Badass Dragons of the Wasteland - Round Six Results

Hi Everybody,

Once again, I must apologize for leaving everything hanging for so long. Even though my new job doesn’t actually start paying me for another three weeks, I’ve been kind of buried by it already… lining up an audio mixing stage, getting bids from post production facilities, securing editing equipment… I’m very sorry, folks, I did not expect to be this busy so soon. Add in some water damage to the house from last week’s rain and a couple of sick kids, I really should have handed over the BDW reins to someone else last week.

But I’m back into it now, the worst is over, and together we’ll get through this. Thank you all for your patience and support, and most of all for keeping this thing fascinating and fun! I love what you’re doing. It has made my crappy little adventure into a tale and an experience that I’ll never forget.

Now let’s turn back the clock a bit. I’m dying to find out what happened to Junior and De’Ath before Mad Mel showed up at Warner Bros, and likewise I can’t wait to see what befell the folks at Paramount and Hollywood Forever before Bill and the Major discovered the Super Mutants’ prisoners down in the riverbed. But first, let’s venture far below the streets of Los Angeles, down to the catacombs beneath Fleetwood’s old Citadel, and beyond…

-“Christ, what a Gothic dump. Are we even in L.A. anymore?” whispered Balthar.

-“I had no idea these catacombs were so extensive,” said Cougar. “We’re not underneath the Citadel anymore.”

-“No shit. We’ve been driving for miles, and it feels like we’ve been down here for a week,” grumbled Channing. “Where the hell is all the loot?”

An eerie cool breeze blew through the tunnel, dry and ancient. This was nothing like the Los Angeles of the surface. A century of glamour and squalor, poverty and greed, fire and earthquakes, prosperity and desperation, apocalypse and annihilation, all had passed unnoticed down here in the depths far below the streets. The nuclear blast that felled City Hall just before its 99th birthday (and nearly thirty years after it was retrofitted to withstand an 8.2 magnitude earthquake) barely disturbed the cobwebs down here.

The engineers of L.A.'s long-defunct original subway bored their way down far below Bunker Hill, and broke through into these tunnels… briefly. Within a day they’d bricked up the hole they’d made, retreated back down the tunnel they’d spent the last month digging, flooded it with every sack of concrete they had remaining, took two weeks off work, and when work resumed it was with an entirely new crew digging in the opposite direction.

Almost nobody before the War knew of the existence of the Hollow beneath Los Angeles, and those that did perished with a grateful smile on their lips that it was nuclear holocaust that ended the world as they knew it… and not What Dwelt Below.

(in His† younger, much-smaller days from a long-ago century)

-“This is bulllll… shit,” exclaimed Rideword. “We went the wrong way, and we need to be heading back.”

-“I… uh… I’m not ready to go back through there yet,” stammered Balthar.

-“Where? The Citadel basement?” asked Channing. “You really thought that was worse than this place? Sure, it was creepy and atmospheric, but nothing actually bothered us.”

-“You weren’t looking around. You were staring straight ahead, concentrating on the floor.”

-“Hey, I’m a Driver. I’m supposed to watch the road, not rubberneck at all the pretty spectral lights flickering around us.”

-“So you did see 'em!”

-“Sure, but they didn’t bother us, did they?”

-“You’re right,” said Cougar. “They seemed… almost glad to see us.”

-“They practically lit the way for us,” noted Rideword. “And these aren’t supposed to be, like, friendly ghosts. Why do you suppose they guided us down here?”

-“Whaddaya mean, ‘guided us’?” asked Channing. “How many ways were there to go?”

-“You shoulda been lookin’ around more,” said Balthar. “They lit up the path they wanted us to take, and kept the other ways dark so we wouldn’t notice them.”

-“That sounds awfully paranoid,” said Cougar.

-“Doesn’t sound unreasonable to me, Cougar,” Rideword put in. “We’re lost down here, driving for hours, runnin’ low on gas, and we haven’t seen anything like what you said we’d find down here.”

-“Billy, what do you think?”

Billy Murray rode shotgun next to Cougar, resting his rump on the passenger headrest and leaning his elbows on the convertible’s windshield frame. His proton pack hummed softly, all dials green. He gazed comfortably at their surroundings, thoroughly in his element for the first time since he could remember.

-“I think your nervous and paranoid friends aren’t wrong. We saw plenty of your minor spooks, specters, and ha’ants back there, from the moment we descended below the kitchen. Nothing worth firing up the ol’ proton pack over, of course. Even with these fancy new shitty-smelling batteries, we have to conserve our firepower where we can.”

