PITCHFORK
Cockroach-man Mute underbug Bob lives in the tri-factional city of Pitchfork and gets the fuzzy-pop when he must find a cure for Sunshine, the nation’s one and only poisonous beer, after an attack leaves his niece deathly ill. But ... Mutes are banned from beverages. Amidst escalating chaos at work and the terrible orchestrations of a master puppeteer, can Bob be the hero as his investigations into the sound of things hit a clanging pitch? What is wrong with everybody’s ears and what has it all got to do with beer? He must literally put himself into his work if he is going to top the charts (and get the girl) but will anybody listen?
STRIVING FOR SONAR
In the labyrinth of the ear is peace. The Drys are an elite minority who spend their time striving for sonar. For them, the pursuit of the one note is king. They disdain the Wets who sully their earholes with drink and can never reach the heart of the labyrinth, and they abhor the Mutes. Mute is to Dry what silence is to sound. Purge for peace! They represent music but they have no rhythm.
TOTES SCHNOCKERED, SKRRT!
The majority, afflicted by their addictions. Wets are producers of the deadly beer, Sunshine, as well as its biggest consumer. Locked in an endless cycle of work-drink-therapy, they’re too Brahms and Liszt to know better. Ultimately, ending up in the ominous Holiday clinic. Few are cured, most relapse, many die. Looked down on by the Drys as witless failures, they represent rhythm but addicts cannot hear.
BEPITCHED, BOTHERED & BELEAGUERED
Peace-loving social individuals, Mutes (mutants) possess supernatural smell and touch, but are prohibited from the Food & Beverage industry due to their associated heritage – cockroaches. Exploited as service folk, treating addled Shakers and laundering Dry purge-wear, their path is beset on all sides by the inequities of the be-belled and the tyranny of a puppeteer. They represent beer – all things happy – but they are oppressed.
PLAYAZ
and the forking POSTERS
Tourmaline, our queen of green. Only eleven years young but she has captured the hearts of the city of Pitchfork. They can't understand her but they love her anyway. Sounds above 20,000 Hertz are considered ultrasonic. The Guinness World Record for the greatest female range is the note G10, which is 10 octaves above middle C. This is technically not a musical note but a frequency, and comes to 25,088 Hertz. Can you go higher? Any sound above this range would not be audible to the human ear.
MR. HOLIDAY
He runs the clinics, he's got his fingers in the fuzz and strings on the Sunshine. He's got those Drys paying permits. Permanently. Oh, he gets all the spinach. The only thing he can't stand is the noise. That's why he turns himself off every hoohar. Silence is golden ... after all.
STAY IN THE KNOW
PFK - Pitchfork Tri-Factional News is presented to you by Wet Ronald and Dry Rosie … and Mute Rupert. Usually last on the scene, non-PC and not inclusive, PFK News offers you the fuzzy end of the lollipop, unsurprisingly, every time. Hopes raised for summer general election are quashed after bollox government categorically rules it out. Factions are in primary colours, after all! Tff! And, as Chesney once said, I are the one and only!
