Radioactive Review — 'Planet Motherfucker'

Strap in, folks.  This one is gonna ramble.

—

I hate to make my ma look bad, but this 1970s kid grew up on too-much TV.  And most of the programs I consumed were movies butchered repackaged for the small screen:  Universal-, Hammer-, and Toho-themed "monster movie weeks" on our ABC affiliate by day, and our dueling UHF stations at night;  Saturday creature-feature marathons; Sundays chock full of chop-socky flicks.  I studied TV Guide like it was the Torah.

Our first VCR was a godsend, because I had access to all the stuff that aired in the wee hours.  I had two or three tapes that I'd record over again and again and again.

I couldn't name the presidents, but I sure as hell knew the histories of Carradine and Price and Corman and Cushing and Lee.

And when I wasn't watching movies on the television, I was obsessively reading about them in Famous Monsters Of Filmland magazine and scouring the library shelves for anything cinematic.

Crestwood House Monster Series

My addiction carried into the '80s, with mom-n-pop video stores and sneaked Fangoria magazines and psychotronic film guides and Commander USA's Groovie Movies.

In Lefty We Trust

Throw in 35+ years of comic books and Warren magazines and the twisted catalog of Something Weird Video, and I think it's safe to say I know the "visual side" of "monster culture".

—

Now let's talk music.  No, not just music, but recordings, too.

Thanks to Dr. Demento, I've always loved "spooky songs".  And there's a whole world of it beyond Bobby "Boris" Pickett's Monster Mash.  (Which I saw performed live, by the way.  Yes, by Mr. Pickett himself.  It was awesome.)  At last count, I have over 40,000 terror-tunes, from every conceivable genre:  novelty to psychobilly to industrial to funk to punk to doo-wop.

But psychobilly is hands-down my favorite.

Mix-Discs I Have Made

And I own what may be, according to a few guys in "The Biz", one of the world's largest collections of movie radio spot advertisements (on vinyl, and reel-to-reels), which I remaster and digitize like nobody's business.

A Google Image Grab Was Easier Than Photoing Mine

I've contributed to a few DVD special features, kinda-sorta helped the Smithsonian and a certain Skywalker Ranch, and even had samples of my collection released commercially.  

The Bonus Disk Was All Me.  I Rule!

I never saw a penny for these endeavors.  I did it for pure joy of the medium.

Hmmm.  I may be an idiot.  Moving on....

I guess what I'm saying is that I know "monster audio".

—

Now, about gaming.  I've been slangin' dice for thirty years (and given the company I keep in Real Life and The Blogosphere, I think that still makes me a novice), and I've seen some interesting attempts at combining everything on which I just waxed nostalgic.

1989's It Came From The Late, Late, Late Show was a neat attempt at role-playing the creature features.  It even had it's own hostess-with-the-mostest narrator.

Demonna!

The game was pretty quirky, as you played an actor playing a character in the adventure's "movie script".  Your character's role would change from session to session, so PC Rip Manchest might be a daring archaeologist in one session, and a hunky astronaut in another, and then a singing lumberjack in yet another.

I never GM'd it, though, because it's a little too high-concept.  Why play an actor playing a badass, when you can just be the badass?  And why make each session a separate, artificial movie, when you could instead make the entire campaign world a continual, living movie?

I have played a couple of ICFTLLLS con games, and they were a blast.  A Scooby-Doo-inspired session at my very first GenCon was particularly delightful.  Shrug.  Maybe I'm just looking at it wrong.

—

In 2002, Jared Sorensen gave us octaNe, "the psychotronic game of post-apocalyptic trash-culture america".  Not sure what it is about that dude and capitalization.

This book was an insta-buy for me, because of the whole post-apocalyptic thing I'm kinda known for 'round these parts.

The introduction says it all (and I'm copying the text, as-is, so don't fault the punctuation):

octaNe is a roller coaster ride through the trailer parks and strip malls of a post-apocalyptic, trash-culture America.  A garish B movie brought to life in living Glam-O-Vision.  A funkadelic, no-holds barred steel cage match of... well, you get the picture.

There is some great stuff in this book.  There's also some stuff that Tries Too Hard.  I'll let you decide  which is which based on your own druthers, from a sampling below:

)  The Rule Of Rock N' Roll:  rock music must always be playing while, uh, playing.

)  The Rule Of Snacks—White Trash Picnic:  everyone must bring eats, with chili-dogs, Spam, nachos, Jell-O salad, and Pabst being ideal.

)  "Theatrical Modes":  helpful play style guides with descriptions, including Psychotronic: Retro-Kool Kitsch and Grindhouse:  Cheap Exploitation and Arthouse:  Mythic Storytelling and Cinéma Vérité:  Gritty Hyper-Realism.  [Note:  That may be the first use of the now-overused "grindhouse" that I ever recall seeing.]

