Kordell Chambers

Cool music:





When the server died, the lights went out, and when the lights went out, the nightlife died. That vibrant jazzy time that came once every day of the year where the kiddies were sleeping and thus it was time to get on the prowl and make more kiddies. A time of rhythm and rhyme to glide a funky soul to the long lost Shepard of love. All of it snuffed when humanity lost the will to love, the will to dance, the will to jive, the will to funk.



But there still stands one man, a shining beacon of light in stark defiance to the darkness, dedicated to wrangle back the vibrant lights of the happening nights against the beings who stand amidst a world black as hell at night.



Well guess what, Metro-1.


It's about to get a whole lot blacker.



He never walks, he always struts. Indefinitely. Even when standing still.



He's a man who's so far pierced the limits of sensuality and grooviness it has caused the fabric of space to all but shatter the co-existant bonds that once sealed away a mystic power, as if Hades himself looked into his looking orb one day to gaze upon the mortal world, witnessed the man in all his basking groovy glory doing nothing more than walking down the street, pointed to the majestic towering Cadillac visage of a man, went all "OH YEAH YEP THEY'RE READY" with a rattling nod and bestowed upon Kordell ancient magical powers the mortal world couldn't possibly be prepared for: the dark art of Sexumancy. The aroma of overpriced aftershave fragrance wafting from his presence can bring any man, woman and komodo dragon into a stupor packed with a raving mating frenzy. His very presence can cause the genetics of any woman within a 15ft radius to re-align to the mood of the groove have their body spontaneously sprout a pair of breasts that would make even a porn star lower her sunglasses. Phat beats follow him everywhere he goes, as if his own footsteps are the conductive taps to command the orchestras of the universe, whom of which toss standard conventions out the window and bust out the sweet savvy jazz for all within vicinity to hear, which is everything; be advised to the bearing of the ubiquitous harkening of beat boxing bass bumps within his being because the booty-calling ballet is a foreboding and binding boundary to the bountiful beatdown that awaits the abiding blockheads that brook the fabulous beats (Said orchestra's stage name was Thesaurus Rex). And that's all just on the mono-singular existential level, for every pose, every swerve, every thrust to the rhythm he jolts lyrical and musical notes of the 70's throughout the fabric of all reality and the multi-reality continuum athousand times over, it's had the neighboring universes hitting their ceilings with broomsticks asking to keep the music down.



And of course this is all happening while he remains completely oblivious to his newfound universe-shaping God powers. Perhaps for the best, as he only wishes for the simple life of wandering from place to place spreading the jestings of jazz and the sensations of sensuality, strutting into the sunset for the nearest party to enrich.