-“Hell, why’d we bother bringing you, Bill?” growled Balthar.

-“Because you’ll need me. These Class 3 spirits can’t do any serious damage to us. All they can do is confuse us or spook us if we let them. But we gotta watch out for poltergeists. Those are the ones that getcha.”

-“How do you mean?” asked Channing.

-“They can physically affect the material world. They’re the ones who knock over chairs, make clocks run backward, that kind of thing. They’re what we call Class 2 apparitions. My dad called 'em gremlins. They love to play hell with machinery and the works of humanity.”

-“Machinery. Oh, great.”

-“I expect they must have moved the loot, then the Class Threes started teasing and luring us deeper into the tunnels, maybe so the Class Twos can cause us more mischief before we get back out.”

-“All right, I’m calling it. We’re aborting this mission,” said Cougar.

-“Should have pulled the plug ages ago,” muttered Balthar.

-“Yeah, yeah, you were right, I was wrong. Now let’s move it. Which way is out?”

-“Aw, hell,” groaned Rideword. “We’re lost, aren’t we?”

-“Not to worry, kids. This is not my first rodeo, remember.” Billy consulted a dial gauge. “The proton pack always emits a weak positronic exhaust out the nozzle when it’s powered up. Think of it as a pilot light. We can follow the proton signatures back out. This thing’s gotten me out of many a subterranean labyrinth between auditions. There was that time beneath Wes Anderson’s gardening shed…”

Click here to enable an evocative sound effect.

-“What the hell was that?”

-“Best we should get moving kids. On the way, I should probably give you a brief description of the Class One…”

Billy trailed off as something caught his eye off to the right.

-“Class one?” asked Channing.

-"…Uhhh… nevermindtimetogojustdrivedrivedrive DriveDriveDrive ***DRIVEDRIVEDRIIIIIVE!!!***"

Billy swung round the proton pack nozzle and squeezed the trigger as the vehicles leaped back down the dark tunnel. The actinic glare of the positronic stream seared everyone’s retinas through their fully dilated irises, and only their long driving experience and telepathic connection kept them from crashing or getting separated as they blindly hurtled back the way they’d come. On a hunch, Balthar screamed “Go left!” and the convoy ducked into a side tunnel they’d missed the first time. A growing cacophany of unearthly shrieks and roars swelled in the corridor outside as Billy poured a merciless stream of atomic fire through the crumbling threshold at the ghosts behind them, baring his teeth and snarling like a bloodthirsty (if somewhat portly and balding and frankly past middle-aged) savage warrior. Balthar skidded to a halt, forcing Rideword and Cougar to swerve to avoid rearending his Cobra. Channing’s Hilux, once again cornered by her mates with no room to maneuver, banged into the Cobra’s boot with an undignified crunch.

-“God DAMMIT, Desmond! You can’t DO that when we’re running full tilt through tunnels barely big enough for…”

Channing trailed off as her eyes adjusted to the faint glow coming off what Balthar was staring at. A column of shoeboxes, three deep and six wide, rose up and up and up toward the vaulted ceiling until it was lost to sight.

-"…the hell’s that?" murmured Rideword.

-“Fleetwood’s sneaker collection,” said Cougar.

-“Didn’t he ever wear any of them?”

-“Never mind the shoes, we found his stash!”

-“No time to window-shop, kids,” growled Billy around an ancient stub of a cigar that had materialized between his teeth at some point. “Stuff your pockets quick and let’s go.”

Rideword began tossing full gas cans into the back of his Vanagon. As he slid open the side door, the door handle came off in his hand. “Son of a…”

-“That’s the Class Twos. Get moving before your ride falls apart completely.”

-“I don’t see anything…”

-“The Class Threes are the ones who put on the sound and light show. You’d never hear or see a gremlin at work until your engine quits on the on-ramp, or your brakes fail right before the hairpin turn. If your shit’s falling apart, get the hell out now.”

Everyone just threw whatever they were holding into their passenger seats and put their rides in gear. Just as they neared the last tunnel before the kitchen ramp, Channing’s Hilux died. She twisted the key to no avail. “They killed my battery!” she yelled. “Somebody give me a bump!”

And then there was that sound again. The ceiling boomed. A shower of gravel and dust fell.

-“The Class One!” bellowed Billy. He twisted the dials on the proton pack to their maximum setting. “Everyone get behind me!”

