The clock is ticking. The hands that threaten doom press on toward the inevitable end. Coasts erode and forests blaze. Permafrost melts and cataclysmic storms rage. Terrified masses seek false comforts. The snake devours its own tail.
Into this morass, emerges Doomsday Profit.
Summoning fuzz-fried doom riffs, darkened by clouds of bad-trip psych-rock scuzz, Doomsday Profit conjures its own storm of primitive doom fueled by nihilistic rage and melted-mind visions of oblivion.
This mutant screaming into the unending void, this wailing, writhing surge of feedback and distortion can be answered only with malevolent portents and the suffocating weight of inevitable doom. If any noise may summon the wrath of The Great Old Ones, this is it.