DeVorn

First, let me explain some stuff:

I love Victorian history. I love old things; brass machines built through sheer ingenuity and mad devices that look like something out of a bad Jules Verne fan-fic. I also inherited an anti-authoritarian streak from my family, and have great love for the weird, dangerous, and anarchic. So it's only natural that I'd have a lot of affection for the steampunk genre.

With this in mind, I'm trying to build a madcap steampunk setting from scratch; an insane place fueled by steampowered ingenuity and savvy thieves--reflective of the Victorian post-WWI landscape yet simultaneously an overwrought parody of it.

The following snippets are from the bulk of my work, gleaned from the first initial chapter. Aside from the very first snippet (which is how the story opens--with Basil and then Snips), they're arranged outside of any context (I write in a very chaotic fashion). What I'd like is some critique aimed towards whether these scenes are engaging or tiresome, and whether my sense of humor is at risk of overshadowing the plot--and causing it to collapse beneath the weight of numerous jokes concerning pressure valves.

Also, I'm copyrighting this stuff under Creative Commons, not standard copyright law. I know that's not very important as far as criticism goes, but I just want to put that out there. For whatever reason.

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www.thegreathippo.com/devorn

DeVorn

Through the streets of a slumbering city flowed a river of gold.

It was carried along the greased rails of humanoid ingenuity, ferried from one civilization to the next along massive trumbling tracks that speared their way across concrete and soil. Every day, it carried the very principles of commerce: money, property, and people.

Everyone knew that the United Rail was a river of gold. And almost everyone knew that its currents carried more than merely a fistful of coins and fresh poultry--it brought ideas. But when Basil Watts tried to explain this, and described his plan to create a way to transport only the ideas themselves--efficiently and instantly, along the length of pneumatic piping strung alongside the rails--everyone just laughed.

Well, almost everyone.

"Is this possible?"

"Oh, yes," Basil nodded. "Tricky, but possible."

There was a long pause. The word 'tricky' was difficult for engineers; it usually turned out to be a synonym for 'explosive'.

Basil sensed the hesitation. He barreled on: "We'd have to do a lot of work, but... my word! If we were successful, it could revolutionize the business as we know it! Just imagine it!"

For a moment, Basil's guest did precisely that.

And then he killed him.

~*~

Arcadian Snips was a man of many talents. Refraining from escape was not one of them.

"Straitjacket--check. Padlock on straitjacket--check. Manacles--check."
The waifish stick of a man resembled what you'd get if you dressed a scarecrow up and taught it to act polite. Beneath the rim of his derby hat and those thick, scraggly curls was the face of a silver-tusked cherub--an angelic rake with enough charm to sell a pack of matches to a man currently doused in lampoil and sitting on type of a dynamite crate. He struggled about in the tyranncial grip of the straitjacket and accompanying manacles, then fired up a glance at the grinning warden. "Don't you think this is a bit, well, excessive?"

The nearby locksmith continued to rattle off his list, making check-marks as he went. "Complimentary ankle bracelets and chain--check. Padlock on complimentary ankle bracelets and chain--check."

"Oh, but I want you to be extra comfortable, Snips. See, I've figured out why you keep escaping. It's because we just haven't taken that extra step for you. We haven't been giving you the special attention and care you need."

"Oh, no, Fred. Please, don't blame yourself."

"Steel collar manacled to wall--check. Padlock on steel collar manacled to wall--check."

"Really, Snips. I feel that this has all been my fault. But don't you worry. We're going to take every step possible to make sure you are incredibly comfortable." The warden was grinning so hard that Snips could hear his teeth grinding together. "In fact, once we're done, I'm sure you're never going to want to leave again."

"You're being way too hard on yourself, Fred. Really. No, really!" Snips said, wriggling about in the straitjacket. "You've done a bang-up job. You're a saint! You deserve a vacation."

"Steel reinforced triple-padlocked deadbolts on the door--check."
That manic grin was frozen on the warden's face. "You know, Snips, before you came along, they called me old Iron-Cage. You know why that is?"

Snips continued to squirm, giving his bindings a few practice tugs. "Mmn? Oh, no. Why is that, Fred?"

"Because before you, Snips, no one had ever escaped Morgrim Sanitorium. Ever."

"Oh." Snips thought about this. "Well, we can't always be perfect, right Fred? I mean, records are made to be broken." He beamed.