Cougar rolled behind Channing’s Hilux, dropped the gearshift into first, and eased out the clutch. Tires spun in the loose gravel. A rearview mirror popped off. Balthar’s Cobra developed a noisy exhaust leak. Rideword’s Vanagon started misfiring.

As Billy climbed over Cougar’s trunklid and stood to face what approached from behind, a flickering orange light illumined the ancient concrete columns. Spectral figures flitted about the cavernous tunnel from floor to ceiling, but even they parted respectfully for the Presence that strode forward out of the gloom.

Billy’s eyes narrowed and he hefted his nozzle purposefully. “Don’t turn around, guys. Don’t even try to sneak a peek. I got this.”

Cougar shoved the Hilux forward. The Toyota’s engine spun once, almost caught, died again. Rideword threw a tow cable to Balthar, who hurriedly hooked it over the Hilux’s front bumper.

-"You!! Shall not!!! Pass!!" bellowed Billy. The Class One took another step forward.

Cougar and Rideword shoved. The Hilux lurched, then its engine roared to life.

-"Smile, you son of a bitch!" hollered Billy. The Class One grinned, then pointed a fat-knuckled prehensile appendage toward Cougar.

-"Get away from her, you…"

-“Shut the fuck up, Billy!” shouted Cougar. “Now get in!!”

But Bill Murray wasn’t about to take direction from a non-DGA amateur. “Tell Brian I love him, but he shoulda stayed away from sitcoms,” he yelled. He squeezed the trigger just as the vehicles began to move. The proton pack exploded in a brilliant display of self-contained thermonuclear fusion. Billy and the Class One Entity were utterly obliterated in the blast, their constituent subatomic particles mingled, and both learned to forgive and forget and in fact became quite fond of each other before the half-lives of their least-stable nuclei expired.

The proton pack’s casing welded itself to Cougar’s rear bumper, and the black convertible was engulfed in atomic flame for a few seconds before Rideword could free his extinguisher from its bracket and put her out.

Smoky silence reigned inside the tunnel. Other than the three remaining working headlights between them, the darkness was absolute.

But an hour later, they emerged into the predawn gloom of Los Angeles.

†Yes, “His.” Prehensile though they may be, those are not exactly tentacles.

—Mission 1—

Channing Hunter (gwwar), Escort:
You encountered 7584 ghosts, but you ain’t 'fraid of no ghost! But you did also encounter 69 poltergeists, which you are afraid of. With your EN they caused 0.62 damage each for a total of 42 HP, leaving you with 41 HP.

Rideword (Solomon), Mule:
You encountered 6320 ghosts, but you ain’t 'fraid of no ghost! But you did also encounter 48 poltergeists, which you are afraid of. With your EN they caused 1.11 damage each for a total of 53 HP, leaving you with 26 HP.

Desmond Balthar (Steampunk Banana), Scout:
You encountered 4698 ghosts, but you ain’t 'fraid of no ghost! But you did also encounter 29 poltergeists, which you are afraid of. With your EN they caused 0.88 damage each for a total of 25 HP, leaving you with 6 HP.


Junior’s rig made short work of the fence. “Hey, Lemmy, wanna grab the shovel from the sleeper?”

-“Don’t think you’re gonna need it, mate. Looks like most of the tenants have done the excavatin’ for ya, innit?”

-“We don’t want the empty ones. We want the ones that still have fingers inside.”

-“Bloody hell, mate, it’s your funeral. Heh. Here y’go.”

-“Where you off to?”

-“Gotta pay my respects.”

-“He’s not actually a hell of a lot of help, is he, Junior?”

-“I’m not complaining yet, De’Ath. He’s the only one I’ve met who knows how to dial in the EQ on the E.A.R.A.C.H.E. the way I like. Plus he’s got excellent taste in…”

-“Watch your six, Burton. Dead celebs coming your way.”

-“Wouldja look at that. Strother Martin? Who knew he was buried here?”

-“Junior, I’d recommend you get back in your…”

-“Mister Martin, I’m such a big fan. Could you say it just once? C’mon, say it. ‘What we have here is failure to communi-’ ***YEEEOOOWWCCHHH!!!***”

-“Jesus Christ, Burton. Why don’t you ever listen?”

-“Sonofabitch, that smarts. Hey!! Look, it’s Lee Van Cleef. He won’t be any help, he never did have fingers to spare.”

