Out of the abyss and into the fire, with all the fury of a hundred aped up saber-toothed cobras behind the wheel of a nitro-fueled fire chicken on a death race to nowhere, comes Factor 54. A doomsday chariot piloted by freaks and zombies with a penchant for not-so-niceties and the ability to blow your mind like a flame-kissed powder keg floating in a sea of gasoline.
Pungent belches of neon and the searing spew of huh-whatness pepper the minds eye of today's unchained youth and quell the conformity in the hunt for individuality. Like the green, sea-legged ewe trying to free itself from the hypnotic stranglehold gaze of the viper wolf, it's resistance is futile, save for the secret weapon: the poisoned tip halftone honey-dipped brain arrows of "breath of fresh air"edness. Our frope cloaks are the stocked quiver that'll make any sucker shiver.