Jeff The Kickstarter campaign for BURGERPunk The RPG is wrapping up its shift, and ends Thursday, March 16th at 9 AM MT. There’s only one stretch goal left to unlock, and the campaign is less than ten backers from breaking our record! Go! Embrace the Living Meat(TM)! Become BURGERPunk!
Look at this glorious map of New McDonaldland, and let your imagination run wild with meaty thoughts of high-fructose adventure!
BURGERPunk is two weeks in, and we’ve got a bunch of new stuff to share – new stretch goals, new author announcements, and the first piece of BURGERPunk prose fiction! Do you want to understand what adventures lie within New McDonaldland!
And introducing the writer of our first piece of bite-sized fiction…
Patrick A. O’Driscoll is a triple-decker freak-burger with extra sauce now available in participating locations in Missouri, USA. When not writing about meaty horrors or clown funerals, Patrick is an SFF writer and freelance game journalist with dreams of writing for video games. His work has been featured in Den of Geek. His latest story, A Mother’s Love is a horror fairy-tale about alienation and insect biology will be featured in an upcoming issue of Elritch Tales Magazine. He has also written quests for the indie MMORPG Genfanad and comic books for Necronauts Toys.
We had asked Patrick to come up with a quick bite of flash fiction to give you all a taste of what’s to come, and we were really happy with how it turned out!
CLICK THRU TO READ THE FULL STORY!
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He stumbled into town one day, smeared with blood and greasepaint. Mothers clutched their children and made the sign of The King as he passed, but I’d never been one for superstition. I welcomed him, as I do all my patrons, with a soft bench, a drink, and a burger.
“Honkabout,” he called it. A tradition among the Children of Ronald. A punishment. A pilgrimage.
“Your journey can wait.” I told him. “Winter nears its end, and with spring comes The Thawing. Every Living Meat from here to the Burger Kingdom will be about. One step beyond the shockwall, and you’ll be ‘twixt two buns and praying ‘no pickles.’”
The clown looked to me from beneath his rainbow wig with eyes I saw each day, staring back in the mirror. The eyes of a man who had laid out the table for his own last meal.
He spoke, at last. “I took joy from the world. Never shall I see the bigtop, nor smell the popcorn of my home-tent until I bring mirth to a thousand souls or die in the attempt.”