-“Never liked him anyway. He couldn’t be trusted to keep up his side of any deal. Hey Van Cleef! Kiss my cracked ass! OWWWCCHH!!! God damn you. When I get back, I’m gonna kill you.”

-“He’s already dead, Junior. For the love of God, will you stop feeding the zombies and help me dig?”

-“He bit me, De’Ath! The sonofawhore bit my thumb off!”

Lemmy ambled over. “Ronnie Dio could sympathize. At least it wasn’t a garden gnome that got yours.”

-“Come on, Junior. Two people can dig a lot quicker than one. Dig.”

Van Cleef wheeled around and chomped one of De’Ath’s fingers.

-“Fuck me that hurt!” complained De’Ath.

-“Guess he didn’t feel you did justice to his lines,” snickered Junior.

De’Ath whirled the shovel over his head and drove the blade through Van Cleef’s neck, severing the offending head from the body.

-“Right. Let’s get what we came for and piss off before we run out of digits.”

-“Christ on a bike, what’s that?”

-“Oh, him? That’s just Marty Feldman, Lem. Don’t be frightened, he’s a hell of a nice guy, by all accounts.”

-“Think he can help us out? I seem to remember he has experience with filthy jobs just like this.”


-“OWWW!!! God damn these shit-eating dead movie stars!”

-“Heh. ‘Shit-eating.’ Doesn’t speak well for your own fingers, does it, De’Ath?”

-“Shut up, Burton, or I’ll just bring a few of your fingers back to Stretch’s head, since you’re so casual with 'em.”

-“I’d love to see you try it, De’Ath.”

-"'Scuse me gentlemen, there’s an autograph I need to get."

-“The hell you talkin’ about, Lemmy? Didn’t you already see Dio?”

-“Nah, mate, it’s Reginald Gardiner. Me mum worshipped the man. The Great Dictator, A Yank in the R.A.F., The Dolly Sisters, Christmas in Connecticut…

-“Lemmy, let’s just get the fuck outta here. Here, guys, let’s just drag this casket onto my truck and we can bail on this joint… there!”


-“Shit! Christ, we gotta get outta here while we can still steer! Who were those guys?!”

-“Tex Avery and Bob Clampett. I’d have thought they’d rest more peacefully, since they’re buried in such a splendid spot across the river from Warner Bros.”

-“Nah, Termite Terrace was on Sunset. Guess they would have been happier at Hollywood Forever. Assholes. No pleasing some people.”

-“Speaking of Warner Bros, come on, Lem. We got a car to find.”

-“Be right with you, Burton,” growled De’Ath as he swerved and floored the gas pedal.


-“Shit, Gonny, what the hell did you have against Annette Funicello?”

-“Long story, beginning with an unsuspected peanut allergy. Never mind.”

-“Oh. And Stan Laurel?”

-“I’m an Abbott & Costello man, as all right-thinking souls should be.”

-“Yeah, okay, I buy that. So why are you wearing Telly Savalas as a hood ornament?”

-“He just didn’t get out of the way in time when I splattered Jack LaLanne.”

-“Okay, reasonable as ever. Mind the guard shack there.”

-“I wouldn’t have to if your truck hadn’t knocked it completely off its base into my path.”

-“Excuse the hell out of me. You called ahead and arranged drive-on passes, then?”

-“You might want Lemmy to hand you the shovel. You appear to have Rod Steiger and Jeff Porcaro clinging to your mirrors.”

-“God, I hate Toto. Lemme bash 'im for ya.”

-“Be my guest, Lem. Oh, and De’Ath, if the oversized cheque is anything to judge by, you’ve got Ed McMahon stuck in your grille.”

-“I’ll scrape him off once we find the garage.”

-“And unless I miss my guess, that’s Donald O’Connor tapdancing on your trunk lid. Damn, all these years he’s been in the ground, and he’s still got the greatest feet in town. Oops… well, he did. The left one seems to have snapped off.”

-“Junior, I spy with my monocled eye a 1959 Cadillac ambulance.”

-“Yeah, that looks like the one.”

-“And Liberace crawling up your E.A.R.A.C.H.E.”

-“Let 'im stay. He’s earned it.”

-“What should we do about those guards? Looks to be two dozen of them.”

-“Run 'em over, same as always. I have a feeling they’d thank us if they were still human.”

-“All right… there we go. Now, to load the Ecto into your rig.”

-“Lemmy, could you do the honors?”

-“Right, boss.”

-“Hell, De’Ath, this was almost a walk in the park, at least if Stretch really can fix these goddamned missing fingers.”

