We’re not dead, I swear. Neither did we lose our sanity completely. Sure, staring into the infinite abyss of Byron’s mind will eventually cause severe brain hemorrhaging, but that’s a problem for future versions of us.

So, here’s what happened: Life. A lot of awful stuff decided to pile onto our life all at once, and being mentally ill, our podcast ended up being pretty low on our priority list. Then we discovered that Soundcloud isn’t very friendly for podcasters (i.e. freeloaders not paying for unlimited upload minutes), and tried to find another suitable venue. For some reason, Nicolai wanted to avoid Youtube. It was probably very clever and well reasoned, but ultimately pointless. For free hosting, and decent quality, without too much signing hassle, they had most other places beat.

To reiterate: Still alive. Not insane. Back on schedule.

And now for something completely different; more words. Words about F.A.T.A.L.

Art

Art is an important factor in mankind’s culture, seeing how we finally found a way to convey our vivid imagination to our fellow man. When you look at a painting, you experience the most subjective experience you possibly could. Sure, some art might be pretty, technically adept in incomprehensible ways.

There’s no denying that the great masters truly are just that. With great skill and sense for aesthetics, they’re often the singular cause of great historical art movements. Da Vinci, Leonardo, Donatello, Another Famous Artist, Leonardo Da Vinci, Bjork, and numerous others have all laid the foundation for great art.

While skill and technical prowess is incredible to analyse and dissect, they rarely invoke that rare experience art truly exists to impress.

You know it. There’s a picture. Watercolor, acrylics – heck, maybe even a digital piece depicting Draco Malfoy doing sexy, sexy things to Snape – any medium can do it. When you look at it, magic happens. You can’t quite explain it, but your eyes refuse to look away. Something inside of you… thumps, shines, pulls you towards the artwork (I swear I’m not still talking about Draco Malfoy fanart. What an odd ship, anyway).

A feeling. A sense of something great. A conversation without words. You get the artist, whatever they’re saying, and you’re comforted in this ageless feeling of fellowship. Someone, out there, gets you. In turn, you get them. At that moment, looking at that piece of art, you find yourself lost in the vast spirit of belonging and understanding. You are not alone. We’re all together in this. Even if we never meet.

The artwork Byron commissioned speaks to me in angry hissing noises. I want to stress that we’re not making fun of the artists Byron hired. They’re actually pretty good (okay, “good” might seem too generous a word, but by comparison to the rest of the book, the art is fucking phenomenal). No, we’re making fun of the hilarious fact that Byron explained what he wanted to commission, and that he apparently got exactly what he wanted.

Anyway, let’s make fun of it.

This is the second piece of artwork we see. Nothing like a cover depicting… things happening, only to be met by a sexy lady bound to an altar. Very tasteful with the leather strap across the tit. Can’t have too much at once. Gotta introduce the distasteful shit slowly.

“YOUR POSE MAKE IT SEEM LIKE YOU HAVE A manhood.”

“Ouch, okay, ouch. Why am I getting whipped for that?”

“MY GIANT HAND TREMBLES WITH CURIOSITY. And I don’t know how to approach women… For some reason, they dislike the whipping.”

Ugalor Cloudprancer enjoys long walks on bone bleached beaches, holding hands underneath a blood moon, and casually stabbing anything feminine. “It’s not sexist,” he said while casually stabbing a pregnant woman, “Egypt is not a part of Europe.”

Rescue operation gone so very wrong. If only they had set out for their friends sooner. Way sooner. Let’s say… before they turned into rotting corpses.

Allergies are no joke. I know the annoyance of a stuffed nose, provoked forth by the presence of a milkmaid and a white-eyed demon cow.

Or maybe he’s allergic to that onion in his hand. I know it’s an heirloom, but buddy, your grandfather would have wanted you to eat it, not cry about it.

Quick question: Why is it the soldiers rowing? Maybe they only got those three slaves? Maybe it’s Steve, on the right, threatening people with axes again. We’ll never know.

“Lo’ and behold, ye did the White Dwarf take it’s rightfull place. High above the constipated Brown Dwarf, he doth send thine googly eyes hiths wayeth. So too will the supreme white wily wizard Dwarf lord above the blacks, the most despicable race of all, for their skin color twas not a Medium, but twis at least an XL or XXL.

And truthfully, it twas a good time to be floating heads.”

“I hate hiding in bushes. Hate it. But it keeps me out of the house for a while. Gives the wife-y some alone time. It’d do anything to keep her happy, maybe pick up a box of chocolates on the way home.

Gosh, I hope I can find some without sleeping powder. This modern world is so bachelor oriented.”

Steve might lack the pupils neccesary for eyesight, but he could hear a naked, tits-out, lady popping into excistance a mile away. Which was a major hinderance, as it happen mainly when he was occupied with sweeping.

Here we see Byrons ingenious improvisational abilities. He wasn’t sexting Steven Moore, merely describing a picture he wanted to commission.

Also, female anatomy isn’t a real thing in F.A.T.A.L. Anatomy is the invention of the ancient Egyptians, and Egypt is what? Not a part of Europe.

Meanwhile, let’s check in with the light elves.

Yes, weird glowing lady, you be you. Naked. In front of a bunch of foxes. On a Tuesday. Weirdo…

I could make a joke. Or… You know how a picture says more than a thousand words?

Sometimes, just sometimes, you need only two.