Wel­come to GigaBoots.com. We are, as you may have already dis­cerned, a web­site who’s purview falls pri­mar­ily on the arena of video games. Here can be found an array of video con­tent on such sub­jects as the games them­selves, the indus­try that pro­duces them and it’s sur­round­ing cul­ture, and the his­tory and pro­jected future thereof.

         The ques­tion still remains, how­ever, as to why you should visit this web­site. Why this one over all the other in a medium already stuffed to the gills with con­tent both qual­ity and…otherwise? The answer, my friend, is sim­ple: propulsion.

         You see, we here at Giga­Boots do not pro­duce our fine video con­tent merely for your enter­tain­ment or edi­fi­ca­tion (although you will find plenty and to spare of each through­out). Nei­ther did we invest our­selves in these labors merely for the friv­o­lous acqui­si­tion of wealth (again, though, we would not be averse to it’s hap­pen­ing). No, we under­took this task with a much more press­ing goal on the hori­zon:

We need to get home.

         We used our tech­no­mag­is­ter pow­ers to rend a hole in the fab­ric of quan­tum space-time to unleash the griz­zly Princes of the Farter­ror realms into the eter­nally burn­ing throne room of the Robot Necrolord in a last des­per­ate attempt to quell his clock­work fury. As the pyra­m­ifeardrons of the ghastly van­guard surged through the por­tal and broke upon the native geom­e­try of our uni­verse, the Necrolord opened his own chest and from it raged the legions of the Autonecro­ma­ton Guard. The hoary rasps of dead lungs mixed with the whirrings and clack­ings of their slip­shod con­struc­tion, the flash­ing hooves of their ragged mounts spark­ing embers as they struck the air. The mad robotic poten­tate of our once liv­able nation howled his des­per­ate rage as his min­ions poured from his hol­low chest. The unknow­able foul­beasts of the eldritchian spine worlds mewled a hor­ri­ble refrain as they squelched and scram­bled in a blis­ter­ing tor­rent of tepid and furi­ous outrage.

         After a brief team meet­ing in which it was decided that we had, in our panic and haste, pretty much acci­den­tally fucked over the bet­ter part of the known uni­verse, a motion was car­ried to indulge in that most noble of tra­di­tions sacred to the Holy Order of Tech­no­cratic Wiz­ard Lords and Asso­ci­ated Sor­cerer Kings: run­ning like bitches.

         Uti­liz­ing our not incon­sid­er­able skill, we used what lit­tle influ­ence was left to us to place the entire sec­tion of causal­ity in sta­sis. Unfore­seen to us, how­ever, was the con­se­quence of our cor­po­real forms being trapped while our ephemeral selves were expelled through the cos­mos to finally rest in this bleak time period on this insipid world.

         And so it is that this web­site has come to be. You see, we must col­lect the atten­tion and ado­ra­tion of mor­tal humans, as it is the pri­mary pro­pel­lent for our prin­ci­ple means of con­veyance, the Time Machine Pan­ther Hawk.

Spe­cial thanks to Tim Wright for the chairs.

Cast:
Dan — Co-founder, writer, nar­ra­tor
Bob — Co-founder, web designer, edi­tor, co-writer
Dr. Aggro — co-writer, ass­hole
Eric — co-writer…kinda