VIII NOTHING is a filing cabinet for bad strangeness at the edge of the world. It is a god darn toxic catastrophe on wheels; an illogical scheme of self-destruction; a hollowed-out nowhere-nothing inhabited by mutants and dead-empty psychos.
We, the loser gods of this garbage-filled crater, live in Oakland, California. And it is in Oakland where we write this nonsense while awaiting the arrival of Satan or the Grim Reaper or whoever else.
If you’d like to email us, go ahead and do it, man. Should a week pass and find yourself without a response, it is safe to assume we are dead. Check the sky. Has the moon been ripped in half? Are its crumbling pieces floating sadly over the flaming wreckage of human civilization? If so: say good-bye to all the terrible color and noise of this doomed place and bite down into the government-issued capsule that will send you to hell. If not: take a deep breath and get over yourself.