"Three on-duty guards with itchy trigger fingers, mugs of scalding hot coffee, and iron barkers trained on the door--check."

"Four. Consecutive. Escapes."

"Oh, I wouldn't count the first two. Those were practice runs."

"Just try and escape, Snips. Please, just try," the warden said, the words barely escaping from between the grooves of his teeth. "Please. Try."

"Well, if you absolutely insist," Snips said. "I mean, I'd hate to let you down."

"And that's it, sir."

Spinning about on the heel of his boot, the warden stomped out of the room with the locksmith in tow. The door slammed shut, followed by the sound of many, many locks snapping into place.

Snips stuck his tongue out. Sitting on top of it was the warden's skeleton key.

~*~

It wasn't like Arcadian Snips was out to make Fred's life miserable. He just couldn't help himself. Whenever anyone snapped a cuff on him or tied him up with rope, it was an open invitation--an outright challenge. And he had the family name to think of. Snips came from a long line of escape artists.
Snips' grandmother had escaped six prisons, seven bondsmen, and five marriages. And in the Great War, his father had managed to retreat from no less than eight separate battles--despite having only actually been in five.
Finishing up with the straitjacket and ditching the remainder of the manacles that had bound him, Snips rolled his shoulders back and opened the door.

All three guards were snoozing peacefully at their posts.

Tipping his hat to them, he turned on the tip of his heel and headed down the hall.

It was just then that he felt the hairs on the back of his neck pricking up to attention.

"Arcadian Snips," a voice that was certainly not the warden's--one that emerged from the cavernous depths of a thickly muscled chest--said. "Guilty of thirty-six counts of larceny, thirteen counts of grand larceny, five counts of bank fraud, six counts of identity fraud, thirty three counts of unlawful entry, six counts of tax fraud, four--no, excuse me, five counts of unlawful escape, and three counts of being a gentleman of dubious character."

"Er... yes?"

The man stepped forward out of the light. Besides him were three more.

"The government is here to offer you a job."

Snips ran like hell.

~*~

The trains were on time.

The trains were always on time.

Through sleet and hail, through rain and snow, through fire, ice, and all that lay between; the trains could not, should not, and would not be late.
The burden of assuring this remained so had been placed upon the narrow shoulders of a clever young man with fearless ambition and a mind that made steel traps seem rusty and dull. He had once been described by a colleague as possessing the patience of a spider, the genius of a fiend, and the heart of a lizard.

This had not been taken as an insult.

He watched through a window of smoked quartz and brass as the trains plunged through tunnels and emerged across bridges, forming a tangled knot of tracks so thick and complex that it would have given Alexander's sword pause. Steam-driven locomotives weaved their way through the web, their conductors following directions and schedules so divorced from common sense that an accident seemed inevitable; yet like a brilliant magician pouring over maddening patterns and symbols, the man responsible for the trains snatched perfect results from the jaws of chaos again and again.

Most of this did not concern Snips. What did concern him was precisely how he was going to get out of the brand new pair of goblin-made handcuffs they had slapped on his wrists when he had been rudely shoved into the man's office. Like most goblin products, it accomplished its task through sheer will power and gusto alone. It consisted of two solid chunks of iron that fit neatly over the fists and were fused together at the wrists. He wasn't sure how they came off. He wasn't sure they were supposed to.
"Honest work," the man said. "Maybe a few weeks, maybe a month. Reasonable pay." He turned, glancing down at a notice on his desk. "Easiest paycheck you'll ever earn."

Snips twitched and closed both his eyes at the word 'earn', as if warding off a physical blow.

"It will also be a perfect opportunity for you to lay low until this whole sordid thing blows over."

Snips opened an eye. "What thing?"

"Oh, you know," the man said, waving his hand. "The pardon thing."
"Pardon?"

"You mean you haven't heard? Why, just this morning, his Majesty magnanimonously pardoned you of all your crimes."

"He what?!" Snips sprang to his feet.

"Why yes," he said, calmly sliding the notice over his desk for Snips to inspect. "See for yourself."

Snips sped through the document. Him? Pardoned? Oh, Fred would eat his hat! And here it was in writing for anyone to see! They can't take this back, Snips thought with glee. Not even when he told this fellow to take his railways and shove them up his ass! It was a public notice; everyone would see--

Near the end was a list of the crimes Snips was being pardoned of. And next to it were names.

