Localband.net Member Since: May 26, 2009
Last Update: May 26, 2009
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Count Hamula grips its drippy ghoul gun, used solely to filter the past, present, and future. In periods of deep, delusional sleep, the Count still begs for a happy ending, but knows there's no fooling anyone. "Ve vant to sauck yur blaud!" chant the mock hampires, awkwardly fawning for the Count's approval. The Official Derailleurs, the army of polarized fetuses slithers toward the highest cliff, still warm body engulfed in tiny claws, and they chuck it off. It divebombs the swamp. "Gone, gone, for good this time!" Jubilation, celebratory ritual songs, stomping merciless volume back to the hive. And guess what? Count Hamula explodes forth from its sludgey tomb where neither time nor space exists...
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