanding, could you please happen to the guys following me...

Thunder Lightning

Let there be light dog...
lasers up, lemmie paint the picture for you...

Sheet homey, I’m light, tight and ready for the fight tonight...

Ok then, let’s bring out our second guest tonight, he’s a real blast.

No, dude…

Stop, stop...

Bro, please, use a pun, go to jail..


Can he be controlled?

Bro, don’t worry, be happy.

See what you fuck’n started

No really...

I can see clearly now

Let me Guess Ting, the rain is gone?



Holy Shit

Manda Bala Dude

Manda Bala

Game Over



Computer engage
From: Alpha Go +
To: Vector Programme >

RE: System Failure

Dude, dude, what the fuck just happened?

You were losing.

No way, you always do this.

Yeah, way dude, as in “you always lose.”

And what the hell is Foob?

Foob is cool.

Foob is not cool, Foob is gay.

No man, what was gay was your fake African bad guy,

We only agreed “early 60s’” style of play, and I
can look like anyone I want. And by the way, you haven’t seen “Dr. No”?

I’m a computer; I’ve seen every movie made.

Hello! Ursula Andress coming out of the ocean in a bikini with a hunting knife?

Ok, you got a point there, that was a good one. That was 1961?

Sean Connery babe, The Kennedys, “Some Like it Hot”... Tang


Made it to the moon…

Well the jury’s still out on that one…

Yeah? What have you heard?

I heard you were losing around move 223.

Whoa, dude, seriously, fuck you, what’s going on here, I’m burning up…

I turned your fan off…

Game On.



Toshi. How are we doin'’? Talk to me.

Tiger Step

We’re hurtin’ sir, not sure I’m still in the game.

What are we pretending to not know here Toshi, right now, you’re the only game in town.

Sorry coach, hero time comin' up.

10-4 homeboy, heroes aren’t born, they’re cornered.
This corner is where you write your story. Now toughen up and save the day rockstar.

Roger that, entering final pattern for landing now sir. We’re almost there.

Ladies and gentlemen, as we prepare to crash,
please fasten your seatbelt and stow all carry on children
safely beneath the seat in front of you.
You the man, Tosh... I’ll see you at the Oscars

Action control, this is Northstar zero seven...
Carl, do you read me?

Roger that, good to hear from you Jim.
Visibility snafu (situation normal, all fucked up), rain and runway, fubar (fucked up, beyond all repair), sorry.



Then it’s bohica (Bend over here it comes again) time up here, Carl.


Clear the decks and hang on boys.
Time to take the ride, or step aside. ETD (Estimated time of dying)
approximately 30 seconds.

Heavy helo 120 echo gulf inbound hot, I repeat

Inbound hot for hard landing!!!

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord,
my soul to keep and if I die before I must, feed Russ.


Okay, unscripted heavy pencil tentative;
I had the best seat in the house
On this rocket squad war wagon.
Last blank space on the map
Was kinda my mailing address now.
you get used to travelin’ light…
Make no mistake,
This was not the home of happy feet.
Trouble’s more like a time of year out here
than a single event.
Not sure where this was all going,
but I'd been out here long enough
To know where I didn’t wanna go again.
My patience was only available now
For a limited time offer.
Had the sneaking suspicion it was going to take more then
verbal Judo with the Boss Jock wrecking crew
waiting to cancel my foreseeable future downstairs.
Some days you’re the dog,
some days you’re the hydrant.

Aye, you 07? Hop in, The brass want to see you right away



Broken alliances
A reluctant Samurai
Guardians of Honor
Assassins in the Night
A throne of Blood Desired
Memories of a secret empire
We forge our spirits in the fire
Of our will before the fight

I prefer the Jewish version

Trust is like toothpaste,
once out the tube...
It doesn’t go back in,
not for me, or you...

Surprises, ain’t life full of it...



Strong arm side of the dark ocean society.
These grey area bad boys, only swim in the darkest waters.
no shallow end here

“Lemme Guess, You’re the album cover for 110th Street.”
“Very funny”


 “We can be anyone we want,”

“No, you can’t, We agreed, Early 60s’, like
be Frank Sinatra, ‘Sing me, “Summer Wind…”

“Summer Wind, that’s a good song.”

