Monday, 2 June 2014



In the city of London ‘it’ girls and ‘it’ boys vicariously worship him. They shout out opinions on Spiderfingers, swapping anecdotes about his high priestess, Stephanie P. Tent. Several floors up, in a party-giver’s penthouse, they revel in their vacuous celebration.

They’re all soaring away on their chemical mission, these hipster kids, all hoping to escape the constrictive framework of balanced sensory cognition, red-eying on the expensive and reportedly expansive: a vial of designer such and such imported from Tokyo. The chat is hyper-energetic, a concoction that surfs the loud coffee table dub-step. This room full of supposed artists, each with a modicum of talent and a well-connected publicist, they talk about Spiderfingers knowingly.

The leaked script for the cartoon series:
The leaked comic art it was based on, the finished book now selling out across seven continents:

The creators are specialists in marketing and now Spiderfingers equals verbal high currency:

Spiderfingers is in and if you don’t know what he is, then you my friend are out.

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Chaos for all 
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