"Y-y-you--"

"You'll be free as a bird, Snips. No more prison for you," the man smiled, arms folded behind his back.

"Y-you p-published--"

"You've made it crystal clear that their prison system isn't for you. And they've heard you, Snips. We wouldn't dream of putting you back behind bars. Even if you begged."

"You published their names!" Snips' voice rose to a shriek. "The people I've been stealing from! Do you have any idea what they'll do to me?!"

"Especially if you begged," he added with a smile.

Snips sat down as his head began to spin. It was a brilliant twist, he reluctantly admitted. They could have held anything over his head--execution, jail-time, the wanton slaughter of puppies--and Snips would have wriggled free. Escaping was his specialty.
But with a stroke of a pen, they could turn the world itself into his prison. Except this one had no locks to foil and no doors to open. And it was filled with all the two-bit murderers, thieves, and naer-do-wells who--until now--had been unaware that Arcadian Snips had been cheerfully robbing them blind.

Morgrim Sanitorium was suddenly looking extraordinarily comfortable.

"At least you don't know about the duck," Snips sighed.

"Check the backside."

Snips flipped the document over with his nose. "Oh, hey. There it is."

"I hear Mr. Montressor still screams like a little girl when he hears a quack."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Do you know who I am, Mr. Snips?"

"No."

"I'm the man responsible for making sure the trains run on time."

"Oh." Snips shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. "That's fascinating." Some people could make their words drip with sarcasm. Snips caused tsunamis. People drowned.

"Recently, a chain of events has been put in motion which threatens to make my trains run late. I do not enjoy having my trains run late, Mr. Snips."

"Okay."

"You'll be serving as a consultant to help ensure that my trains do not run late, Mr. Snips. And in exchange--"

"I don't get pardoned," Snips finished the thought.

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DeVorn

The cramped smoke-choked den was illuminated only by streaks of sickly gold spat by several barred windows that lurked high out of reach, as if placed in a direct attempt to prevent its occupants from escaping. Beneath them was a room that had devoured and digested several others, producing a savage clash between well-cushioned leather chairs and charred metal comforters. The stench of death was thick enough to choke on.

There were also some magazines. And nice music. And a few pleasant plants.

BUT THE PLANTS WERE DEAD.

Four figures of note were present:

Jarle of the Three-Blades, a sword-master of some renowned who had made his name during the Great War. It was said that the old, haggard soldier had stolen two of the blades from the forges of Hell itself, and that he had forged the third blade with his own blackened hands. His father had supposedly been a fiend, and his mother a hag--it was said that through her he came to know all the deepest darks in matters of steel. He sat in a twisted and blackened metal to the left, remaining perfectly still.

Viviana the Beautiful, a lovely dark-haired enchantress who wore her victims' teeth around her throat as if it were a necklace. Said to be part demon, she was widely known both for her infallible abilities at treachery (despite being known for it) and her immense skills at the mystical arts. She sat in a comfortable leather chair to the right, remaining perfectly still.

Snazzlefoot the Clever, an always-grinning handsome grey-skinned changeling who had a penchant for escape. It was said that he managed to slip out of Morgrim Sanitorium so quietly that they still hadn't realized he escaped, and that the government was becoming so fed up with him that they were designing a prison just for him. He sat in a chair built out of random bones, remaining perfectly still.

And finally, a dark-skinned man with broad shoulders and a shaved head. He was wearing ink-black robes, standing in the corner. Smoking.

More on him in a bit.

The door opened. A rather slender looking gentleman with a pair of over-sized spectacles stepped in, reading off a clipboard. "Ahem. Gentlemen, ladies. I believe we're ready to discuss the matter of your payment--"

Something was wrong. The man leaned forward, scrutinizing the scene. Three of the four people here were remaining far too still.

Reaching for the nearby gaslamp, the official turned the valve up until the room was bathed in a bright, near-tangible orange glow.

Jarle of the Three Blades was currently being pinned up to the metal chair thanks to the aid of his three blades--all of which had been used to impale the old soldier through the chest, emerging from his ribcage like the back-end of tacks from a notice. His jaw had dropped, eyes wide and glassy with death.