)  Shout-outs to Archie MacPhee, Rob Zombie, Big Daddy Roth, Interstate '76, DEVO, and Sturgeon's Killdozer.

)  PC classes (in the loosest sense of the term) that include Alien Naturalist, Ape-Man Islander, Bad-Ass Mofo', Death-Rock Siren, Mutant Trucker, Ostrich Wrangler, and my personal favorite, Disco Robot Gigolo.

)  A comprehensive atlas, with locales like Lost Vegas and AridZona and New Texaco and Detroit Rock City and Hawaii Monster Island.  Wastelands, monsters, aliens, luchadores, and mutants abound.

)  This is the character sheet:

The UK / Australian Sheet Flips The Wheel

Another thing.  The game is slick.  And what I mean is that's it's polished and cute and glossy and smart and laid-out nicely.  But that also means that it lacks grime and guts and sleaze and sludge I expect from a "psychotronic game of post-apocalyptic trash culture america[sic]".

As written, it's precious.

—

2006 was a banner year for retro-geddons.

Justin's Brain, #2 In A Series

Green Ronin's Damnation Decade is one of the greatest alt-histories I've ever read, as it's got every 1970s-ism that's near and dear to my heart (even if the serial numbers are filed off):  sasquatches and Rollerballs and urban cowboys and Kolchaks and death races and sleestaks and Soylents and disco godfathers and omega mens-es and satanic panics and stuff like this:

Shake, Rattle, and Probe

Now With 100% More Nimoys!

I think it's also nigh-unplayable, because you HAD to have been there, man, to groove to the nuances.  I can't fathom playing this with any person born after 1973.  And I didn't like how they tried to play it safe, and renamed some of the key players for wussified "legal reasons". Tricky Dick Nixon needs to be himself, and not a "Stanton Spobek".

And while it hits some of the same beats from "trash culture", it's far more grim gas-crisis-and-turn-your-grandparents-into-nutrient-cubes dystopia than wahoo, nitro-burnin' road rally.

I love this book, though.  I really do.

Justin's Brain, #3 In A Series

And then there's Postmortem Studios' '45 Hotrod Retropocalypse, where you play "in the ruins of the old world...in a land of atomic abominations, lawlessness, loose morals, fast cars and Rock N' Roll."

The product is a doozy.  It crams in so much, and is VERY enthusiastic.

The book's trade dress is done entirely in over-the-top "cinema style", with "reels" instead of chapters, and bombastic blurbs like this:

There's sections that explain "B-Movie Reality" with definitions a'plenty ("What is a B-Movie?" "What is Pulp?"  "What is Grindhouse?") that are very informative to the layman and extremely grating to the expert.

The pages on gender and "moral messages" and burlesque and sexuality are more than welcome, as they clarify their historical roles in the genre but also expect players to defy them.  And while I'm tangentially aware that author James "Grim" Desborough later caused a tempest, there's nothing even remotely unsavory and/or misogynistic here.  Quite the opposite, in fact.

FINALLY, A Lady Brain-In-A-Jar!!!
(by Bradley K. McDevitt)

You get an almanac that hits many of octaNe's beats, but expands them (into the realm of over-explaining, actually).

I'm going to ignore the chapter reel on game mechanics, because it bores me to tears.

Rounding out the book are a few monsters ("Albino Alligators" and "Creatures From Lagoons" and "Frankensteiners" are my faves), and some sample NPCs.

Like Ro-Daddy-O, The Greatest Thing I Have Ever Seen:

That Portrait Is Goddamned Presidential

As snazzy as I think '45 Hotrod Retropocalypse is, it still doesn't scratch my itches, and ultimately falls kinda flat.  It's like a Betty Page pinup:  alluring and titillating and wrapped in leopard-print, but ultimately wholesome and adorable and quaint.

Yes, I did kinda bag on B.P. there.  What can I say?  I like my stuff smutty.  And in '45 HR, there's nary a loose moral to be found.

—

Which brings us to Jack Shear's Planet Motherfucker.

From the man himself, "Planet Motherfucker is ultra-violent, maxi-trashy, supra-lowbrow, and uber-depraved."

Ahhh, that's the stuff.

There's nothing twee about this 40-ish-page booklet o' brain-droppings.  There's no bloated treatises, as he assumes the readers for a book titled Planet-Fucking-Motherfucker know what they're getting into.

There's also no rules to speak of.  You're supposed to trick-out your rpg engine of choice with authentic, accept-no-substitutes P:MF accessories.

