First page
First Panel
(Open onto a huge cityscape, the sun stagnant in the sky, fuming clouds billowing over its orange glow; buildings are marking out a clear skyline miles away. The whole thing is one a huge scale, towering blocks of flats the entire scene given the impression of being many miles up. The constructions in this city are mad and inventive, springing out in all directions, malformed and impossible, neon in colour and dream like in shape. Hexagonal topped skyscrapers huddle together in blocks, helipads marked on their roofs, designated habitations zones. Huge signs advertising odd things like the wasp and marmalade museum, or the mars mission are throbbing to themselves, pyramids with blinking eyes, dragons made of concrete hundreds of feet high, tower blocks that’d make M C Esher’s eyes bleed tumble across this densely populated area. Go mad with it, just stick things in there. Road ways snake in between. Cars and tanks, caravans and space age moon vehicles are crammed together in dense six lane traffic, helicopters hang between buildings and a lonely single man craft similar to the Thunderbirds submarine trails across the sky with a banner behind it declaring “Anti-culture zone”)
Narration in caption: Welcome to the future brothers and sister: New Zanzibar Est: 1945. We all came here for reasons unknown to us, whether prophetic, whether economic, whether biological.

Narration continues in new caption: But we’re here right, in our home. In our city, living our lives and making our goddamn mark.
Second panel
(A closer view to one of the housing estates. Cars are up on blocks,  in the streets which are littered with garbage and tat. Broken fridges, piles of black bags over flowing with litter and clutter. Children play in these mini-mountains, and people hang in doors ways, just tiny figures silhouetted and smoking. Layers of housing go on upwards and downwards, all dilapidated and non-descript. We are just seeing into a tiny aspect of a huge hive of living space. Graffiti is spattered around, slogans from pop culture, people’s names, gang signs. A man in his window has the phrase “Think tanks RULE OK?” sprayed directly across. He gingerly scratches at its interior with a finger nail.)
Narration in caption: And I tell these governmental freaks to get out of our homes. Leave your war in the office, we’re the now and they’re the yester-year. The forgotten times, we don’t need them and fuck, they don’t need us.
Third panel:
(Now we see a more snazzy area of town. A long street lined with boutiques and shops of all variety. Games shops, Holo-disc parlours, high class hookers, hundreds of people all punked out and weird. The freaks of the time, leather jackets with studs and piercings, mo-hawks milling around. Bright pink ballet skirts with trooper boots. This is a scene from the future not too long away. Somewhere, dominating a line of shops  is a HMG outlet, a cartoon octopus holding a lollipop and in each tentacle as its primary logo, the windows filled with posters and advertisements.)
Narration in caption: That’s why your here, I reckon, to learn from me and know your place, to learn and know this world. To strike back, to put a fist in the status quo. To become warriors of the street.

Forth panel:
(And finally we finish the page with a close up of the HMG store, a small alley sneaking past it. In the fringe of the alley entrance a cyber-geek stands guard, a third techno arm latched to him under his left shoulder. Clad in denim with an impossibly buoyant hair cut, he worriedly smokes four cigarettes, two held in his right hand, two others in his mouth. )
Narration in caption: So are you ready, ready to become fighters for the new world order?

Second page:
First panel:
(A dirty old man (Mad Dave), wild hair atop his huge, American foot ball shaped head, like the kid from Hey Arnold got horribly wrong, aged and fruity, teeth jugging from oily gums, two ears perched on the side of his head, pierced with two rings either side, the right one sporting a tiny six shooter pistol flailing to indicate rapid, ridiculous movement. Hairs sprout from his bulbous nose, he is not a pleasant sight to look at, stand atop of a box centre panel. He is dressed in a reclaimed plastic sheet, the biohazard symbol on it wraps around his neck, a hole punched in the centre to make a make-shift poncho. His arms are outstretched at jaunty angles, wrists covered in beads and bracelets. Visible in the foreground are the heads of three people, one  with a mo-hawk, one with huge shaggy black hair and the other with his head half shaven, half formed into an emo fringe that could induce vertigo in a seagull. He is addressing them with insane vigour. On the bare brick wall behind him is smearing of graffiti, including the phrases “Fucking Doomed” and “Give peace a choice” clearly visable.)
Mad Dave: So are you the next generation super men, is that what you’ve come for?
Second panel:
(Three guys, one  a huge cyber Goth, clad in armour that has no particular purpose, the odd shoulder bracket here, a defensive collar here, and an obscene amount of belts, huge bushy black hair and an information goggle over one eye similar to the power readers from dragon ball Z, another a straight up punk with piercings, safety pins and tattoos all over his visible flesh, his clothes ripped, torn and tartan or denim where ever possible, and an emo kid with ridiculous hair, a short sleeved black T-shirt decorated with gold tribal patterns over a , long sleeved white jumper stand together, in a row. The focus is on these guys fashion and choice of clothes. They left the house knowing they looked different and fabulous today. They stand in a row, looking deeply confused at what this crazy old homeless guy has said to them. The alley behind them is packed with filth and piles of litter. The walls have yet more inane graffiti.)

Third panel:
(More or  less the same as above, but only the Emo kid has raised his hand with the intent to  asking a question of the old man.)
Forth panel:
(Reacting to the possible question mad dave leans forward, an arm outstretched, pointing violently with a stubby finger. A huge grin rips across his face.)
Mad Dave: AH! YES! A question from you with the girls Hair!