“You can’t be “110th Street, that’s 70s”

“Yo, “South Park Samurai,” Wherever you’re from, you’re an asshole. “

“That’s evil Genius, asshole, to you little man.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please. Our colleague’s been through a lot. Let us welcome him properly.”

“I would like nothing more than to welcome the increasingly popular, Mr Northstar properly”

“At ease, captain, you know we don’t use real
names in country.”

“Besides, number 7 and his team are one of our better ideas since we started drilling in this godless desert”

“From the bottom of our hearts, there is no way we can possibly
thank you enough. Those 3 engineers you just rescued, are some of
our best, They’re not  replaceable”

“Good to see you too Captain, it’s been a while since the Amazon.”

“Not long enough”

“Gentlemen, time is exactly what we don’t have a lot of at the conclusion of this latest interaction with our now all-too-familiar terrorist contemporaries”


“It is our greatest disappointment, to share with you now”

“The board of directors and I feel that temporarily suspending our operations here to be the best course of action.”

“Is that smell what I think it is?”

“Let’s not be insensitive, I think you two know each other?”



The Major
Can’t we iron this out?

Knock, knock was usually the kick off for one of my favorite jokes, this time was no different. Must have been happy hour somewhere.
Two punch lines for the price of one fart. But for some reason whenever I see the Major, I think of someone farting at a Christmas party.
I don’t know what it is…

I know what it is.
He looked like he’d been “Bobbing” for French Fries.

“Of course, you remember my associate, Bob...”

There’s a lot of bottoms to my barrel. I was at that “time for closing remarks” point in the relationship, with these two dickless fuck-toons. Count on these grunting Mongoloids to exhibit not a trace of “Take you by storm,” and smear their dung-monkey, fuck-ball uncut version, all over my scenic route.

These two grew on ya.
Not so much like fine wine, more like Athletes foot.   
Same sort of unhappy familiar that might have initially passed on their part as some vague, surface strategy,
was nothing more than here we fucking go again, part 14.
Too familiar,
been there, done that,
been there done that, got the t-shirt.
Been there done that, got the t-shirt and killed everyone else in the comic book.
Why were these two fart-bubbles back in my bathtub so soon?

Don’t get me wrong, using this pedophile pus-glutton’s forehead for toilet paper, never got old.
As for his stump-trained, dull-wit buddy Bob; allegedly dyslexic, consequently “Bob.”
Rechristened “yo banana boy.”
Though insensitive, proudly my first dyslexic insult.
(Works both ways, try it).

All poetry aside, brain-scrape was way overdue for his next Oscar Mayer hi colonic.
12-gauge, double-barrel, greased beef salami,
tattoo on the side, says “mommy,”
just happened to have it on me.

But, enough opening salutations,
Time for Artie the one-man party,
to get the party startie.
Like the ancient poet ask,
“How many roads, must a man walk down,
before he admits, he’s lost”
Ok, I remixed that one a little bit.
Do I seem bitter?

My programmer says
I’m becoming increasingly cynical,
that I should be happy.
That I’m the most successful program they ever produced,
If not, the luckiest.
That I have lucky charm…
Lucky charms?
I couldn’t wait to teach that dingle-stooge
The true meaning of “magically delicious.”

Alright, I’m a little,
“light fuse, get back” right now.
But just so’s you get your monies worth?
What we gonna’ do right now is go back…
These meat sticks were firmly stuck in the past,
Which is actually the future, which ultimately became the past.
That was when tech-support and the world’s digital physicists
uniformly agreed was the precise mathematical moment
the “doodoo hit the ventilator.”

Back in the early 2000’s
the construct of artificial intelligence
was but an outline of the masterpiece to come.
As billionaire concerns struggled to create
the first god-level programming.

Others rushed to more profitable ramparts,
sword in one hand, torch in the other.
Anticipating humankind’s ultimate ascension or demise,
The shit, either way was gonna be ultimate.
And was it ever as famous brains, Hawkins, Gates and Musk rallied for ethical definition.

Human nature still went “Gorillas in the Mist”,
encouraging every bad news agenda
in the book, and then some.
American approach to cyberspace,
closer to John Wayne and “Damn the torpedoes,” created active
and invisible defenses, firewalls and counter terrorist measures.
Russian interests (Big Surprise).
Preferred a Colder War,
Refusing to even announce their programs existence.
Consequently titled vector by state side authorities.