The inspirations.  The Rob Zombie ouvre gets much love, as well it should.  And the artistic shout-outs (including Dan Brereton, Simon Bisley, and Chris Cooper...what, no Unkle Pigors?) transform '45 Hotrod Retropocalypse's pulp and octaNe's greaser motifs into day-glo nightmares.  I want—nay, DEMAND—neon in my splatter.

There's very little in way of an atlas, because what more do you need than a setting that's "a hellacious fuckscape of violence and high-weirdness"?  Okay, okay...he mentions the voodoo-burg of Necro-Leans and the Pornopolis Of Lost Angels, and a few more.  But they're encapsulated in two or three evocative sentences that blow anything I've mentioned from the previous books out of the water.  They've got panache.  Greasy, sticky, stripper-glitter-and-musk coated panache.

There's charts.  So many charts.  And they're littered with pterodactyls and dragster-driving mummies (which just so happens to be my next character type in Richard Guy's Carcosan Wacky Races...yep, I'm gonna play Hot-Ra in his Car-Cophagus, aka The Zoom-Tomb!) and dirtbags and pornography and tattoos and The Quarry Of A Million Tragedies and hallucinogenic annelids and drank (which we H-Towners know a thing or two about) and opioid dinosaur urine.

I never knew I needed opioid dinosaur urine, but now I can't live without it.

There's a bestiary, which amounts to little more than perv-ifying and scuz-ilating your Monster Manuals.  But the critters are fun (belligerent tikis in place of dragons?  BRILLIANT!), and Shear earns points just by throwing a bone to one of the most ludicrous pinball machines ever made:

This Is A Thing That Exists

Lastly you get the character classes, all of which I want to play so very, very badly.  You can be a Brickhouse Amazon or a Chainsaw Paladin or a Dr. Satan or a Rat Fink.  Which means that your character is portrayed in Planet Motherfucker: The Movie by Pam Grier, Bruce Campbell, Jeffrey Combs, or, uh, him:

Method Actor Extraordinaire

Shear takes the shambling hulks of every rpg book I listed above, stripmines away the tame and the cliched and the trite, and refills the gaps with Grade-A vice.  It's not burlesque and pin-ups (despite what the graphics suggest...I don't begrudge the guy his free images), but Russ Meyer and Larry Flynt getting double-teabagged by John Waters.  And William Lustig is recording it.  With monsters.

It's NASTAY, y'all.  And it's everything I've ever wanted in game (okay, okay..."game product") that captures my lifelong love of trash and monsters and music and funnybooks and skinflicks and grime.  I never got to visit 42nd Street in its glory days, but I can recreate it at the gaming table.  With monsters.

And that's just about the highest recommendation I can give.

Buy it here.

"L" is for "Lumberjaw"

Lumberjaw

No. Enc.:  0 (1)
Alignment:  Neutral
Movement:  90' (30')
Armor Class:  3
Hit Dice:  15
Attacks:  1 (bite, or tail)
Damage:  5d6 or 3d8
Save:  L8
Morale:  10
Hoard Class:  None
XP:  3,300

Lumberjaws are plodding, terrestrial, 25-40' tall crocodilians with elongated legs, serrated tails, and knobby hides.  A thick jungle of symbiotic vegetation grows on their undersides. 

Ambush predators, lumberjaws stand still for days, waiting for prey to stumble into their ropy vines.  Anything wandering into a lumberjaw's foliage must make a successful Ability Check Vs STR or Ability Check Vs DEX (whichever is better), or become entangled.  Those grabbed are drawn into the lumberjaw's  maw for a bite attack; a To Hit roll of 17-20 on 1d20 means the victim is Swallowed [see p. 58 of the Mutant Future Core Rules].  Lumberjaws can stoop down to attack ground-based targets, but suffer a -2 To Hit penalty due to sheer ungainliness.

Lumberjaws use their tails to clear space for them to inhabit.  Unexplained mounds of butchered timber in the middle of a forest may alert canny adventurers that a lumberjaw is nearby....

Mutations:  None

Mutants In The News — "Character Creation Just Got Weird" Edition

Hawkmoths zap bats with sonic blasts from their genitals.

The majesty of that sentence speaks for itself.

Mutants In The News — "Digging Through Ditches, Burning Through Witches" Edition

Anyone who visits this blog during any given October knows that I'm a huge, Huge, HUGE fan of psychotronic, sleaze-o-rama, drive-in fare.

Monsters & mutants & mayhem.

Bikers & babes & bloodshed.

Celluloid & screams & stickiness.

Gimmicks & gratuitousness and gore.

I've tried to do my little part to celebrate the genre, but I'm a mere Ed Wood when compared to the bastard 3-way-love-child of William Castle, Roger Corman, and Herschell Gordon Lewis that is Jack Shear, over at the must-read Tales Of The Grotesque And Dungeonesque.

