The long anticipated archaeological results of the project on the recently discovered initial Roman Rabble headquarters are finally in.  Long debated as rumor, the team did indeed find our legendarily esteemed primary publishing office three blocks east and three stories down of the Coliseum completely submersed in what is so far believed to be an early quick-drying cement.  This juxtaposed with surprising placement of human remains and local geographical strata suggests that during an earthquake ancient denizens of Rome, while our beloved headquarters sunk into a spontaneously formed pothole, poured cement on our primordial publishers instead of tossing them ropes.  On their fossilized corpses we found miraculously preserved manuscripts for what can be deemed the most successful piece of investigative reporting from a time when good writing folk like us were the primary reason to invent modern technological wonders like quick drying cement just to seal us off in Pluto’s domain for eternity.  All grudges aside besides a temporary one where we are not allowing our Roman co-worker, Marcello, to use the same restroom as us, we present real, solid, beautiful history of our very own recording.  

Enjoy.

Rome, 120 B.C.

Roman Rabble Headquarters is excited to announce that we have received necessary funds to finance a trip to the fabled Restaurant at the End of the World, “Basa Conita,” should rumor be true and it actually exist, our bravest field reporters have selflessly elected themselves to travel the twenty miles down Mainstreet to investigate the local phenomena and find what leads to the most delicious, most exotically enticingly salivating food known to man and heroically gorge themselves on it with our benevolent taxpayer’s purse picking up the bill.  Jupiterspeed gentlemen, Jupiterspeed!

Basa Conita

October 27, 120 B.C.

Finding the legendary “beautiful house” bearing Minerva’s blessing and her low calorie queso recipe was surprisingly easy.  Despite our teams expectations of a wild plebe chase, we were greeted by a lot overflowing with locals parking their carriages out front of a glittering spire encircled with magnificent fountains.  The spire must have been wrought by Apollo himself, deem us donkeys were it not solid, gleaming gold! After meandering amongst a crowd that appeared to be travelers from every corner of the earth in apparel most exotic we were admitted through two rustic doors of oblivion, seemingly harmless, humble, and homely, these doors on simple hinges swung slowly open and what inside seemed hardly concealable through a portal of Jupiter’s own design much less these simple oaken planks.  Time itself stood still as the smell of delicious, delicate, delectable, nonperishable exotic food was being reheated after its flash freezing mingled with a sight of trees utterly alien to us.  Long necked plants with glossy, slippery leaves that tasted of bitter oil had streams of fallen green stars strung about their foliage, which we later found to be connected to a rusted orifice in the wall.  That discovery led to our first casualty.  When trying to find through what dimension these stars were trapped in, Jenkins, brave soul, touched the wall orifice and was at once put up in white flame, his flesh cooked immediately and then hastily buried.  We were in uncharted waters, and these first steps have continued to prove perilous as our fellow delicacy seekers turn more and more hostile as we wait in this god-forsaken line.  Perhaps they are testing our resolve, but ours is forged in the undeniably hot fires of corporate greed and the promise of all you can eat “soapy a-pillows.” We will remain steadfast in our investigation.

Basa Conita

October 28, 120 B.C.

Our first day has passed in the line at Basa Conita and morale has more or less remained the same.  Our position has advanced, to our best and most tedious measurements and calculations, approximately the length of a common rat if it laid on its belly and stretched tail to toe.  Our provisions have held well enough, but Porkins in a mad flash of our impending isolation as the crowd filled in behind us, ate all our food.  The group reluctantly put it to a vote to dig up Jenkins’ body for food, and at a close call of three for “yes” and two for “yes and then eat Porkins,” Jenkins once more gave his all to the team.  Whatever substance gives these hallowed green stars their brilliance is also extremely effective for making certain things well done.  I am for the first time frightened at what this place has in store for us, the line stretches out farther that we can see, even the horizon seems to be nothing but these wide brimmed straw hats and curious belts with oversized buckles.  We will now have to convene with our fellow linemen to find food, I pray they may be generous.

Basa Conita

December 16, 120 B.C.

