Gewdolyn's eyes darted around the room quickly. Was she followed in here as well? The fog machine was full blast. The strobe lights and swirling disco ball didn't help either. She figured that if her pursuer had eluded her in this haze of flashing color and noise, she could, in turn, elude him. She shed her lime green slicker and dashed into the undulating frenzy. The sweat of three hundred bodies hung damply in the electric air overhead. She attempted to cabbage patch to the far side of the floor in an attempt to blend in. Her slender, bare mid-drift attracted the gaze of hungry shoe-shufflers whose bodies wiggled like hot fusilli in pesto. She spun and shuffled from one partner to the next, breaking away to hustle alone at half court. For a moment she felt normal again. Was that a smile, or a sublimated nervous tick? Was that a good beat that she could dance to, or the improbable pattern of hoof to hardwood? Was that a kooky keyboard chord or the shrill bleat of h-- (so as to imply that she gasped without saying as much... damn.) her shadow? She spun around to spy her mangy-haired haunt absently chewing on her coat in all its goatness. He'd found her. My god, he'd found her. She charged toward the door and darted out across the soggy infield toward the bungalows. She would never be free.
Oh, and then a massive meteor slammed into Earth smashing it into dust.
The Späten Song (Issue 2) The short and sordid story behind the history of the discovery and subsequent adoption of our very own international anthem.
Number One Bomb (Issue 1) You gotta step on the doormat if you wanna walk through the door! That is, uh... you, uh... y'know what we mean... right?
More? Still?! Well then... you, my friend, are just foolish enough --SCRATCH THAT-- discerning enough to muck up your home and office with Rubber Bomb emblazoned merchandise! Why, they've even got funny descriptions to keep you laughing all the way to our bank.