This man is my hero, because he's made MY ULTIMATE DREAM POST-APOCALYPTIC RPG that I didn't even know I wanted until he first brain-dropped about it!!!

AND IT'S FINALLY HERE.

Welcome to Planet Motherfucker.

It has everything that I love in a setting (hell, everything I love in LIFE):  post-apocalyptic trash-fantasies and horror-honeys and hot rod hearses and psychobilly insanity and more monsters than you can shake an electric pitchfork-guitar at.

= Justin's Brain.  SCIENCE!!!

I totally bought it.  You should, too.  (And there's even Lulu coupons, so I hear.)

Seriously, Shear's got THE GOODS.  He's in my Top 3 favorite bloggers, amongst those titans Our Friendly Neighborhood Sniderman and The Abominable Dr. Causey.  Show him some love.

Radioactive Review — 'Wisdom From The Wastelands #19: Robots, Part 4'

If the prior robot-centric Wisdom From The Wastelands supplements (#15, #16, and #18) make up a decadent sundae of murderous mechanical goodness, then WFTW #19:  Robots, Part 4 serves as the  sprinkles.  It's not essential, but nonetheless provides plenty of color and crunch and texture, and makes everything better.

And it's sure goes down tastier than gummy worms.  Just who the hell are those people that genuinely like gummy worms as a topping?!  Freaks me out, man.

NO.

This issue is a hodge-pot and mush-podge of assorted robo-tidbits.

You get a chart on how to apply the standard Mutant Future artifact condition rules to robots: the worse the condition = the shoddier the 'bot.  Not exactly inspired, but it's over in an eyeblink.

There's alternative energy sources, which turn your usual nuke-powered deathbots into coal-belchin', solar-slurpin', mechano-vampire'n monstrosities out of John Henry's fevered nightmares.  I liked this section.

Then come the robo-remoras, and all I could think of were certain Transformers toys and their li'l accessories that are ALSO robots.

And you get three whole pages of new gear and weapons, so a Mutant Lord can trick out his killborgs with nanites and drug-generators and tractor beams and wormhole drives and bubble-guns and giganto-rays and necro-beams.  Great, great stuff.

I've faulted author Derek Holland before for his...thoroughness...but the guy really does think of everything.  And with his robot supplements, he truly goes above and beyond putting the science-fantasy in your science-fantasy rpgs.

Still the best 99¢ value on the PDF market.  Buy it here.

"D" is for "Diabalope"

Diabalope  ("Impaler")

No. Enc.:  2d8
Alignment:  Neutral
Movement:  210' (70')
Armor Class:  3
Hit Dice:  5
Attacks:  1 (gore)
Damage:  5d4+5
Save:  L3
Morale:  11
Hoard Class:  None
XP:  950

Diabalopes are dainty herbivores with 5 prominent horns jutting from their skulls.  Bioluminescent optic nodules dangle from their heads, granting the creatures 360-degree vision; accordingly, they are never Surprised.  Despite their slight builds, diabalopes are aggressive and territorial, and capable of fending off even the deadliest predators.

Diabalopes discharge blistering beams (Radiation Class 7) from their snout-horns.  

Mutations:  Beguiling, Damage Turning, Energy Ray (Radiation), Extra Parts (Eyes)

Mutants In The News — "GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!" Edition

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Mutant Spewture — BLAH, BLAH!!! THEY WANT TO SUCK YOUR GUNK!!!

Snobe

No. Enc.:  1d4 (1d10)
Alignment:  Chaotic
Movement:  120' (40')
Armor Class:  3
Hit Dice:  13
Attacks:  3 (2 claws, 1 bite) or 1d4 (spines)
Damage:  1d8 / 1d8 / 1d12 + drain, or 1d6 each
Save:  L10
Morale:  11
Hoard Class:  None
XP:  9,600

Along with regular clobbering, cremefillian parents keep their hoodlum spawnlings in line with nightmarish bedtime stories.  (They are kinda lousy that way; then again, their jerky kids kinda deserve it.)  And no tales are more terrifying than those of the snobes, spiny abominations who stalk the sludgescapes specifically for cremefillian victims...

...BECAUSE THE STORIES ARE TRUE!!!

Snobes are androgynous, 5' tall, spherical beasts with jutting fangs, spiky brows, and neon-pink hides covered in jagged filaments.  These filaments normally lay flat, but can be launched in 1d4 clusters that do 1d6 damage each at a range of up to 75'.  They are quite sweet to the taste, according to those shot in the face.

Though snobes prey primarily on cremefillians (so as to slake their unholy thirsts on succulent cremoglobin), any goop will do.  If a snobe successfully strikes with all 3 melee attacks in the same round, it greedily clamps down, leeching an automatic 2d8 damage per round thereafter.  Only in death does a snobe release its grip.

