As a hardened guardian of the Fourth Estate, it’s hurts my heart to watch it all crumble. But crumble it does as the tectonic plates of television grind beneath our feet. Thanks to faltering funds, a groundswell of gadgetry and an exodus of peasants, what was once considered bedrock is now a billion shifting pixels. This curtain of uncertainty threatens to swallow us all, until whole fiefdoms cease to be. But you know, it’s not the Knights in Shining Hairspray or even the Damsels of Duress I worry about most as those castle walls begin to fall… It’s the hunchbacks.

You know, those poor souls you still see scampering up turrets or floating in the moat. What with their medieval machinery and olde world aroma, it’s easy to dismiss as little better than serfs. Until, that is, you see them chase a rainbow, quiz a Visigoth or just heap scorn on reports of a unicorn. Of all the subjects in this whole kingdom, it is they who seemed strangely free, despite their outdated armor and fondness for grog. What will become of them as new civilizations rise from this abysmal industry? Will they rise up and fight – or slink away like some kinky alchemist in the night? Why, I’d give up my one good eye to know…

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed in the watchtower.