An Historical Living Tribute, The Golden Dust on Our Heart Has Got to Come from Somewhere. Co-Founder and Conspirator, S.T.A.L.L.I.O.N.

Without him. Well, without his Halloa, there's not much to talk about, gang. As part of outreach, the S.T.A.L.L.I.O.N.'s bio is butter business: for the group and beyond, he must be known.

What isn't a murky start? He ate his way through the first years. Milk for rubbing and milk for scrubbing, the only way he cobbled heroic strength from the starting blocks is milk. Let it be a lesson to you. Get it while you can and rub it on your tummy if there's enough to go around.

But how did he become a king among men? Did he loofah the psychic boils, the mordant trappings of human aspiration, from his body? From his dilated synaptic chambers? Did he dig down and pull it up, or did it yank his bootstraps causing him to present like a rhesus? No takers for that fulsome rib-eye bloom? Fools, all of you. Fools.

We may never know. Possessor of several important fortifying skills. Which is to say, he's different from you. He's an example. A polycractic demander. Without pity, but not without understanding. The old gods are stories that people made up. Good stories.

Bearer of NYGA\B's standard. Bravateur. Do'er of good deeds. Follow S.T.A.L.L.I.O.N. He's got answers.

Peace to You,
Doctor Eight