Snobes have the same resistances (sickness, contamination, aging, radiation, etc.) as cremefillians, and nigh-identical builds as donk-types.  In fact, due to the numerous similarities between the species, many believe that snobes are mutant donks.  Or undead donks.  Or mutano-dead donks.  Some even say that that any cremefillian who dies at the fangs of a snobe rises from the slime 3 days later...as a new snobe!!!  Or maybe as a pastry demi-messiah.  Man, cremefillians can't agree on anything.

Snobes ooze marshmallow ichor (Class 10 paralytic poison) when injured.  That's just nasty.

Mutations:  Dermal Poison Slime, Spiny Growth (Medium)

Kinda-Sorta-The-Designer's Notes:  I came up with snobes myself, but they wouldn't be possible without Andy Hopp's brain-seeds.  And I'm crossing my fingers that I coined "cremoglobin"!!!

Mutant Spewture — Don't DARE Call Her "Cupcake".

Big Debbie
Gooey Goon Giant

NPC
Character Type:  Cremefillian (Donk)
Alignment:  Neutral

Level:  6
Hit Points:  62
Armor Class:  4
Movement:  120' (40')

Abilities
STR:  20
DEX:  14
CON:  18
INT:  6
WIL:  15
CHA:  16

Modifiers
) To Hit / Damage (Melee):  +4 / +5
) To Hit (Missile):  +1
) AC:  -1
) Technology Rolls:  -5%
) Reaction Adjustment:  -1

Saving Throws
Energy Attacks:  9
Poison / Death:  8
Stun Attacks:  10
Radiation:  9

Mutations:  Dermal Poison Slime (Class 7), Increased Physical Attribute (Strength)

Attacks / Weapons / Abilities 
)  Pummel (2d4 + 3d6 +5)
)  Random Bludgeon Of Opportunity  (by weapon + 3d6 + 5)
)  +1 Melee Damage (Level Bonus, factored into Modifiers)

)  Immune to Toxins, Diseases, Pollutants, Radiation, Aging-Effects

Equipment
)  Vehicle / mount of choice (always something massive and intimidating)

XP:  85,050

Description

Big Debbie is one of the burliest, surliest, orneriest, thorneriest Cremefillians in the Mutant Future.  She's over 7' tall and just as wide, and dwarfs her fellow donks.  And her atypical icing coloration makes her stand out even more.

Big Debbie hates standing out.

In fact, she hates pretty much everything, except brutality, carnage, destruction, mayhem, agony, and your usual assorted violences.  And that attitude makes her one of the most useful and employable "specialists" around.  You need a bounty hunted, or a leg broken, or a bar bounced, or a pit fought, or a body guarded?  Or just want someone crushed into paste on general principle?  Big Debbie is your gal.

Big Debbie is a skilled rider of beastly mounts, and quite adept at driving Ancient vehicles that fit her girth.  Like monster-trucks.  And tanks.

Seriously, don't mess with Big Debbie.  She will wreck you.

Saucy Bonus Pinup!
(Taken by an ex-fling, who was later found in various pieces....)

Not-The-Designer's Notes:  This short-tempered, spherical psychopath is based on Andy Hopp's Cremefillians, from his Low Life cosmology.

Kinda-Sorta-The-Designer's Notes:  Big Debbie is based on my Mutant Future-ified version of Cremefillians.

Mutant Spewture — Here Come The Cremefillians!!!

Cremefillian

No. Enc.:  1d4 (1d10)
Alignment:  Neutral
Movement:  120' (40')
Armor Class:  5
Hit Dice:  12
Attacks:  1 (pummel, or melee weapon)
Damage:  2d4+3d6, or by weapon +3d6
Save:  L15
Morale:  10
Hoard Class:  XV
XP:  7,600

Sure, the Mutant Future has its fair share of bizarre beasts and twisted denizens...but it's the Cremefillians who take the cake.

Literally.

Cremefillians are surly, super-strong humanoids who usually appear in two varieties:  the 7-8' tall, semi-cylindrical, gangly-armed tweenks, and the 5' tall, sorta-spherical, shiny-glazed donks.  Their hides are confoundingly soggy, spongy, crumbly, and crusty. Sugary, too-white ichor runs through their veins.

Because of historical misdeeds done against them (involving oven-filled prison camps, cellophane shrouds, and Ancient dietary practices), Cremefillians revile Pure Humans, and Mutant Humans that don't look "funky enough".  Many embrace brutal lives of criminality, thuggery, mercenary-ery, and/or warlord-ishness, and they revel in martial combat.

Thanks to absorbing all manner of things that just shouldn't be absorbed, cremefillians are immune to all known diseases, toxins, pollutants, radiations, and aging effects, making them effectively immortal (assuming they avoid stabbings and bludgeonings and whatnot). Determine the Poison Class of their Dermal Poison Slime at random, but re-roll Classes 3 and below (making the minimum Class 4).

