So, just to sum up what we’ve been up to: we’re in Alabama, we’re recording, and we are writing nonsensical literature. Well, Scott is writing nonsensical literature. The rest of us are writing a bona-fide shredfest.

Seriously, though, folks...we’re having a blast putting this record together down here in the dirty, dirty south. And now, for the very first time ever, we release to you the dark and mysterious history of Bulletproof Messenger as you have come to know us. Enjoy.



    Dawn was approaching steadfastly as Dark Lord Downing rose from his slumber. Tossing aside his coiled snake-like mistresses, he slid into his furry velvet slippers and surveyed himself in the twelve-foot mirror he had especially imported to his castle from Paris. Yes, Lord Downing looked good this morning. Lord Downing looked sharp. Dark Lord Downing looked...ah yes...dark.

His maroon velvet robe wrapped about his dark, sharp, form...fit...like a glove. Yes. And his moustache...perfect. Razor-sharp. Dark. Lord Downing loved being dark.

And yet, in his head, were simple thoughts. Really, perhaps the whole "Dark Lord" thing was a misunderstanding. After all, he was going to feed his bunnies after breakfast. The fact that the bunnies were black and had razor-sharp fangs was besides the point. They were still cute, if not slightly...dark.

And he strode down the steps of the highest tower of his dark forest lair.

::TWELVE MILES DISTANT::

Sir Marcus the Brave’s horse could have rode a little faster. It could have been a little more fearless, as well. Perhaps Sir Marcus the Brave and his gallant steed were not so brave after all. But as Sir Marcus and his loyal steed galloped through the meadows towards the town of Rockville, he felt his spirit rise and his heart beat wildly, for here he would claim his prize, and prove his courage.

For behind Sir Marcus there was strapped the body of the Mythical Wild Boar of the Deep Dark Forests, said to be an ancient warlock and evil sorcerer in disguise. All feared it, but one day, as Sir Marcus wandered through the forest on a search for a rare species of truffle, he found himself face to face with the ancient boar. But showing great courage, Sir Marcus the Gourmand...I mean, the Brave, drew his sword and slew the foul beast in a great and courageous duel, the tale of which would be passed down for generations.

And as he bit into the boar’s freshly roasted heart, Sir Marcus smiled to himself and told himself that, yes, he was quite brave.


Sitting alone in a dark corner, of a dark bar, a hooded figure sat patiently awaiting Sir Marcus’s arrival.

"Pint of Lager, barman," spoke Sir Marcus a few hours later. And with all the glory of alcohol, the freshly roasted boar’s heart was washed down our hero’s hearty throat.

"Excuse me, but I’ve been waiting for you," spoke a quiet-looking hooded figure out of the shadows of the corner. His eyes seemed to glow through the gloom of his dark hood.
"Who, me?"
"There is no one else present."

    And the hooded figure spoke of mythical potions of which he dealt with, and how they could increase the many moods of Sir Marcus to pleasant ones, replete with visions of lavender and crimson, and many, many flowers. And then his eyes flared to life in the shadows.
"I know you, Sir Marcus."
"Liar. Remove your hood, you devil-shrouded demon!" And with that, Sir Marcus drew his sword, but the hooded figure just sat there. Tapping. His foot. His hands. Oh, what sweet music this man made with his hands. Just like...just like...
"A song we wrote together many years ago, Sir Marcus..."

    Up in his Dark Tower, Dark Lord Downing paced back and forth behind his telescopic devices, attempting to peer across the forest to the gates of the city, but an essence of rock was in the air, making it extraordinarily hard to see.
Ah well, Dark Lord Downing smiled to himself. He would have to find other amusement tonight.


    Sir Marcus lifted the man’s hood with the blade of his sword and discovered none other than his former school friend, Alexander. Alexander explained with great sadness how he had drummed for a while in a drum and bass quartet after school had ended, but then the genre went out of style and work came hard. And as such, he became...a street pharmacist. But he could still write a kickass Drum N’ Bass beat.

And with that he began to pump it up with a cut-time break beat. Oh yes.

"Get some prisoners from the dungeon up to my private studio immediately!" thundered Dark Lord Downing at the top of his lungs. Four minutes and one cocktail later, his wish was granted. He darkly strode into his dark rehearsal space.
"Now, each of you are being tortured in my dungeons as prisoners, and I am thoroughly enjoying being personally present for each one of your little "events". However, three members of my reggae-funk-industrial-psuedosynth band have been devoured by dark creatures in the dark forest, including the eight-legged whale we are all so frightened of. As such, I will need those of you who still retain limbs to remain present while I see which of you are suited for the positions. If you do not make the cut...your appendages will be removed."

250 missing fingers later, Dark Lord Downing and his reconstituted band ULTRA DARK FORCE began to practice their black art of psuedo-funk. Pleased with the day’s results, DLD (his new Jamaican-accented nickname, courtesy of his new bassist) went to bed with his snake-like mistresses and dreamt the sleep of a musical fiend masquerading as a dark lord.

On their way towards the Dark Castle of Dark Lord Downing, Sir Marcus and Sir Alexander climbed aboard a wagon being driven by a Mr. Von Skubenstein, who was accompanied by three small skubites. He claimed that they were his cousins. Sir Alex asked if they were worth money, and Sir Marcus asked if they thought they were braver than he. Von Skubenstein then drew his jewel-encrusted dagger and threatened to stab them if they did not hire him as their personal accountant for their new firm.
    "But we don’t have a firm," said Sir Alex.
    "You do now, and we will call it "Beats Per Minute" in recognition of how many beatings you two will be dishing out in the Dark Lord’s Castle"
    "Hey! BPM...yes...I like it."

At this point in the story Sir Marcus ruined the mood by plastering BPM stickers all over everything he owned, including his sword. Sir Alex broke into a disco-funk and over the treetops in his Dark Lair, Dark Lord Downing grooved to the music that he and his ragga-soul band were dishing out.

And, I, the poor old storyteller, chased after them (though in much younger and fitter form) and begged to be a part of their journey, but alas, there was no more room in the chariot. (Sir Marcus had taken to calling the Skubawagon his "Chariot Of the Heavens").
    
    And at the gate of Dark Lord Downing’s lair they clashed, and fought with spear and sword and shouted insults at the musical credibility of each other, while Von Skubenstein played piano and soundtracked the entire battle through his sound system. It was glorious.

    And at the end of it all, they became friends and lived in Dark Lord Downing’s Palace of Darkness, writing sick metal riffs replete with double bass, and routinely dining with Mark Tremonti, who made them swear an oath of loyalty to the ROCK.
   
And yet...this tale is not finished, for someday, I will have to tell you how I came to join these disciples of Rock, and the adventures that followed in....

ROCKLAND

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