Of history's bass-playing greats, Freedom Lord has distinguished himself as the most rambunctious and skilled of all. When speaking of this unparalleled performer, it is quite simply impossible to resist the temptation to lapse into superlatives.

Following the untimely demise of John Holocaust (nèe Holiday), Strawberry searched far and wide for the ultimate bass-playing replacement. Combing through the classifieds, the foreign climes, the academies, the fever swamps fetid and fair, the mustard-scented warrens dank and dismal, Strawberry finally came to the Lord family's hilltop redoubt in Avalon. Knocking not once but thrice upon the stronghold's brass door knocker, Ultrafox was rewarded with the sight of a sturdy, beautiful lad named Freedom. Laci and Cindi Caramels took a step back. Argon and yes, even Sledd, felt unmanned before this able-bodied stud. Sunrider, being not much more than a skinbag full of micro-servos and holographic memories, was none too impressed.

"Will your parents let you join our band?" asked Ultrafox.

"They're not home," declared Freedom Lord. "They are gone down the valley to their lands just now, attending to the needs of our serfs. And I beg no one's permission. My destiny is my own."

And then, stretching his hand the width of a flying squirrel's gliding membrane across his custom bass' fretboard, he unleashed a stochatic series of bittersweet arpeggios. Liquid discharged from the body of his bass guitar.

When he had finished, and those assembled had wiped away the tears from their cheeks, it was agreed that Freedom Lord would forswear his birthright and venture to Shinrui-Ko with Strawberry, and become a member of the band.

Everyone glowed with pleasure, illuminating their collective sphere of physical activity. John Holocaust's head appeared, luminous and smiling, in the night sky. There was a high-pitched noise.