—

The Cremefillians are a playable Character Race.  They possess starting STR scores of 12+1d8, default ACs of 5, and 1d8 HP per point of CON, and also make Saving Throws as if 3 levels higher than their current level.  Cremefillians can carry triple the standard weight amounts, with values adjusted accordingly on the Movement and Encumbrance Table [Mutant Future Core Rules, p. 36].

Mutations:  Dermal Poison Slime (Modified), Increased Physical Attribute (Strength)

Not-The-Designer's Notes:  The Cremefillians are the brainchildren of the twisted Andy Hopp, from his Low Life cosmology.  I just Mutant Future'd 'em up, and added "donk" to the vernacular (at least I think I did).  Read all about them here!

Friends In Lowly Places

At Comicpalooza a few weeks back (which I attended as part of Skirmisher Publishing's entourage, which still boggles that they graciously and generously invited this reprobate along), I had the pleasure of hanging out with designer and artiste extraordinaire Andy Hopp, he of the surreal and snazzy Low Life supplement for the Savage Worlds engine.

If you're not familiar with the material, it's a post-post-post-apocalyptic Earth where plural 'ageddons (nukes, pollutants, aliens, comets, returned lost continents—ALL the biggies) turned our pristine blue-green marble into a grey-green glob of gunk.

Gone are the humans, flora, and fauna.  Now, "Planet Oith" is ruled by arthropods, annelids, sludges, weirdos, not-so-extra-terrestrials...and sentient snack cakes.

It's goofy.  It's giddy.  It's delirious.  It's diphtherious.  And it out-gonzos everything.

The art is what really does it for me.  Just check out these Dr.-Seuss-on-LSD beauties:

The Playable Races

The Same...But Now, In Glorious Black & White!

DONG LIFE.

I've always wanted to do something for Low Life, but didn't think it really fit my oh-so-serious mutant musings.  But the delightful, demented, and all-around deranged Mr. Hopp got me off my mental keister, and  set my inspirational slops a' slitherin'.  So expect to see some Mutant Future-y interpretations soon.

Seriously.  Just look at that guy.  THE FACE OF MADNESS.
(The bastard love-clone of Danny Devito and Dr. Emmett Brown, perhaps...?)

Oh, yeah!  There's a Kickstarter available, where you can give money and get cool swag in return; medium of exchange, meet goods and services!  AND you're supporting a revised edition of the core sourcebook.

I've pledged, so what more of a recommendation do you need?  GIVE THIS PROJECT ALL YOUR MONIES!!!

Do it.  Click right here.  You know you want to.

Radioactive Review — 'Wisdom From The Wastelands #18: Robots, Part 3'

I've applauded and raved about The Skirmisher Gang's great, Great, GREAT robot supplements.  They're by far my favorite Wisdom From The Wastelands releases, as they forgo rules crunch and instead slop on heapin' helpin's o' flavor.

Mmmmm.  Flavor-slop.

WFTW #18:  Robots, Part 3 carries on the grand tradition.  And it's infused with sly humor, which goes such a long way with me.  Oh, if only the dry biology supplements of which I haven't been fond had the same!  Seriously, Skirmishers...that's the secret with this reviewer.

Because I want you to give them your money, I'll only tantalize you with some choice bits. You'll have to learn the context yourselves, which can be had for less than the price of a fast food soft taco!

)  "...resembles a gore-spattered medical table with several spider-like articulated limbs...."

)  "Anyone suffering this attack must Save Versus Death at -8 or become a robotic slave."

)  "Currently active (and bored) powerbots often use the cables...so anything stepping on them will be electrocuted."

)  "...some ranchbots have taken to sterilizing both livestock and people...or, simply age them to death."

)  "Those that returned from faster-than-light testing went mad, and all of them have twitches."

)  "A variant...was used to collect people for the lunar prisons."

)  "Unfortunately, when the cataclysm struck, the sky was full of falling, burning homes and most were turned to scrap when they smashed into the ground."


And my absolute favorite, which made me cackle right here in my cubicle:

)  "It can also turn invisible, something useful for a 50' tall robot."


Gold.

—

Rounding out the issue are 6 new robo-cessories and 2 new armaments.  You can never have too many robo-cessories.

Buy it here.

Uranium In The Brainium...

...makes one insanium in the cranium.  (I'm pretty sure that's a line from the classic ol' skool joint, Life In Tha Manhattan Projectz, by Rob "MC Bombfather" Oppenheimer and Enrico "DJ Enfermo" Fermi.  Hip-hop hasn't been the same since they disbanded.)

I've never gone this long between posts before, but...man.

