The letters that surround you work more like battle cries than anything else. It’s been a while since they were disassociated from their meanings and melted together in a melange of forms that go beyond semiotics. Some of them are readable, meanwhile others resemble abstract heraldry of this new world. We have launched this world on the ruins of the old order. We, the golfers, the untitlists, the heavy-sack overmen who wear no titles but these colors.

Life concentrates here in the oasis of this golf course, regulated by ultra-violent laws defining interactions across social strata. These fields are the only places where the record of human existence is noticeable. Human, humans, or rather a swarming collection of thugs who just got a social promotion and now are trying to combat each other over any excuse. All the rest of the world has been taken by a poisonous mushroom cloud and burned at 3000 degrees Celsius. 

Oh, brothers! My brothers in crime. My brothers pumped up on Moloko and unspeakably intrusive and vibrant just like colorful letters on these shields. If you make it so far I have the right and pleasure to anticipate you will become members of our club, and hold your club with barbaric confidence. Let me provide you with these five basic rules:


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