Would you believe I’m a fan of motor racing?
Well, many moons ago, there was a race car that totally dominated the circuits.
It was the baddest on the track.
I mean, this car, it had everything.
It was constructed of the finest parts, augmented by the newest tech, it’s computer systems calibrated with the precision of a sharpened pencil.
It had the pedigree and credentials from being incredibly successful, setting records for achievements. It was a household name like an A-list celebrity.
Then finally, boy what an engine! If a race was suddenly getting too hot, the car’s engine had the power to turn it up like a furnace and blow the competition away.
Almost unanimously people believed this race car was unbeatable.
No matter what the competition did to overtake, that speedster always kept ahead.
Except for one opponent.
You see, you can’t stop the relentless march of time. No matter how fast you are, time is always on your shoulder.
As time chases, you decline.
That is exactly what happened to that race car, it got run down by time.
And when enough decline had set in, the race car became obsolete.
Death came calling.
The Bad Mother Fuckers are like that race car.
They are unbeatable on this track we call The Slaughterhouse.
They’ve got the whole package.
Zero. He cuts the look, his body fitted with the best parts money can buy, his abilities augmented by the finest tech.
Hollywood Luke Storm brings the recognition and esteem of an OSW Grand Slammer. He’s seen and done it, got the movie contracts and magazine spreads to prove it.
And then if all else fails, if someone is putting on the squeeze there is Pyre who can turn anyone to dust unleashing her inferno.
This trio have trumped them all so far, always finding that something extra to shake off the chase of the competition.
But like the race car, there is one pursuer they will never shake.
It is endless, indefatigable.
As time runs you down, Bad Mother Fuckers, it is inevitable that decline will set in.
Soon enough that great machine you once were will become obsolete.
Death will come calling.
Then, you will know me.
For that is who I am, The Black Hand of Death.
The shadow at your shoulder.
You have had your run, Bad Mother Fuckers, set records and blazed new trails with your pace.
But now your gaskets are blowing and your engine is failing.
Your parts are discontinued and it is FATED that you have run your final race.
Your bodies will be stripped and HACKED apart, trophies for museums to remember your past because you have no future.
There will no more tune-ups, no makeovers because there are no more red carpets for you to adorn. Your headline act is finished.
The engine will never fire again because the fuel is being drained. You will invade no-one’s space again.
Death has you now and at Triosmania you become obsolete.
For the greater good.