All chaos reigns in a birdless world.

Enemies abound for Jonathan Livingston Selgo, the one and only bird of salesmen should fear the rise of his rotten rogues gallery.

As the noble bird clings to life in an undisclosed location, the enemies of the justice self-siety run amok, stopping

you from financially supporting Smodco.

Hear their names, Tootface, the listener who takes all the free audio you dish out, but then

bitches about the prices of the live show, and never goes.

Look at that.

Who's coming from the shadows there? It's Mistress Freeze, the fiendish femme fatale who runs your life and crushes your dreams of oral. Say it not that kind of oral, this kind of oral, live shit oral. Say shit like, you're not dragging me any Smokko shows at my night off. Boshet, you listen to too much of that fat guy as it is, mister. And of course, we can never forget the bird of salesmanship's most hated foe. The prickly prince of pauper makers. The Montabank of moths in your wallet, man. I'm talking about the broker with Jonathan Livingston Sells goal.

Nowhere to be found.

Who will protect Seasmod.com from the retuperations of these vile villains?

Oh.

You hear that barking?

It's getting closer.

Holy shit, could it be?

Oh my God, it is.

We're saved.

It's the bird of salesmanship's old pals.

The smiling cell hounds.

The hounds of cell.

They'll stand for Gotham when her champions felled like Norman. Oh, the hounds of Cell. They'll stand for Gotham on her champions.

Felt like Norman.

Oh, the hounds of cell have those registered dogs on to run, children.

...