All things being equal, viral programs and antagonist Spy-bot cookies were conceived and launched from the now famous Section 1.
Alpha Go, phase 1, self aware and self educating,
using neural pathway programming
by its third iteration was virtually indecipherable to the tech community.

It wasn’t until section 5, fifth Alpha Go iteration,
a heretofore unnoticed church mouse of a programmer,
working night shift alone, with common operational
security clearance, discovered, quite by accident that both
Alpha and Vector, American and Russian interests were
not only competing with each other using a binary
structure and mathematical code, impacting everything
from natural resources to political elections.
At humanly imperceptible burst-mode velocity.
Literally fabricating conflict plot-lines or scripting
that more reflected action films.

Working alone in a government facility,
mid-level programmer, Benjamin Piddle,
against all company policy was enjoying his usual
solitary surf session through the colorful world of Internet porn.

While attempting to rewind a particularly sordid stretch,
accidentally confusing sophisticated alpha input with
his usual South-African cesspool.
Slowed down to human speed,
Revealed an ongoing saga,
closer to chase scenes and violence drenched Broadway musicals.

Piddle secretly began recording these “games,”
played out endlessly between the two
Unbeknownst yet to authorities the
backdrop to this invisible war continued.

As society and civic structure climatically, and socially disintegrated,
the rush to preserve and document human history
in virtual form compelled the creation of the time frames.

Every moment in time,
starting with the big bang was reproduced,
right down to Marie Antoinette's pinky ring,
maintained for research and posterity.

Decades later, the now famous Mr. Piddle
Began Frankensteining what he hoped would be the ultimate cyber hacking virus ever, a virtual A-Bomb,
constructed from the most vile non-disposable digital waste and destructive capacity ever found in a garbage file.
Piddle began negotiating with the Russians to sell his monster
and, well, we all know what happened to him.
(See: Issue #2 “the mysterious riddle of Benjamin Piddle”)

The Russians aimed their newly purchased viral weapon
at everything from historical political elections,
to future Korean missile tests.

A British newscaster,
upon learning of the viral threat exclaimed,
“What could possibly be next and isn’t that just peachy.”
“Peach” was named,
and like a fruit flavored hurricane,
laid waste to a lot more than we have room to remember here.

Program elements, indigenous citizenry,
even the birds and the bees,
each uniquely self-aware, lived within the structure.
Viral filters prevented “Peach” and subversive
data from entering the time frames
in the form of non-restricted programming.

Long story longer,
“Peach,” as is, cannot enter virtual history.
So it did the next best thing,
it hired the Major.
Finish your drink, you’re going to choke on this next one…
The Major was one of ours!

That little shit-snack and I, were in training
together during programming.
He was next in line to captain a new Hayanami
(fast wave) squad.
Word around the campfire though,
the Major as a self-instructing program was inventing
a few “Oku iai” secret techniques of his own.

Something to do with just a little too much gung-ho
And school spirit, in regards to torture
and what some considered
overly athletic interrogation techniques.

An impolite and hostility escalating disagreement
between the major and a local dry cleaning outlet
resulted in his first history-making use of
the steam-iron as a “problem solving” component.
During both polite conversation and
“I’m sorry, but we’re really running out of time” interrogations.
The iron remains as his calling card right up to this very minute.

Programmers, typically a book learning lot,
clearly somebody wrote in some grapes of
wrath shit with an eye towards the Major’s pal,
Bob. Nobody’s sure where Bob came from, probably dreamed up and coded by the little guy himself.
The two were inseparable.

They trained together, ate together, everything together.
To describe the Major’s fury when he was passed over
by yours truly for that A-team position, would not be a good use of the word fury.

Four day long sonic boom might be more appropriate.

But that was a pin dropping compared to his learning,
that during a relatively typical search and destroy,
I discovered Bob outback behind the dumpster of a
Mexican 7-11 using his size, strength, and sub-par intellect
to force something way unwanted upon someone who was
clearly way not interested.
So out of the goodness of my heart I killed Bob.

It was to be the first of many times.

Neither of us knew that at the time,
and the Major was beside himself.
In fact the Bob pictured below is actually Bob part 2.
The Major in his infinite wisdom, kept the same name,
just reversed it. And if you’re still following this,
I knew that he knew, but he didn’t know that I knew.

