Transmissions from Mars: Getting hit By The Fan Club

The crypt around 3Am

Donna had found the string in the sweater and she was pulling, and pulling.

It's funny how with a small bit of knowledge and the right circumstances we can put something together that wasn't there before. Our attackers had managed to elude us up until now. Normal police work or investigation would've never found them, but thanks to some science-fiction level science, shee tracked down a very solid lead like the world's most beautiful wolf. Mz. Matrix wasn't about to let go until she drew blood and tore meat.

She searched and hacked and searched, than hacked some more.

After the initial lead, it took us less than 10 minutes to mobilize; she already had a good intle by then.

When old man Golding died, he left his son all he had: his pig farm, and all the pigs on it.

According to public record, his son Robert never turned up to get it. In fact, hadn't turned up anywhere at all. At least not under that name, and while chubby little Bobby Golding was gone - and has been for 10 or 11 years - a gentleman by the name of Jason Vagmer was very active. Vagmer was a synth pop/industrial artist who played in and around Necronomicon. By all accounts his music was pretty OK, if not a bit pedestrian, but his stage show featuring Chris Angel-like illusionist antics was spectacular. Despite rave reviews, it would seem he hasn't generated quite the fanbase he was hoping for. And in one interview Matrix found, it seemed like he was considering throwing in the towel:

"It would seem that the city does not appreciate real art or real artists. My stage show is state-of-the-art science and illusion. My songs are roadmap of human desires and emotions. But no one cares."

Ahhhh, the good old “no one cares”. It's a goth staple. Well, I still use it. The good thing about being part of the black lipstick and eyeliner set is that you can whine all you want and then casually pass it off as gimmick despite the fact you're really legit upset and really whiny.

Another thing I see a lot are people who will put five or six months into building a fanbase and then, when they're not filling up clubs, throw their arms in the air and blame the city. They don't understand the only reason that we have a fanbase in the city at all is that we were distracted and unmotivated enough to stay here way past our welcome.

Shortly after, Matrix had come up with Bobby's old MySpace page, which was full of him at our shows and wearing Deadites paraphernalia. Lots and lots of photos; lots and lots of paraphernalia. It's clear we were probably a pretty big influence on his artistic endeavors.

A quick look at a school record showed he was a fucking super genius.

High school by 10

College by 16

By the time he hit 20, he was apprenticing under some of the greatest minds and science. This kid was fucking smart. Scary fucking smart.

Later on in another interview, she hit pay dirt.

"It would seem like the people in the city have outgrown their childhood heroes, yet perhaps the city isn't big enough for both of us."

I call that a out and out threat.

If he was talking about us, anyway. And he was. Matrix read and read, pulled hard at this sweater, until there was nothing left but a pile of yarn.

It would seem at some point, fanaticism turned to resentment, resentment to jealousy, jealousy toward the hatred,which turned to a full on science-filled fucking vendetta.

Around that point, she was scanning through the flyer gallery on the band page of "Jason Vagmer and the Black Dragons." When she saw a flyer for the May show, she was going to call us, but stopped short on account of the explosion.

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