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Southeast: Day Two.

Atlanta is burning. We left the city this morning under the cover of a heavy fog and aluminum foil poptart wrappers. There was a dog barking…a pug who’d, the night before, wandered out into this wasteland, and in this blighted place, we think, learned to live again. God’s little mistake…The Warrior..The Pug…Max.
The night before was a thing of beauty. Our candlelit dinner theater extravaganza was witnessed by one transplanted Mississippian and a face-painted warrior comrade from Atlanta’s neighbor: Georgia. He was a fierce beast. And although their combined cover charges weren’t quite enough to cover the bar’s steep production costs…we were treated like kings and rewarded for our valor in Ireland’s finest Vodka. The Vodka was divided amongst each of us and every man celebrated with it in their own way. Most drank. Commander dowsed himself with his share in hopes of human-torching up and down Piedmont street, but he failed.
We stayed the night in The Major’s Nest high atop Bald Eagle Hill on Bald Eagle Way…just before you get to eaglet street. The Major wasn’t in, but we were welcomed and made comfortable by an old friend and ally, Kristin:the Entomolgizer. She showed us to our, as yet unmatched, sleeping quarters complete with a glorious Lego fortress. Scartoe slept in the arms of a giant brown bear.
Tonight, Tallahassee showed us a good time. She held the door for us, and picked up the check, and treated us to a crapload of tough metal. We are recovering from the night’s wrath, even as I type, from our new-found Tallahassee home base: W.A.S.P.N.E.S.T.
Our new allies: Lee, Hogan, and Alex (and their Harry P. look-alike roommate Rob) are fading quickly as I write these words…They are dropping like flies…Charlie is all around us, and that Charlie’s name is Sleep. Tomorrow we make for Gainsville with everything we’ve got. God-willing, we’ll be there by sundown.
Sleep well faithful readers, for tomorrow brings untold danger and unmatched fear…Samhain is neigh…

–end transmission–

The Seven Days War.

Last night, we packed our bags and slept our last good night’s sleep for seven days. For today, we begin our journey to the SouthEast. Repairs were made to the machines late into the night (those that suffered near destruction on our last two battles in Baltimore).  We are southbound now. As I type from the belly of the rolling Thundercon, this machine called Jesse Christine the last of the V8 Interceptors, we see that we may well be too late. For miles now we’ve seen nothing but destruction. A white line nightmare. This sight weighs heavy on our hearts. Onward we drive… into the smoke… into this maelstrom of decay, where ordinary men are battered and smashed. If we make it through the night, we will count ourselves lucky. This is a shell of a place. A burned out desolate land haunted by the demons of its past. And as we wander out into this wasteland, we can’t help but wonder, in this blighted place… will we crumble? Will we fall? Or will we learn to live again?…like Max did…you know…The Warrior Max.

“The Fight for Light”

If and when we return home on the fifth of November…we will finally return to the studio to begin the fight of fights. Stand with us now men and women of the Southeast. We need you more than ever.


Release The Beast…

Last night we bid farewell to our dear friend and ally Armando Apache Putay. He left the Thundercon, never to return. His days are over in this dark world….he’s gone on to a better place….a place on high….a place with central heat and air…a usable kitchen…and a train with several dogs in the back yard. Though his doors are small…you need only duck to gain entry. Last night, the sky was clear and our hearts were warm with the fires of memories past, as he walked his final walk down the Steps of Thunderconia. We loaded up Jesse The Interceptor with all of his worldly belongings…knowing very well that he can’t take him with him on the final journey…but he can enjoy them for now. There are no words for the amount of sadness we feel this day….but I suppose you could say that we have at least several bushels of sadness…if you were to use harvesting terms.

Now I know the news I have brought upon you has torn you down to your rawest of emotions…..but I know you are strong…I know you can make it through these hard times…my only hope is that we, as a people, can make it through this together. That being said, the time is now to stand up and fight for our freedoms to have at least one Putay for every household. As your president, I will make sure that Karate Kid will NOT be remade by Will “aww hell no” Smith…or any of his fellow Bel-Air party-mates. As leader of the newly formed Larusso Preservation Society I will never rest until all men know the timeless lessons we, each of us, can learn from our dearly departed friend and leader Pat Morita… the mistakes we can avoid by watching the rise and fall of John Kreese as a Karate sensei, his short return to the military, only to fall again under the command of Marshall Murdock and John Rambo’s quick knee to his manhood… and his eventual rise and second fall as mastermind behind the plot to get back at Morita and Macchio for that scene outside of the All Valley tournament. Yes, the time is upon us. We will be having group meetings in the Southeast starting October 29th. We need you to be there with us. The tentative title for our Southeastern meetings is:

“Fighting Kreese in the Southeast”

Here is a list of places where said Meetings will be located:
October 29th – Atlanta, GA – Smith’s Olde Bar
October 30th – Tallahassee, FL – The Beta Bar
October 31st – Gainesville, FL – Backstage Lounge
November 1st – Savannah, GA – Savannah Actor’s Theater
November 2nd – Charleston, SC – The Map Room
November 3rd – Greenville, NC – Spazzatorium Galleria
November 4th – Richmond, VA – Alley Katz

Bring the War to Kreese’s Door!


P.S. – To those who live in, or near, Orlando…we are sorry to inform you that your own Social has seen fit to cancel our meeting there. I guess they feel that we can’t “bring the party.” We were forced to move it to Gainesville, FL. War.