My attack on the island was swift.
I unsheathed my sheckle from its shecklesheath and proceeded uphill towards the castle gate. I knew three guards were on duty, yet on duty in that odd state between awake and asleep. As soon as I made quick of their lifeless bodies over the castle walls, I held my breath and listened for sounds of life.
Hearing nothing I made my way through the guard posts and checkpoints and on into the interior of this beast of limestone and steel.
My mission was simple: retrieve the ovaries of my queen and escape unscathed.
WHAT THE Fuck IS WRONG WITH ME?
Absolutely fucking nothing.
What's this straycat doing here says all you hip cats out there in internetland? I've just been listening to post-rock thuper group, Maserati's latest release, Pyramid of the Sun. Not only is it a soundtrack for the brain, but it's an adventurous one to say the least.
In between awesome guitar effects and riffs and hi-hat-action (or hi-haction) is the distinct feeling that you're about to be victorious in some shit. After playing it through the first few times I had to stop listening to it because I found myself fashioning weapons out of toothbrushes and encouraging friends of mine to scream like we're enjoying a proper pillaging.
Rather than waste your time with words and phrases you probably wouldn't understand, let me summarize the awesome that is this album with the following sentence:
With this album from Maserati, YOU ARE A fucking VIKING STEVEN SEAGAL WEARING NOTHING BUT AN ANIMAL PELT AND YOUR SCHECKLESHEATH.**
**I made up the schekle as a weapon. If it is in fact a real weapon, I assure you my weapon is badasser.