-“If you say so, Burton. I’m going to take a quick look 'round the backlot. I thought I saw a suspicious-looking black car duck down the alley there behind Stage 16.”

-“Stay outta trouble, De’Ath. We’ll meet you back at the Ark.”

—Mission 2—

Sir Gonville De’Ath (daneel), Escort:

From zombies you had 19 HP of damage from 243 encountered - 13 regular damage from 32 hits, 7 critical damage from 17 critical hits. Chomp! 3 fingers lost at -2 MV each! And, you encountered 11 WB security guards, who caused 0.79 damage each for a total of 9 HP. That’s a total of 28 HP of damage, leaving you with 40 HP.

Jack Burton, Jr. aka “Junior” (funruly), Mule:

From zombies you had 15 HP of damage from 129 encountered - 11 regular damage from 8 hits, 4 critical damage from 3 critical hits. Chomp! 3 fingers lost at -2 MV each! And, you encountered 13 WB security guards, who caused 1.22 damage each for a total of 16 HP. That’s a total of 31 HP of damage, leaving you with 24 HP.


In a world… gone utterly mad, where mutant surfers bite your tires and the most common automobile paint scheme is “clotting blood”…

In a world where everything mankind ever accomplished was eclipsed by a talking toilet…

Sometimes, the answers we never thought to seek… rise up and clobber us right between the eyes.

-“Y’know,” whispered Nervous Mike, “if all we have to worry about here is vampires, why didn’t we just show up during the daytime?”

-“What I want to know,” answered Bill the Bum, “is why this place happens to be fulla vampires, when the rest of L.A. is just full of zombies?”

-“Whoops! Better watch my step there.” Major Talleyrand-LaRoche bent to examine the headstone over which he’d tripped. “Oho! I do believe I may have stumbled upon your answer, dear boy!”

-“Well. I guess that explains it.”

-“Too bad Junior didn’t bring Lemmy on this run,” said Bubba Zanetti. “Old Man Kilmister might have liked to pay his respects to this guy.”

-“Sí, es verdad,” said Bertie Gomez. “Lemmy was a big fan and a friend.”

An evil hissing sound rose from around the corner of the nearest mausoleum.

-“Right, lads. Flamethrowers at the ready?” asked the Major.

The undead immortals of Hollywood shuffled into view.

-“Great Googly-Moogly,” whispered Bill. “Is that Peter Lorre?”

-“Gah!” choked Bubba. “It’s Carl ‘Alfalfa’ Switzer!”

-“Estelle Getty!” wailed Nervous Mike. “Don’t let her get me!!”

As Rudolph Valentino approached to offer the timeless embrace of the endless centuries from which Hollywood Forever derives its name, Bertie stood fast and engulfed the encroaching stars in flame. Constance Talmadge dissolved into ashes. Leon Schlesinger briefly became the walking charcoal pencil his employees at Warner Animation sometimes wished he’d turn into during endless story notes sessions about Foghorn Leghorn… and then he blew away in the next breeze. George Harrison observed the proceedings with satisfaction; having been cremated in 2001 he thought it was pretty fucking pretentious for all these dead stars to be wandering around biting people instead of just getting on with it and elevating their consciousness.

Bill, being the least lucky breathing person present, suffered the most at the hands of the bloodsucking ghouls, but by the time the last Undeadite Celeb had been purified with the cleansing flame of righteousness (or “given a napalm enema” as the Major put it), our heroes were still standing, the untainted flesh and fingers of Mel Blanc, Marion Davies, and Iron Eyes Cody carefully exhumed and packed into a relatively clean Trader Joe’s shopping bag that happened to be blowing past, and a hole was punched through the south wall into the Paramount studio backlot.

I’ll tell you later how they found the Prop House, and what they retrieved therein. Some pretty cool stuff, but it’s 3:00 AM now and I’ve misplaced that page of my notes. Be back soon with the rest!

—Mission 3—

Bertie Gomez (Palomeque), Mule:

Your LK of 21 led to 5 vampires attacking you! Due to your AR of 112 and effective flamethrower FP of 102 they caused 4.7 HP damage each for a total of 23, leaving you with 42 HP. Your high FP and AR saved you.

Mike “Nervous” Snelvuur (Kingannoy), Escort:

Your LK of 58 led to 2 vampires attacking you! Due to your AR of 57 and effective flamethrower FP of 95 they caused 6.6 HP damage each for a total of 12, leaving you with 34 HP. High LK and FP saved you.

