Within his mind there are two states: one where he is dead and another where he is vomiting all his past out upon the clean slate. It's either one or the other for him, posthumous or empty. There he is: Thrasher. A writhing bit of this world shaped like a human and wrenching the depths of the comic carnival up to the surface for the ooooooo's and aaaaaaah's of the crowd. His countless chins tell a tale of mispent youth where motorcycles ushered in an era of LSD mind benders and screaming aside bonfires to the pulse of a boombox emitting static and fog. He wandered the desolate landscape of a stricken valley. He transcribed an account of something unspeakable. He tore his hair out at the roots for lack of a thing to do. And his skeleton was left behind because the slate just wouldn't stay clean. It was marred from the beginning. He was already dead to it. So this duplication of selves recieves it's reason through the trials of a man with a passion all burnt out. Thrasher is a tough sack of shit and he lost his pension when the warehouse collapsed. But that was just a premonition. To him, it all happened before. The naivete and the disillusionment are waking dreams. Within Thrasher is the coming together of the babe and the geezer for one last wrestling match. And this bout? Oh this bout is the one that determines who gets to pin the Death Notice on the front door of Thrasher's gut.