Archive for the ‘Back Ground History’ Category

I won’t go into all the reason; some personal, some technical, some fiscal but there hasn’t been much movement on the whole Burning Car Press front of recent. To be honest, everything has pretty much come to a grinding halt, for which I can but apologise. Life as they say, gets very much in the way of our best laid plans. The good news, as I’m sure you will have by now guessed, is that there is once again motion. Victory, my poisoned children of time, is within our grasp.

  • So swill out those blood stained shot glasses.
  • Wipe clean the carpet of all those wasted bodily fluids.
  • Sieve that as yet unidentified tooth from the bottom of the Tequila.
  • Gird your loins and wipe away those tears.
  • Surrender, but don’t give yourself away.
  • Unfold your copy of TOPTA-lite and wipe the encrustment from your set of Ringo Dice (there on sale; did you know that?)
  • Prepare yourselves mein kinda; the grave calls louder to us all, but we’ve fun, madness and mockery yet to sing.

The site is up. The TOPTA lite rules are available and a scenario will soon be available too. Due in part to the change in the weather, Witches and Heros and The Big E, have also begun to lurch, spastic to a table top near you. And plans are afoot, from the besieged play testers of Worthing for a blitzkrieg to the soothing and melancholic mountains of southern Wales for PWOD 3. Yes, like poorly prepared beef tartare, the Porthcawl Weekend of Death is to repeat upon us. Time Agent Teackle, J is, as we speak, on the red phone (THE RED PHONE!!) to a bemused Welsh Milk Maid, negotiating landing rights for our crystal ships and for cattle upon which to experiment.

So rejoice. In 15 billion years, there’ll be no one to hear the laughter.

Karl x

from the moment the tequila touches your lips ...

from the moment the tequila touches your lips and the Cosmos cannon fires …

And so as the stars fall in on themselves and time its’ self fractures and becomes a myriad of disparate, unequal shifting events; the cosmological version of Alzheimer’s disease, something continues where nothing should continue. A hundred thousand engines burn white, propelling the last city of man outward and away from the crushing chaos where even poor Azathoth must meet his blind senseless destruction. “Worthing ! Worthing ! Worthing !” The last city of human kind, the glowing beauty of earth’s children, the summation of all that was once good and noble; ploughs through the frozen empty smile at the end of time, a pin prick of light in the nothing that is becoming. Worthing with it’s vast inversion energy generator (I. E. G. ) always in balance, always in tune; creating the force bubble that surrounds and protects it in the long slumber, protects the pyramids of gold and the silver spires, the libraries, the museums, the bordellos, the torture gardens, the Chemical Insanity Churches and the gravity freeze banks where the dreamers are stored; but not to dream.

Imagine being thrown naked into liquid Nitrogen while immense gravitational forces are brought to bear and fold the point of your existence into a never ending loop. Imagine the blackness that follows, imagine that death that is not death, imagine sleeping for ten million years without a flickr of thought. Imagine your brain sending a signal to your arm to shield your face and by the time all of human history has begun, evolved and ended; you’ve shielded your face.

And so this is where, technically at least, it all goes wrong.

(above) Observation Bunker 33A

Well, time, it’s a tricky bastard. Some say its’ alive, a conscious entity, and we’re like the bugs and microbe that infest our own bodies; clearly some people are twats. Others that time is like a pond freezing over; that we can only see the edge where we stand above the water and that under the ice in the dark, black void beneath our feet, things flounder, entities that should never be; swim and search for weakness, and when they find fracture in the ice they break through. No one is really sure. What they are sure of is that while everyone was dead but not dead, while a billion stars screamed and died, something moved through the impenetrable force wall entered Worthing from Observation Bunker 33A, ejected all the pre-designed body moulds for the dreamers to awake in, wiped the history files from the computers, and blew most of the city including the museum of DNA. Which most people from the future consider a bit of a pisser to be honest.

So why Ringo Starr ?

This really takes us back to computers and machines and choices. Some would say a bad choice.

With no templates or DNA left from which to construct new bodies the computers set about looking for any DNA they could find. They searched every where and eventually after a couple of thousand years they found some. The last DNA vestige of an entire people and their long and troubled history. In the museum of “Pop” music, donated by a besotted groupie, a bummed dog end of a joint, dropped on the floor of a recording studio: The Sunset Studio and producers workshop in Los Angeles in the summer of 1974. The Album being recorded was “Goodnight Vienna”. Recorded by Ringo Starr. And so, with the only genetic variance being that of gender, the computers set about building the replacement bodies for the dreamers that do not dream; and when they awoke from their artificial death, they wished it hadn’t been so artificial after all.

An Outline of Sorts

This is how the future was sold:

1. The universe as we know it is about to end. Bummer.

2. What are we going to do?

1. I know. Let’s construct some-sort of force dome about the city and ride out the heat death of the universe.

2. Sounds good. How longs that going to take?

1. 10 million years tops.

2. Mmmmm.

1. You don’t sound convinced.

2. My average life-span is only 120 years.

1. I know. You like porn ?

2. Well, of course, what right minded individual wouldn’t.

1. Do you like sex ?

2. Well …

1. With vast quantities of well oiled, tanned voluptuous people ?

2. Of course …. I …

1. Men hung like donkeys, women of exacting beauty, with great bouncy bits, who can suck and fuck, then fuck and suck again ?!

2. YES ! Goddamn ! YES !!!

1. Now imagine a future of genetically engineered beauty, designer drugs and free porno sex without consequence. An age of eternal youth, where when you get bored of one body, you can design another and swap you’re consciousness into whatever anorexic freak this years cat walk demands.

2. I can imagine that ! Honestly its’ like I’m there !

1. Right, well all we have to do freeze our brain/conciouness, and let the computers keep everything running and building lots of young bodies for us to occupy upon our return from hyper sleep

2. Mmmmmm

1. You don’t sound convinced ?

2. Computers. Don’t they sometimes goes wrong?

1. Not these one buddy. Remember, we live in the far future anyway, so these are super duper computers. Nothing – and I personally guarantee this – nothing can go wrong.

2. Well, as long as I don’t wake up in 10 million years time to discover I’m trapped in some fucking bleak Orwellian future, that’s fine.

10 million years in the future, Post Heat Death (PHD) This was how the future turned out:

Architecture of the future. It's a bit sodding bleak.

2. Oh my lack of God. I’ve woken up in some fucking bleak Orwellian nightmare ! Where are my porno Goddesses ? Where is that fucking salesman ? And why in the name of Barry McTavish, does every cunt look like Ringo Starr ?

Next Blog: Why every cunt looks like Ringo Starr