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Desperate Cry for Help 027
Thudding, screaming electro-techno-funk shakes the office walls. The windows bend with the pulsing beat, ready to break out over the miserable and bleak English landscape.
The Shaolin monks of funktastic noise have gathered with their pet monkeys and visited me in my cold, dreary, hum-drum workspace of the damned.
It's highly unlikely that anyone is going to leave here alive.
We've all got to pass the test of fire.
The tests of death, destiny, and destruction.
I think you see that the odds are stacked against us.
Time is running out. I've had to kill them all with my acoustic guitar.
I had to attack them, to beat them, just to keep myself alive.
And now I'm living on a diet of limes and stale biscuits.
This is why England was once a great empire. And now the club/dance/retro-punk neon music revolution will grip us all.
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