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind, with two cons (Comicpalooza and North Texas RPG Con) and their requisite hijinks, family obligations (sooooo many birthdays near Mother's Day), work wonkiness (can you believe they expect me to do things?!), and absolutely maddening Random Encounters (like two separate, unrelated, utterly pointless car break-ins, and the corresponding repairs, replacements, and rage...and just what are they going to do with all those Heroclix, anyway?).

Oh, yeah.  I'm also getting hitched in two weeks, so there's all that rigmarole.

I'm so drained, I even put my Mutant Future and DCC campaigns on hold until July...AND THAT SIMPLY DOESN'T HAPPEN.

But I swear I've got tons of stuff in the pipeline.  The neurons are just slow, ya dig?

So lemme catch my breath and mainline this keg of Brawndo, and I'll be rarin' to go. Assuming the arrhythmia doesn't kill me first, of course.

Thanks for your patience.

"N" is for "Negahorse"

Negahorse

No. Enc.:  2d6 (3d6)
Alignment:  Neutral
Movement:  210' (70')
Armor Class:  5
Hit Dice:  10
Attacks:  1 (bite, kick, trample)
Damage:  1d8 or 1d12 or 3d6
Save:  L5
Morale:  9
Hoard Class:  None
XP:  2,400

Negahorses are stocky, ill-tempered equines found in blasted plains and desolate wastelands.  Predators give them a wide berth.

Negahorses discharge antimatter energy from their eyes, heads, and snouts—their craniums to glow and crackle with an indigo nimbus before release.  The beams act as a combination of the Energy Ray and Disintegration mutations:  usable once every 3 rounds up to a distance of 50', and destroying WILx10 lbs of matter (dead and living alike), and utterly lacking the "reduced to 1 HP" side effects.  Negahorses have WIL scores of 12+1d8.

Only the bravest / most foolhardy individuals attempt to take negahorses as mounts.

Mutations:  Reflective Epidermis (Radiation), Unique Mutation ("Antimatter Blast")

"M" is for "Muckripper"

Muckripper

No. Enc.:  0 (2d8)
Alignment:  Neutral
Movement:  90' (30')
     —Swim:  90' (30')
Armor Class:  5
Hit Dice:  8
Attacks:  1 (bite)
Damage:  2d8
Save:  L4
Morale:  9
Hoard Class:  None
XP:  3,560

Muckrippers are bloated, 15' long, amphibious fish that congregate near the most toxic of pools, favoring ruined water treatment plants, slurry pits, and industrial retention ponds contaminated with heavy metals.  Highly aggressive, they usually charge head-on, but also conceal themselves beneath the mire to ambush passing prey (Surprising on a 1-4 on 1d6). Pods of muckrippers even chase victims up trees, and then gnaw through the trunks until they collapse....

Muckrippers disgorge glowing gobbets of filth [Radiation Class 5-10; determine at random on 1d6] at distances up to 25'.  They are obviously immune to all poisons, disease, and radioactivity. 

Mutations:  Dermal Poison Slime, Toxic Weapon ("Toxic Glob")

"F" is for "Freakock"

Freakock

No. Enc.:  1 (1d4)
Alignment:  Neutral
Movement:  120' (40')
         —Fly:  18' (6')
Armor Class:  3 (7)
Hit Dice:  5
Attacks:  1 (peck)
Damage:  1d4
Save:  L3
Morale:  8
Hoard Class:  VII
XP:  1,400

Freakocks are iridescent, 3' tall birds with long tails that unfurl into expansive, eye-riddled fans.  The extra eyes grant 360-degree vision (thereby preventing being Surprised) and fire energy beams [determine type at random].

A freakock generates a swirling, kaleidoscopic field that disorients foes, making its effective AC 3.  Those targeting with Echolocation, other non-visual super-senses, and / or mechanical systems treat the birds as having AC 7.  And though of animal intelligence, freakocks possess powerful minds (WIL 12+1d4) and the psychic powers to match.

Freakocks can only fly short distances, and usually just seek higher elevations so as to avoid predators.

Fluids from freakock eggs make serums that grant 1d3 positive Mental Mutations, at the risk of intense psychic burnout (a -2d4 WIL) and the random acquisition of one of the following Drawbacks:  Atrophied Cerebellum, Phantasmal Damage, or Phobia.

Mutations:  Control Light Waves, Disintegration, Energy Ray (Any), Increased Sense (Vision), Mental Phantasm, Mind Reflection, Mind Thrust, Unique Sense (360-Degree Vision)

Mutants In The News — "Squirrels. Why Did It Have To Be Squirrels?" Edition

When I was itty-bitty, there was a squirrel that lived in our yard that I taught to eat out of my hand.  I named him Hungry Henry.  Every day when I checked the mail, he'd scamper down to see me.  I'd hold a pecan wedge between my thumb and index finger, and he'd deftly pluck it and chew it up like a chainsaw did lumber.

