Deal With It
They came from the hills that day, riding atop the back of the mighty xOBOx, billowing smoke and fire. The Kyrck-Pascall riffs were drawn out and stupid, and the beat of the Elsom drum was fast. Beside them stood father christmas, pigeon chest at full capacity, bellowing a drunken roar at the peasants that still dared to stare. For four years the marauding horde of Deull Weeth Itt had been on the rampage. They began as a sober bunch, polite to a fault and clear headed in their final days of youth. Now they stood at the apex of greatness, sullied by beer guts and greasy hair. Nothing was behind them but burning bridges and pissed up dreams. Ahead was their one fiery endpoint – mighty Eyjafjallajökull – world killer. There either laid greatness or ridicule, and they were ready for either.