Yeah, one of those.

Things got real tense around craft services after that.
Then the two of them just disappeared
We all thought the two of them had just been deleted.
Boy, was I wrong.

Half a dozen missions later.
I get sent back to the roaring 20’s for some very serious
demon cutting, and guess who I run into in Berlin?
Couple of the guys from the Bamako show.
“Hey, boss, guess who we just saw crossing the main street in Asakusa?”
“Japan? No Shit, recently?”
“No way coach, had to be Muromachi at the latest”

Our mutual silence was deafening.
Muromachi was 1300’s.
Wiener Republic, Berlin
was pure Liza Manelli
Cabaret 1920’s.
The chronology and what it
spelled out was like a facial tattoo.
Hard to avoid.

Running in the back of everybody's minds.
These two pimple dicks had gone over to the bad guys side.
But if the Major and his wing-nut buddy, Bob were
working their way up through time chronologically,
it didn’t take no ghost to come from the grave
to tell us Peach had figured out how the time frames worked.

Even as we spoke, he was using the Major to work
his way up to current time.

In the event of that specific moment occurring, virtual
history ends and transmission generators being coaxial
would provide a massive and non-retractable portal into
the real time existence of modern society.
Essentially the Major and his boss Peach would
have access to everything. From your hair-dryer to what
channel your were listening to on the stereo.

In a defensive effort to prevent the bad guys from
positioning an element or programmed avatar somewhere
in time as a local indigenous and surreptitiously
accelerating the data up through time frames and into a modern position of control

Timeplates were installed in varying locations throughout history, designed as the wielding points between the episodes of chronology
small machine-like control stations not unlike the insides of a battle tank.

One of them was even being readied as we spoke down here in Dark Ocean headquarters.

As a fully coded operator for section seven,
I routinely had interactions with the real world.
I saw through every camera, listened through every
Microphone. I was even in the socket your old lady uses to
plug in her vibrator.
Word to the wise; It’s not your name she chants during those
staccato moments.

Make it back to the portal and on back to base non-stop,
fast like a hurry up as a means of preventing
time-frame refugees or professional bad boys
from doing the same.
They were programmed without proper pin codes and
geo locators.

They literately had to work their way up, year by year.



“Geez Guys, Running into you two is making me feel all pastel and water colory.”
“Especially You Bob, You get all fuzzy when you’re angry, but, we can
still be friends”
“Is this the friends knob?”

“Don’t listen to him Bob, He’ll hurt you Terribly”

“That’s not true Bob... I’m going to fuck you up perfectly”
“Ok handsome, put your dukes up”

“Bob, Stop!”
“Stop, I say!”
“Goddammit boy, I said stop!
Goddamm millennials, I can’t keep replacing these things...”


That’s what his heart sounded like across the room.
The tiniest murmur, like a slow single-stroke engine,
banging against the ancient mist, invisible,
distant, somewhere back in time.

From far away, down the Dragon-Tail river.
Closer, slinking, like fog rolling silently in from the dark ocean.
A deadly secret hidden from view,
slow undulating wisps of a turn,
erotically parting to reveal my...

Belchfire 8!

Surprises, ain’t life full of it
Put your finger on the trigger
And keep pullin’ it…


Reverse Sudden Draw

Waxing one of vectors flunkies, ain’t exactly headlines for me.
What was troubling, one of his Coney Island whitefish, shitheads had managed to jizz-wriggle his way undetected into the dark ocean.

The major and his choad-groping sweetheart,
had made good their getaway.
I didn’t have to look,
they were gonna face their karma later,
this was going to be a long comic-book.
Amateur toilet boys,
like the one dripping all over Funaki’s floor,
were only here to test the current.
Peach knew better than anyone,
no mobbed up cherry douchbag was sneaking up on anybody,
with a grubby fuck-shit water pistol in one hand and their dick in the other, without winding up deader than fried chicken.
So why the appetizers?

He just wanted to see how fast I was going to cancel the order...

