In the far reaches of the psychedelic interwebspace, at the end of the net, there is a man who has been working on his fucked-up nineties surrealist nightmare for more than five years, on and off, idly messing with the magics and mechanics of that dark art of gameage. Drugless, though producing something that has an effect on a brain like a cattleprod, Jacob Waldemar Buczynski worked broadly in dirty rainbow colours, in Hunter S. Thompson punctuation. He ate raw shock and disgust in huge mouthfuls, and then spat them lovingly towards the screen. He is like a videogame Brian from Spaced.