Viviana the Beautiful was slumped comfortably back on her leather chair, hands wrapped around her own throat--where the necklace of fangs had been drawn so tight they had bit deep into her skin. Her face was a contortion of choking, smothering agony, baring the signs of death by suffocation.

Snazzlefoot the Clever was still grinning. His head was, anyway--that was all that was left of him. The head was smoothly decapitated and pinned to the chair by means of a dagger through a knot in the hair; there was no sign of the rest of his body.

"Excuse me," the official said, coughing. "What happened here?"

"Cancer," the man in black morosely replied.

"...cancer?" This took him by surprise.

"Yeah," the man said. "It's the silent killer."

"You're telling me that all your fellow assassins died from cancer?"

"A true tragedy. They put up a heroic struggle, every last one of them. But you can't really beat cancer, can you?"

"Can you explain, then, why one of them has no body--one of them seems to have been choked--and another is impaled on all three of his swords?"

"Dire Cancer."

The official coughed again. "I suppose that means there's only the matter of your portion of the payment, then."

"Oh, yeah. Funny thing. All these folks left their shares of the reward to me," the man announced, drawing a wreath of rolled paper out of his robes and tossing it to the official. "Last will and testament."

The official snagged the document, unfurled it, and peered at it critically. "All of them, while dying--"

"From Dire Cancer," he reminded him.

"--found the time to write out and sign a document bequeathing their portion of the reward to you."

"Amazing, isn't it? They were heroes to the last." Finishing with the cigarette, he flicked it to the ground and lazily crushed it beneath his heel. "Examples for us all."

"I see. Well, then."

"Well?"

The official smiled meekly. "Everything looks to be in order. This way, please."

~*~

"I must admit. I've never met an assassin as--as--"

"Payment, please."

"So direct about things," Bartleby announced.

The assassin was in his office--a typhoon of paperwork, books, gifts, trophies, and other meaningless planar detritus that had apparently gathered around his employer not through any conscious work but merely by Bartleby's sheer magnetism when it came to crap. He was sure that if he spent hours digging through the piles of self-important nick-nacks that surrounded him, he'd never find so much as a functional bottle-opener. Bartleby was just incapable of attracting anything useful to himself.
Which made him wonder--how the hell did Bartleby manage to hire him?

"Speaking of direct--money."

"Oh, yes. Your payment. My employee told me you'll be accepting the shares of your assassin friends. They all died apparently? Very tragic."

"Yeah, tragedy, terrible, choked up, will send flowers. Payment, please."

"Of course, of course." Bartleby slid up to his feet, wobbling about. The man wasn't just overweight--he had long flew past the boundaries of polite obesity on a rocket-propelled sled, making a rude gesture as he went by. The man was fat, and that was the end of the discussion. He waddled towards the far side of the room, shoving aside a few bits and pieces of refuse to get at the safe.

"I must admit, it's been an exceptional thrill to have a legend working for me," Bartleby said.

The man peered out the window behind Bartleby's desk, observing the cityscape far below. "Eh? Oh, you heard of me?" he muttered distractedly.

Bartleby nearly sprang up to his feet. "Well of course I've heard of you! Who hasn't heard of you?! You're a downright legend around here, sir!"

"Mmm. Good to know," he said boredly.

"In fact," Bartleby continued, returning to his work on the safe. "I have all your books. I must say, they're quite interesting. Do you write them yourself, or does someone else write them for you?"

"Books?" The man's eye twitched. His mouth began to spasm. Oh, Gods, please. Please, no, he thought to himself. Please make him shut up. Make him shut up right now.

"Yes, yes. I've read them all. Several times! Although I've been wondering--aren't you supposed to have that panther with you? What was his name--"

He turned away from the window, staring at Bartleby's back. If the city bureaucrat could see him, he would have recognized a look of such pure murderous sociopathy that it might have killed him on the spot.

The safe clinked open. Bartleby reached inside, fishing out the necessary amount of cash. "Well, anyway. Truly, it's been an absolute honor to have the legendary Drizzle Durden working for m--"

Five seconds later, a window on the top-floor of a tower exploded, a screaming fat man emerging. He flailed his arms for a good 1.3 seconds before slamming into the ground with a sound best described as 'incredibly moist'.

~*~

Bristling with weapons, the guards kicked down the door and stepped into the room. They found three things of note.

Bartleby, their employer, was missing.

The very large window behind Bartleby's desk was currently broken.

