It's the year 2622. In a dark gothic tower, overlooking a wasteland where once a great empire stood, Kissinger, unable to find more souls to feed on, draws his last breath. From his grey, molerat-like corpse come the howling of millions upon millions of bangladeshis, vietnamese, cambodians, laotians, martian homesteaders, antimuskites, neo-australians, phobotians, proxima centaurese, gateskippers, edenists and others whose names and languages have been lost to time.