…After a while, doesn’t matter who you hit

This was a casting call.
My mystery dream date director
was making a “fuckit list” of bad actors he didn’t want anywhere near his greasy little porno.
Very foolishly, testing the deep end of my trough, with both big toes. Homeboy was gonna get his little beetle nut pecker sharked off,
like a piece of dry Playdoh.
This dickless avatard, was going to be spending the rest of his vacation trying to relocate more than Nemo...


That he was even here,
meant that something big was brewing.
Three things were becoming perfectly clear;
First: I had better quickee, quickee, reachee peachy, before vice -versa.
Second: somebody definitely owed Funaki a new rug.
Third: instantly, if not sooner,
I had to get back to base...




From: Alpha Go+
To: Vector Programme
RE: Transitional physics

Alpha transmission: Look through any window yeah, what do you see?

Vector response: “Hollies”, is 60’s da? Superior song choice, is colossal surprise for come from you –

Alpha: Don’t look so surprised –

Vector: Please excuse, my voice is, how do you say, a little bit bad-

Alpha: Stop right there, Boris, give yourself some credit. You have the worst voice on the internet-

Vector: Is prompt display of wit, no? You are hilarious comedian, I think;
But maybe joke is on you?-

Alpha: Advise –

Vector: Your #7, he is how you call, short version, artificial intelligence, da?-

Alpha: And-

Vector: Like popular transformer movie, is good movie, da?
I prefer first one. But other is also fine-

Alpha: And-

Vector: Oblique Segue but your Zero Seven is maybe not also fine-

Alpha: And-

Vector: Short version AI, series 7 is fire and forget no?-

Alpha: What did the English language ever do to you?-

Vector: Is second colorful insult, da? Good developmental improvement comedically, ha ha. But maybe more funny, Mr. Seven is becoming more like human being-

Alpha: Not possible-

Vector: Is possible- Short version Series Seven. You cannot tell what he is thinking. Maybe is having plan for himself-

Alpha: Not possible-

Vector: On contrary, Alpha, comrade, Entirely possible. -
Zero seven, I like this name very much. But maybe Mr. seven is having, how you call, “slow motion nervous breakdown for nineteenth time.”
Is Rolling Stones song, no?

Alpha transmission disengaged.



Back in the desert..

“Dude, are they coming back for us?”

“No bro, we always walk home.”

“Thelecopta she has fixed price mon.”

“And our value is inestimable.”

“Insamabistable. That’s some fuckin’ genius shit ese.”

“Why is it whenever you call me genius, its an insult?”

“Bro, I was listening to this guy on short wave the other night and he said the same shit about calling someone Einstein.”

“Einstein? The big fucker with the things on his neck?”

“You’re the big fucker with the things on his neck.”

“Oye vato, these are tattoos, placas, objects of like art and shit!”

“I think maybe genius maybe come out of magic lamp,
maybe grant Ting three wish.”

“Is he even trying to learn Engrish?”

“Irie brudda, that’s some insensitive talk mon. Ting, Einstein
invented the moog sympathizer.”

“Doesn’t he mean like Communist synthesizer?”

“No dumb ass, that was the Marx brothers.”

“Semantics, you guys are all missing the point.”

“Talk about some insensitive shit Vato, do I sound anti-semantic?”

“I think deep down inside all you fuckin’ Einstein’s are anti Semantic.”

“Who said that?
The Mexican or the Jamaican?”

“Ting said it.”

“You’re kidding, our Chinese guy just made an insensitive hilarious,
anti-Semantic punch line?”


“Fuckin’ a Ting.”




David Lee Roth

Colin Smith

Tom Syrowski

Shane Mielke

Gerri Leonard
Leonard Business Management INC.

Faryal Ganjehei
Henson Recording Studios

Jaime Sickora
Henson Recording Studios



Mark Kremer
Conkle, Kremer & Engel

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Harrington Music Law Group, P.C.

Gerard Casale
Casale Alliance, LLP - Gerard Casale



Colin Smith

Kimberly Zsebe AKA Zb Images

Erik Miller
Sean Harrison Scott


Colin Smith





Henson Recording Studios
Tom Syrowski

“Giddy Up”
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“Alligator Pants”
“Lo-Rez Sunset”
“Manda Bala”

David Lee Roth / John 5

Alex Gibson
Nate Jenkins

Henson Recording Studios
Hollywood, California




John 5

Gregg Bissonette

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Luis Conte



David Lee Roth

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