In Bartleby's place was a very angry looking man. An angry man with a hood and two very nasty looking swords.

"Cancer," he croaked.

"Holy mother of pearl!" One of the guards yelled. "Do you--do you know who that is?!"

"Eh?" Said another.

"That's Drizzle Durden!"

"GODS DAMN IT!" The assassin roared, charging.

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DeVorn

The Steamworks looked as if it had been attacked by a band of roving neo-cubists. It had been patched, repatched, and re-repatched so many times that the only original piece left was a brass knob attached to the front doors. Over them, a faded and carved plinth had once read:

J U S T I C E - P R E V A I L S

The S and T had faded from wear, which meant it now read:

J U I C E - P R E V A I L S

Someone was attending to the statue of Lady Ju(st)ice, polishing up her naughty bits with a dirty hanky. The man was just finishing buffing her up to a marbelized shine when he noticed Snips and Molly.

"Blimey!" He shouted, spinning around with a wave of his hat and grin. "If it ain't Miss Danger 'erself! You grew up faster 'en a sprout!"

Snips blinked. Miss Molly shifted uncomfortably, coughed, and fired a low-lidded glance his way. "Told you."

The man approaching them was older than old. He was old back when old was still a fad. When God had said 'Let there be light', this was the guy who was shaking his cane from the back porch and complaining about all the racket those whippersnappers were making with their new-fangled invention.

To summarize: The guy was old.

"Nice statue," Snips said, then noticed that though Ju(st)ice might be blind, she was certainly not without other advantages. "That's quite a large set of--"

"Knockers, sir?"

Snips blanched.

"On the door. Had 'em install brand new brass knockers," the old man said. "Just last week, after the last accident." He threw Molly a conspiratorial look. "Ol' Professor Danger invented somethin' new last night. Looks like it might be trouble."

Molly sighed. "We better hurry. Before he activates it. By the way--Dunnigan, this is Mr. Snips. He'll be helping with my investigation."

"Pleasure t'meet ya," Dunnigan said, giving Snips a crooked grin. "I'm Dunnigan McGee, the local janitor and handyman here. Is this your first time at the Steamwork?"

"Er, yes." Snips blinked. "Is that a problem--"

"No, no, not at all. Just a few rules we should probably go over before you step in," Dunnigan said, giving the door a sturdy kick and shoving it open with a forceful shove. "And some papers for you t'sign. Indemnities against electrocution, combustion, transmutation, that sort of thing--"

"Pardon?!" Snips did his best not to choke.

"Oh, you know, standard procedure, nothin' to worry ab--" An explosion rattled off somewhere deep in the belly of the building. Dunnigan sighed. "'Ope that wasn't your uncle, Miss Danger."

"We'll have to get him to sign the paperwork later, Dunnigan. Let's go."

"Transmutation? What the hell is transmutation?!" Snips wondered outloud, trailing after the swishing tresses of Molly's dress as she and Dunnigan charged into the heart of the building.

The interior of the Steamworks looked worse than the exterior; it was held together by nothing more than whimsy, safety pins, and liberal amounts of duct-tape. Sprawling mazes of pipes speared overhead, spewing out plumes of scalding steam on anyone below at irregular intervals; tables groaned beneath the weight of alchemical apparatuses and books explaining the intimate details of flying sloths' mating rituals. On quite a few occasions, Snips could see through the scorched ceiling to the floor above--holes caused by various explosions that had been patched up with a few bits of metal grating and rope.

The stench in particular hit Snips with all the subtle grace of an anvil dropped on a sack of manure--it stabbed its way to the back of the brain, burning its signature at the top of his spine. At times it would be husky and ripe, like freshly burning gunpowder; then it would grow dry and brittle like dead leaves mixed in sand. It was a smell he could always recognize but never remember.

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DeVorn

"I seem to have invented something in my sleep again," the lanky researcher said, adjusting his spectacles. At first, Snips thought the thick lenses were what made his eyes appear wide and googly; then he took them off to clean them. If anything, the glasses made them look smaller. "I'm not quite sure what it does."

"For heaven's sake, don't activate it," Molly said, thrusting herself between the balding professor and the large, innocuous looking brass box that sat on his workbench. On top of the box was a bright cherry-red button with a note scrawled in grease-pen above it: PUSH ME.

