There have been rumors.
You may have heard that Dave, the heartbeat of Plow, set sail North across the Atlantic in search of the true meaning of tacos.
Landing on a tiny island somewhere along the Greenlandic Coast where he occupied an abandoned caribou den.
Spending months mixing harmonies with the majestic chorus of the baluga in the never-ending moonlight.
You may have heard that Thomas, The Beloved, stumbled into a wandering band of
blind armadillo mercenaries who led him to the underground cities of the Eastern
wasteland. He then started a high profiting revenge business trading fresh
scalps for twinkies and fine, Egyptian rugs on the side. He eventually became
king of the underworld and ruled for several ages atop his fluffy, twinkie
You may have heard that myself, Gary, slipped into obscurity. Computing sonic
mutations passed forth from the ancient guardians of the galactic core for hours on end. Losing site of all reality and imagination.
Clinging to a crumbling ledge of sanity and despair.
Befriending a faithful Jellafont named Buttercup Spricklespracken who taught me to drink the sunlight with my morning toast.
Rising to the highest ranks of
the hopscotch circuit, accepting and defeating challengers from across the planet.
Then shattering both legs in a horrific ostrich racing accident.
All of this is true.
You may have also heard that Planet Plow is a charade. A shell of some former
symbolic ideal that probably never really even existed in the first place.
This is false.
In fact, the truth shall be unveiled in the very near future at the Catalyst Atrium on March 7, 0002013.
The Subtle Tease and Them Guns shall be in company as well.