You have no idea how much joy that brought me.

And I fed him for a very, very long time; like, at least a year or two.  It got to where I could pet him, and sometimes hold him when my folks weren't around to chastise me.  He had a weird little purr.

Hungry Henry and I had a relationship.

So I was devastated when I found his little roadkilled body one afternoon.  It was one of my very first experiences with the harsh realities of Nature.

I loved that squirrel, and it translated into a fondness for all of his kinfolk.

Which means it was extra traumatic when, months later, I watched another squirrel systematically devour a nest a baby mockingbirds.

See, there was this nest in one of our backyard pecan trees, with four or five chicks.  I'd spent weeks spying on it, watching the mama bird tend her eggs.  The inevitable hatching was one of those miraculous childhood experiences.  I'd go check on the babies when the mama was away.  They were so ugly, they were adorable.

And one particular Saturday, right after I'd looked at the developing chicks, up scampered this squirrel to same tree.  I, delighted, thought it was after the pecans.  It was like a cartoon, and I was about to make a new squirrel sidekick, because try as I might, all my efforts to befriend other squirrels after Henry failed miserably.

Nope.  The squirrel looked up at me—right dead-on into my eyes—and then darted up the trunk, dove into the nest, grabbed a hatchling, zipped down with a dangling bird-baby in its jaws, bolted up into a giant tree across the yard...and proceeded to feed.

There was a cacophony of panicked chirping, and I was stunned.  Just dumbstruck.  And then I freaked as only an elementary schooler can freak.

I sped into the house, sobbing and wailing about the carnivorous beast, but my folks wouldn't believe me.  "Squirrels eat nuts," they said dismissively.

It took what seemed like forever to get them to come investigate (and I still remember my dad's eyerolls and grousing), and I dragged them outside to the tree...

...just in time to see that awful squirrel sitting in the nest, devouring another chick right there over the other babies.   It bolted when it saw the three of us.

My folks panicked, in decidedly different ways.  My mom ran to our encyclopedias, madly researching squirrel dietary habits, because she was convinced it was rabid.  My dad went to the nest, saw the gore, and ran for his rifle.

And the next couple of hours were kind of a blur.  I cowered inside, listening to the mayhem around me.  Unsatisfied with her researches, my ma called libraries and universities and zoos to find out if squirrels really did eat baby birds.  My dad staked out the tree, and many shots were fired...

...but that squirrel proved far craftier, and managed to make 3-4 more trips back to the nest, dodging gunfire  (and, I later found out, rocks and even shoes) and ignoring my dad's enraged yelling.

It ate every single last chick.  Nothing could stop it.

My dad eventually came in, as angry as I'd ever seen him.  He started to make a big batch of poisoned corn-grain-dogfood to kill the squirrel.  My mom wanted to rush me to the ER to get rabies shots, because she wouldn't believe that I hadn't touched that squirrel like I did my precious Hungry Henry.

Calm eventually prevailed, and there was no mass-poisoning of wildlife or injections in stomachs.  I think it was the Houston Zoo who ultimately assured my mom that squirrels were omnivores, and that we weren't dealing with a diseased aberration.

That was an awful, awful day.  And I have never, ever looked at squirrels the same way again.

—

I don't think I've ever told anyone my squirrel stories before, so, um...yeah.  Thanks, I guess? Sorry?  I dunno.  This all kinda bubbled up.

And I am definitely seeing this movie, purely for cathartic purposes.

DreadCentral has the synopsis here.

"D" is for "Dohvarr"

Dohvarr

No. Enc.:  1d4 (1d4)
Alignment:  Neutral
Movement:  150' (50')
Armor Class:  3
Hit Dice:  3
Attacks:  2 (2 claws)
Damage:  1d4 / 1d4
Save:  L3
Morale:  7
Hoard Class:  VI
XP:  125

Dohvarrs are slight, 3' tall humanoids with bulbous, balloon-like heads and oversized, luminous eyes.  Lacking sexual characteristics (amongst other things, like ears, noses, mouths, and hair), their genders are indeterminate.  Dohvarrs scurry and scamper on all fours as quickly as they do bipedally, and can cling to almost any surface.

Dohvarrs prey on psychic energy, and always attack those with the highest WIL scores.  They selectively use their Vampiric Fields on such targets, affecting only the desired victim(s) and no other targets.

The little creatures are quite noisy, and screech and keen like predatory birds when agitated. How they do so is utterly baffling.

Mutations:  Enhanced Vision (Thermal), Increased Balance, Optic Emissions (Bright Eyes), Shriek, Vampiric Field (Modified)