"Well, maybe it's something good," Professor Danger reasoned.

"Can't you just disassemble it?" Snips asked, looking around the workshop boredly.

"Oh, yes, I could do that," Professor Danger agreed. "That's a very wise idea..."

"Yeah," Snips agreed, poking at a bubbling vial of acid. "I get that a lot."

"...unless I thought of that while sleep-walking. And equipped it with a trap."

Snips exchanged stares with Molly, then stared at Danger. "Huh?"

"I've been fairly depressed lately," Professor Danger reasoned with a surprisingly affable tone. "I think that my subconscious is trying to kill me."

Molly sighed. Snips stared, open-mouthed. "Are you serious?"

"Quite, I'm afraid," Danger said. "It all started after I began taking those therapy sessions with that nice psycho-analyst fellow. Apparently, I have a deep and desperate need to do unspeakable things with my mother. And I subconsciously hate myself." He sighed, shaking his head. "What a ghastly affair."

"We don't have time for this," Molly said. "Dunnigan! Make sure Uncle Danger does not touch that button. Mr. Snips! Come with me."

"Where are we going?" Snips had graduated from poking to shaking, and was just about to upgrade his way up to juggling when Molly threw him a murderous stare.

"The murder scene, Mr. Snips."

"Or maybe it's just a music box. Wouldn't that be nice?" Professor Danger muttered as Dunnigan took up his station squarely between him and the odd-looking box.

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Ungood

I love the steam punk idea... and you have some great stuff here...

I enjoyed it greatly...

This is good, I mean.. WOW! I love this type good and I want to read more... but at the same time, something about this feel awkward to me and makes it hard to read.


Mainly because I can't see this... I am not sure what I am looking at... and when it comes to Steam Punk... well... to me at least... image is very important.


So I need to see this... what am I looking at when you tell me there is a river of gold...

Ungood.

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DeVorn

Oh, jeez.

I described the railroads abstractly without ever explaining that they are railroads; that's really odd of me. I probably did that because the very first part of the introduction was torn from something else I wrote (and rewritten to reflect it). I'll definitely fix that in a revision; thanks for pointing it out.

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RogueGunslinger

Hey, I enjoyed reading all of these. The first set especially. You have a real style to your writing, it's clever and interesting. Seriously man, keep it up.

rumpole40k

My favorite parts were the assassians and the inventor. I have to second Gunslinger's comments!

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A humble wolf with dreams of being on a stamp, releasing an autobiography, having a film made showing his daily struggles, having a world wide fan club... - Code Red

"Doing? You're doing what ANY sane man in your appalling circumstances would do. You're going mad." - The Killing Joke.

DeVorn

I appreciate the positive feedback and love to take any opportunity to bask in the rosey warm glow of praise; however, ideally, I'm looking for someone to help me break down my prose and help me figure out whether or not the jokes are interfering with the story. That's to say--I love telling jokes, but I'm worried that they actively interfere with the narrative. I'm also worried about coming off as far too Pratcheterrian.

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lin

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lin

And don't EVEN miss this:

Action Figures: Star Wars Action Figures Stoke the Steampunk Fire

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DeVorn

That's pretty fucking awesome.

If I may say so.

lin

BTW, I just skimmed this (you put up a lot in one chunk) but it looks REALLY good to me. Something I don't say very often around here. I mean "good" in the sense of "I don't see any reason you shouldn't be able to get this sort of thing published".

Who knows if the plot or character arcs or whatever will bear out, but I'd say you have the basic craft very well in hand. I am sure there is a market for this somewhere. If it doesn't hold up at book length, there are certainly periodical markets for it. I'm not familiar with the state of current SF mags, but you probably have an idea. If not, try a online zine: I'd suggest the Australian "Andromeda Airlines Inflight Magazine" because they are fun guys and respond quick without bullshit.

Another possible down-the-road scenario: look up "Hal Spacejock", a series of books self-published by an Aussie writer (who's also part of the AAIM mafia)

To me, this seems somewhat like Pratchett, who is very popular. Or was or something.

And, just on the outside chance that you aren't familiar with the films of Miyazaki...get familiar with them. Putana, Walking Castle, Porco Rosso

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lin

Not to mention all this shit
Steampunk - Gizmodo
The offices above are the company that makes the steampunk PC and guitar.

THIS maybe be going to far, however. Or not.

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