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It is the 21st Century. For more than a hundred years The Anglo has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Albion. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the blood, and master of a million constituencies by the might of his inexhaustible lies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Industrial Revolution. He is the Carrion Lord of the Commonwealth for whom a thousand Aryans are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Anglo continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty Businessmen cross the muslim-infested miasma of the Continent, the only route between distant still important countries, their way lit by the Astroanglonomicon, the psychic manifestation of the Anglo's perfidy. Vast armies give battle in his name in uncounted nations. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Special Air Service, blood-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the British Army and countless commonwealth defence forces, the ever vigilant British police and the Web-priests of the Anti Internet Hate Crime Unit to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aryans, muslims, muricans - and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody shadow-regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of tradition and patriotism, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of Empire and Glory, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the Continents, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
