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Let the chronicles begin… it’s a raging 30 degrees, pouring rain, sleet, and snow in Ft. Knox Kentucky. Far-flung from the sunny streets of southern California. Shakir is hung over and depressed from trying to drink himself to death for his decision to join the US Army.

In a short amount of time, all of Clubber’s hood traumas are triggered. Shorty-pimps would follow in succession toppled with other debilitating psychopathic craziness as they worked through the turmoil and manipulation of the covert espionage they would soon embark upon.

They were mysteriously… chosen for merit school. As if they were being rewarded for being fuck-ups…
The residual animosity that fueled the Ft. Knox fires had jumped state lines to Ft. Carson, Colorado would not be contained. The crew was well-seasoned by now and repairing their dysfunctionality would be a hard trotted road.

The crew is about to crest the hill of PTSD without any counseling, therapy, or medication. They are at the mercy of themselves and pushed to such extremes that their editorial judgment is impaired. The ingredients are profusely suffocating and challenging to the core of their souls.

So, walk with me, let’s trip…stay hip, and don’t judge as we fudge. Get in step with the cadence of the aerial view of the world crew – peep through our monocle and embrace the chronicles…

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