“A lone static, boldly driven, cold haptic.
Slime and sand, Swamp habit!
March Tygers, one-eyed Pirates, Fairy Tales!
A parent whose scars only nighttime reveals!
Iron swallowers, Button Boys and Cops-Led-Astray!
Come see the Passion of the Empty and Lay,
Roll Up! Roll Down! Roll Away!
Roll Up! Roll Down! Roll Away…“

Toothless Luther
The Maudlin Spectacle

The great Flattening Machines stink. Something metallic and thick like a gas from whatever oil substitute they use around here. Best not to ask.

The noise is something else. You heard it way before you saw these oily organs, their valves and pumps frantically rhythmic, like a factory had its belly sliced and all its giblets spilled onto the dust in front of you, working their final, strained cycles before giving out. Except these entrails keep going. Greasy steam rises and spreads, hardly dissipating as it expands across the yellowed landscape littered with machines from projects long dead, their carcasses picked by Skavs for some new enterprise promised hands and grease and connection, the only currency around here.

Industry is thriving, sort…