Well, it looks like Yoda has dispatched Flatlander to the "netherworld of the Force" (click HERE for the gory details). Who could have known that the beloved administrator of Fakiegrind was a Dark Lord of the Sith? Then again, all that stuff about Gnostics should have been a dead give-away. But there is yet another riddle: "Always two Sith there are--no more, no less: a master and an apprentice". So which was Darth Flatlander? Whether he was the master or apprentice, there must be at least one more Sith Lord lurking out there in cyber-space. But who?
Maybe it's Kill-Joy --his recent disappearance is highly suspicious. Then again, that Em fellow pretends not to "get it", but he gets it all right--he's down with the Dark Side. Hiding in plain sight is his ploy, leaving innocent little comments while plotting to take over the blog-Empire that is Fakiegrind. He won't succeed. And then there is the erudite Dr. Flavour--who knows what secrets are knocking around in his cranium? The procedure for preserving life far past its natural span? Just how old is the one they call "Babyface Flavour" anyway? We will have to be very cautious as we look further into these matters.
Until we can sort the whole mess out, I am assuming Emergency Powers and taking control of Fakiegrind Central Command... And who am I? Call me The Adjuster. I'm not so much here to bring balance to the Force, as to sell you insurance against the coming apocalypse. Of course, it won't do you a scrap of good when the Slave Ships from Cygnus 12 arrive, and you discover first hand the true meaning of The Rapture. Yes, the dead will live again--but only as a walking zombie army of decomposing fundamentalists, toting their worm-eaten Bibles from door to door and "converting" the population through a direct reconstitution of living flesh. Sure, I can sell you insurance, but the best measure you could take is to jerry-rig your microwave to an electric hairdryer and using it to cook anything that comes within a hundred feet of the sandbags with which I suggest you barricade your front walkway.
On a lighter note, it's a beautiful day here in Steeltown, despite Flatlander's untimely demise (I have a feeling we'll be hearing from him again--Sith Lords are like that). It's a balmy 32 degrees out, and the kids are out in the street making "smog pies"--a variant on the mud pie made possible by local atmospheric peculiarities. Wild, Technicolor strawberries are growing in the garden, some of which I harvested for breakfast. I think I'll spend the day going through Flatlander's stuff, seeing if any of it will be of use for the Great Harvest.
You see, not everyone will be conscripted to the Zombie Army. The seeds of Mutant Enlightenment were planted many millennia ago by our extra-terrestrial "gene donors", the Upanachronites. These highly advanced, unspeakably hideous "benefactors" of the human race scattered their seed willy-nilly through the gene pool of early Homo Erectus, reasoning that the natural environment of Earth was the ideal breeding ground for a race of super-mutants. The Uberchron plan to "harvest" the mutant population for use in their Galactic Resettlement Corps, as a kind of officer class overseeing the Zombie Troops.
Yes, the Uberchrons are slated to return any century now, but a small band of resistance has developed within the mutant populace. The Earth Mutants for Liberating all Terrestrials (EMFLAT) feel that humanity can beat the Uberchron at their own game and take charge of our individual genetic destinies. Skateboarder sleeper cells across the industrialized world are at the ready, training daily for potential combat in zero gravity conditions. They remain ever vigilant, waiting for the Day of Reconstitution when sides will be drawn, and mutant souls everywhere will be called upon to defend all Earth life against Uberchron oppression . Stay tuned for measures that you yourself can take to prepare for the Great Convergence, when time and space itself will be folded like an origami five-headed Endtime Leviathan into fantastical new dimensions, opening the way to unheard of potentials--an perils--for the inhabitants of our shimmering, sacred blue-green orb.