Last I left you with a prayer, now I come to you with the conclusion that in these halls, there is no use for prayer.  A month has passed and we have made considerable progress in the line, by our best guesses something around twelve leagues, but much of this we attribute to the ongoing war between the many factions that have developed in our time here, at first consisting mostly of petty squabbles for real estate around conveniently located fountains of clean water, but the death toll has reached catastrophic levels.  Humanity has shriveled before my eyes as I see atrocity unimaginable seemingly on an hourly basis.  By some ridiculous luck, we have yet to encounter a tribe of savages that does not respect our press identification, and thus we have for the moment remained unscathed.  We have caught a whisper too of what awaits us at the end of this exodus further and further through these synthesized desert trees and endless shameless plugs for souvenir portraits of our dining party that have the audacity to be five gold pieces.  Assuredly, our party’s portrait would reveal gaunt, humorless souls whose hope for tasting a legendary “burro-ido” has long since been replaced for a hope for the end of this tunnel.

Basa Conita

July 9, 115 B.C.

Several years have passed since we have thought to record our thoughts as to describe our original purpose.  The line no longer fights, much of the populace that once inhabited it has been slain and the bloodshed brought to a halt by an inspiring handful of visionary early bird special enthusiasts who reminded us all of our purpose in the line.  Two are in line to be elected as a temporary president of the United Peoples of Plastic Palms, but neither feel it is in our best interest.  Life goes on very much the same, it has been ages since any of us have seen the sun but our cleverest have devised a way to sow grain alongside our interminable prison track.  Several radical groups have taken to worshiping the “All-Queso,” a deified persona who supposedly will distribute our final meal.  Our party has become mechanical in our task, we observe, record, and do not intervene.  This has become a most interesting study of anthropology, not the night out we had expected at all.

Basa Conita

November 30, 12 A.D

Either we have lost track of time, or it has mysteriously lost track of us.  By all our best calculations, which prove difficult without the proper tools, not to mention no trace of the sky, that date is accurate.  How have we lived so long? How have we traveled so far? Should this distance be accurate, we have now pressed forward more than enough to have delved quite through to the other side of our planet, which by the way whoever may find this ought to know turned out to be round, and don’t ask what frightening science we have discovered to discern the geometry of heavenly spheres in utter darkness.  Where are we going?  What is our destination?  We are now long self-sufficient, and with our age unchanged we have devoted ourselves to answering the obvious questions our situation poses but find we lack much of the mathmatica to do so.  We have now witnessed kingdoms rise and fall, and have reached a moot which determined we are to be ruled by a congregation of rather quiet men that claim to be from the distant future, and have been trapped here far longer than we.  Perhaps, as we march, we can answer some of these questions.

Basa Conita

January 12, 1500 A.D.

Quantum mechanics has taught us that surrounding our enclave is both a wall of hyper dense neutrinos that inhabits the space nearest us on all sides and that of the center of local neutron star C5-7B quite at the same time.  We have theories as to how our hosts have managed this, but the energy requirements are astounding! We have conquered the atom, and an ill-fated atomic escape attempt has led us to discover the nature of our cell but not brought us anywhere nearer to understanding how such wonders of modern science could have been wrought.  A thought has entered my mind, forgive me I must perform some calculations before they leave my head.

Basa Conita

March 2, 4000 A.D.

WE now posses the ability to time travel, but to what end this this will take us, we cannot know for sure.

My apologies, it has been quite some time since I wrote or spoke in the ancient tongue, but I can do this to take up our original purpose.  We have found a menu.  Astonishingly, it seems our perfection of faster than light travel was well worth the better part of the last millennium.  We fly down these endless halls on miraculous vessels, and our first glimpse of a life long forgotten embarks on us the reminder that our dinner will cost well over what it would cost to feed a family of four for the better part of a month.  We have long since evolved past our desire for physical sustenance however, and this progress is well received nonetheless.

Basa Conita

56,000 years since first arrival

Here we are at the end of our journey.  I, the resident scholar of ancient and classical language have been chosen to write this final entry of our investigation.  Today, we reached the end of the line.  After trillions of light years worth of inter dimensional travel we are now able to order all you can eat “burritos, enchiladas, and fajitas,” physical frivolities we are not interested in.  The man taking our order seems rather unimpressed at our ascendant appearance in our bio-molecular morphsuits that enable us to levitate as well as flash pretty colors.  He takes our money and motions to the left, a simple door with a sign saying “exit” above the frame.  In our ecstasy, we take the door and as it closes on us it also dawns on us that we took a wrong turn, the food was to our right.  Later we would learn it gave some of our friends, who have been biologically engineered to have stomachs composed of an adamantium alloy, severe cramps as well as the loss of many taste buds due to a general consensus that they should seek employment elsewhere should they be treated thus.  We were not too upset, and in the meantime we teleported to the Andromeda Galaxy to see if their local Mexican Food joints served any quicker than before the rapture.  We’ll see about keeping you posted.