Maj. Joseph Talleyrand-LaRoche (peregrinus_bis), Scout:

Your LK of 40 led to 3 vampires attacking you! Due to your AR of 45 and effective flamethrower FP of 72 they caused 8.5 HP damage each for a total of 26, leaving you with 12 HP. As best as I can tell, your LK is the only reason you’re alive!

Bubba Zanetti (bizmail_public), Scout:

Your LK of 59 led to 2 vampires attacking you! Due to your AR of 59 and effective flamethrower FP of 87 they caused 6.8 HP damage each for a total of 14, leaving you with 24 HP. Your high LK saved you!

Bill the BUM (webiii1976), Mechanic:

Your LK of 18 led to 7 vampires attacking you! Due to your AR of 117 and effective flamethrower FP of 102 they caused 4.0 HP damage each for a total of 28, leaving you with 3 HP. Wow! Your FP and AR were exceptional, but your miserable LK meant lots of vampires!


Haha! Bloody vampires! Pun intended, wretched things!

Two fingers to them - ha! Er … hold on … other hand - there you go! Up yours, Dracula!

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Where’s Clankenstein?



Clank was headed to the Citadel.

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Hang on, I like Abbott and Costello and I don’t like Lee Van Cleef?

What the hell’s gone wrong with me?

I also seem to have developed an ability to recognize people I’ve never heard of. Could be useful.

Good job I ran into Max. I ordered one extra spare finger, seems that wasn’t enough.

Pardon my lack of attribution. Junior doesn’t like him (both of those lines of dialogue were his, part of the same thought bisected by the picture); you respected Mr Van Cleef just fine until he took a bite out of you.

The Abbott & Costello dig was just me making mischief. :wink:


After a certain amount of exchanged glances and "I thought he was with you"s, the Mission One folks start to worry.

Where is the good Reverend Clank?


Vampire trouble?

Well, I never had the run-ins with him that Junior did (is there anyone here Junior doesn’t have previous with?).


Hi everyone,

I forgot to mention in the results I relayed to Cougar that Bill the BUM (@webiii1976 ) had a special plan for his mission which did, in fact, help him and everyone else out!

Bill, your molotov cocktail/road flare plan warded off two additional vampires that swarmed towards you and which surely would have killed you had they a chance to attack. Additionally, the garlic spam and chocolate ex-lax pizzas you distributed did help everyone a bit! Good thinking.

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It’s a postapocalyptic version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Junior really does seem to be merely one or two degrees of separation from absolutely everyone.

(in happier days, no doubt)

But seriously, on an OOC note, there has really been an entertaining degree of serendipity involved in this game. Lee Van Cleef really is buried at Forest Lawn Hollywood Hills, as is everyone else I mentioned there. That was Dio’s monument, though the statue of him is from somewhere in Bulgaria (I think); I couldn’t resist how cool it looked. But for the most part I’ve tried to keep the pictures legitimately tied to their locations. The subway tunnel is in fact underneath downtown L.A., the WB water tower picture and the nighttime one of “Gotham City Hall” were taken by me last Monday evening when the tower was in the middle of being repainted, and even the red 1955 Lincoln Futura (the Batmobile prototype) just happened to be parked on the lot when I chanced to stroll by last week. Before last night, I didn’t know that Vampira was buried at Hollywood Forever, and I’d totally forgotten that Johnny Ramone was there too (well, his wife has his ashes until she dies when they’ll both be inurned within his statue), so I had to mention him to Lemmy.


Why does nobody ever listen to the scout until it’s too late? It’s just like my last job.


Asaf got in touch and asked if these would come in use -

Anyone going back for Clank??


Dusty Springfield OBE?

Let me translate that into American for those of us loyal to Motor City.


It’s like my last wife said, “If you insist on staying behind me then you better listen to where I tell you to go.”

Never did cotton to what that meant.


Bill pulls up in his tow truck; hauling a familiar DeLorean.

To rescue Clank @davide405 we gotta GO BACK!



@davide405 Get back Jojo!

That’s the bloody idea - who can play guitar? I’m a bit Django nowadays!

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~Clank: mood = confused and disoriented~

~The mechanic can’t see or hear anything, he’s not even sure he’s in his van or if he’s been separated from it somehow. The TCB is either malfunctioning or has been somehow jammed. The only real sensation is motion, but to what destination?~

~The erstwhile leader of the UAW racks his brain for some means to communicate with his fellow drivers.~