Good Dead Me was forged in aeons past (kiss my pissy lips?) by his undefinable grace, grand megalomaniac Jack Dubious, and wanker Rupert Housden. We began menstruating and in July twothousand and filth, after virtually no searching, we were attacked brutally by sir Caleb Clark, an ape of wire bending proportions. In deep winter, when the cold is so great even the sun hides in terror of its black tendrils, the trio joined forces with old master creepeasy, the 12th and most successful hatelord ...