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| From Darkside Studio Welcome to the Dark Side of the Mind |
🎤 Episode 0: The Delta Menace
“Every legend begins with a note.”
They say the first note that ever bent the fabric of the universe didn’t come from a choir of angels or a machine.
It came from a handmade guitar, strung with wire pulled off a junked droid, played by a barefoot man on a planet that didn’t even have a name worth remembering.
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| In The Beginning |
But the locals called it Mudwater IV, because that’s what it looked like — a swamp world turning slow in the dark, half choked by vines, half drowned in memories.
And out there in the muck, under a sagging tin roof, sat Mojo DuPree.
Mojo didn’t own much: a rusted slide, a six-string made from scrap, and a heart full of ghosts.
But when he played, the air itself would quiver — like the world was holding its breath.
Frogs shut up. Wind stopped. Even the mosquitoes hovered mid-bite, waiting to see what happened next.
One morning, just as the twin suns were dragging themselves up through the mist, Mojo hit a note so raw it peeled paint off the porch.
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| Twin Suns of Mud water IV |
The sound rolled across the water, and old Miss Zadie, who’d seen more hauntings than sunrises, hollered from her boat:
“Boy, you keep hittin’ that note, you gon’ wake somethin’ that don’t like to be woke!”
Mojo just smiled.
“Maybe it’s time somethin’ woke up.”
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| Mojo Dupree |
The thing about sound is — it travels.
And sometimes, it travels too far.
Word of that note — that strange, soul-bending noise — drifted through the smuggler circuits, bounced off pirate satellites, and landed right in the ears of Count Syncro, executive director of the Techno Federation of Commerce.
A man whose heart beat in perfect 4/4 time, whose veins ran with liquid auto-tune.
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| Count Syncro Executive Director Techno Federation of Commerce |
He arrived on Mudwater IV in a chrome hover-barge, wearing white vinyl boots and a smile that didn’t mean a damn thing.
Behind him came two record-rep droids, each programmed to clap when he made a pun.
Syncro stepped off the barge like he was allergic to dirt.
“They say there’s a tone here,” he said, adjusting his holographic cufflinks. “A sound so primal it makes even the algorithms cry. I intend to own it."
That night, the stars hung low and swollen.
Mojo went out to the old shack behind his house — the one filled with spiderweb amps and ghosts that wouldn’t leave.
That’s where he met him.
Blind Yoda Slim.
The old man had been around since before the industry wars, before the charts, before music forgot where it came from. His eyes were pale milk, his beard tangled like Spanish moss, and when he spoke, the air bent to listen.
“The Blues Force,” Slim said, fingers tracing his weathered Dobro. “Ain’t somethin’ you learn, boy. It’s somethin’ that learns you. You play honest enough… and the sound’ll play you back.”
He handed Mojo a worn bottleneck slide — carved from a fallen meteor.
“Use this. Let the Force hear you.”
Mojo slipped it on.
Hit one string.
The swamp lit up like lightning had kissed the bayou.
Trees trembled. Water rippled. The stars shivered like they’d just remembered who made them shine.
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| Blind Yoda Slim |
"The Blues Force ain’t something you play — it’s the sound that plays you. Listen not with your ears, but with the soul that bends every note." – Blind Yoda Slim
From the shadows, Syncro watched — eyes wide, greedy.
“With that sound,” he whispered, “I could make the galaxy dance forever.”
He stepped forward, all charm and venom.
“Join me, Mr. DuPree. I’ll make you rich. I’ll put your name in lights so bright you won’t see the dark anymore.”
Mojo looked at him, calm as the deep end of the river.
“I already shine, Count. I don’t need your lights.”
Syncro’s smile curdled.
“Then you’ll drown in your own echo.”
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| Syncro's Temptation |
The storm hit right after.
They said the sky turned green and the thunder moaned like a thousand lost souls.
Out on a floating dock, Mojo and Syncro faced each other — guitars slung low, fingers ready.
Every note they played cut across the rain like lightning bolts made of sound.
Syncro’s riffs were sharp, cold, synthetic — polished till they gleamed like metal teeth.
Mojo’s were raw, bleeding, imperfect — every note a confession.
“You can’t stop progress!” Syncro screamed, over the crash of thunder.
“Progress ain’t the same as soul,” Mojo growled, sliding that meteor glass down his string.
Then came the note.
The one that started it all.
He bent it till it screamed, till the whole world hummed in pain and beauty.
Lightning hit.
When the smoke cleared, Syncro’s hover-barge was sinking, his droids short-circuited and sparking like bad fireworks.
Mojo stood on the dock, soaked toy the bone, smoke rising from his fingertips.
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| Mojo & Syncro Guitar Duel |
They say that was the night the Blues Force was born.
It rippled out from Mudwater IV like a pulse — reached every corner of the galaxy that still had a heart left to feel.
But deep in the swamp, beneath the mud and vinyl wreckage, a single metallic hand clawed its way out of the water.
It held a cracked record — Syncro’s label logo, half-melted, still humming.
And from the darkness came a low, distorted whisper:
“There is… another.”
They never saw Count Syncro again.
But a few years later, the airwaves started carrying a new kind of sound — colder, darker, more powerful.
And on every frequency, one name whispered back like static in a storm:
Darth Vinyl.
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| Darth Vinyl |
Tagline: 🎙️ “From the swamp to the stars, the groove begins here.”
Studio: Darkside Studio — Welcome to the Dark Side of the Mind.
Coming Soon: Episode I½: Attack of the Clones (and Pedal )
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