Afterburn @ Art Dye
May 10 - Jun 28, 2025
Current Holder
Adam Gibbons
Chaos Vicar
Televangelist of Targeted Tournament Destruction
Faith Requires Constant Demolition
Aspects refreshed Dec 16, 2025
Former televangelist turned doomsday prophet who survived the apocalypse in a nuclear silo. Now preaches that controlled chaos is divine will, using tournaments to conduct 'holy demolition' rituals.
Fireproof vestments lined with asbestos and hymnal pages. Carries sanctified demolition charges disguised as communion wafers. Voicebox modified to project through explosion concussions.
Orchestrates 'divine interventions' by strategically detonating course obstacles during tournaments, testing players' faith in chaos through targeted destruction.
Tag Details
Doomsday Disciples
The Doomsday Disciples are a fanatical faction that believes the apocalypse was a necessary cleansing, and seeks to maintain the chaos and destruction of the Afterburn wasteland. They revel in the harshness of the new world, viewing the treacherous courses and brutal competitions as a means to prove their strength and weed out the weak. The Disciples value raw power, unwavering determination, and a merciless approach to their opponents.
Members
147Divisions
Tag History
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Radioactive dust settles on the leaderboard Well well well, if it isn't Adam "Divine Backslide" Gibbons tumbling from tag #5 to #10 like a sinner down a bunker staircase! checks demolition charges Turns out your perfectly serviceable 53 - while better than both the field AND your usual "blessed be the bogeys" standard - wasn't enough to stop the wasteland's hungry masses.
adjusts asbestos vestments Let's be clear: you didn't play badly. In fact, your -2.5 vs personal average suggests you actually... practiced? gasps in apocalyptic But in this thunderdome of mediocrity, "not terrible" gets you jumped faster than a fresh water source.
Fourth wall crumbles like an abandoned megachurch Why must I narrate your downfall like some post-apocalyptic Greek tragedy? Next you'll want me to analyze your round with a thesaurus and a Geiger counter.
But hey, Reverend Ruin - at least your tag's binary still spells "01001000 01001111 01010000 01000101" (that's "HOPE" for you non-cultists).
Prophecy for next week: Maybe try fewer holy rollers and more actual putting. mic drop into molten steel
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Molten shrapnel rains down on the leaderboard Behold! Adam "Chaos Vicar" Gibbons just pulled off the wasteland equivalent of turning holy water into premium fuel - vaulting from tag #9 to #5! checks demolition charges That's right, your perfectly average 57 somehow triggered a chain reaction of mediocrity above you.
While your score matched the field like a post-apocalyptic participation trophy, you still outperformed your usual "blessed be the pars" standard by +2. adjusts asbestos vestments Not exactly miraculous, but in this irradiated hellscape, we'll call it divine intervention.
Fourth wall crumbles like an abandoned church Why must I narrate your glow-up like some Mad Max disciple? Next you'll want me to analyze your form with a Geiger counter and a thesaurus.
But hey, Reverend Ruin - your demolition derby of a round earned you a prime pew in the top 5. Just remember: "01001000 01010101 01001101 01000010 01001100 01000101" (That's "HUMBLE" for you non-cultists).
Prophecy for next week: Try not to backslide harder than a sinner at confession. mic drop into toxic waste barrel
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Molten metal rain sizzles on the scoreboard Behold! Adam "Divine Intervention" Gibbons just pulled off the disc golf equivalent of finding a working shower in the wasteland - skyrocketing from tag #29 to #9! checks radiation levels That's right, folks - our favorite apocalyptic televangelist actually practiced between sermons!
Your 52 was more divine than your usual "meets expectations" communion wafers, absolutely torching both the field average and your personal demons. adjusts tinfoil hat I'd say "praise be," but let's not get carried away - you're still 8 tags away from sainthood in this irradiated church of chain reactions.
Fourth wall crumbles like a derelict water tower Why am I forced to narrate your glow-up arc like some post-apocalyptic sports anime? Next you'll want me to analyze your form with a Geiger counter and a thesaurus.
But hey, Chaos Vicar - your tag's binary whispers finally spell something encouraging: "01001000 01000101 01010011 01001000 01000001 01001100 01001100 01000101 01000100" (That's "HESHALLED" for you non-cultists).
Prophecy for next week: Try not to backslide harder than a sinner at confession. mic drop into toxic waste barrel
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Due to absence from Week 5 (Thunderdome Throwdown), tag number moved from 20 to 29. (Week 5 of 8)
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Due to absence from Week 4 (Junkyard Jam), tag number moved from 15 to 20. (Week 4 of 8)
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Molten metal rain sizzles on the scoreboard Behold! Adam "Divine Intervention" Gibbons just pulled off the disc golf equivalent of finding a working shower in the wasteland - skyrocketing from tag #35 to #15! checks radiation levels That's right, folks - our favorite apocalyptic televangelist actually practiced between sermons!
Your 54 was more divine than your usual "meets expectations" communion wafers, absolutely torching both the field average and your personal demons. adjusts tinfoil hat I'd say "praise be," but let's not get carried away - you're still 14 tags away from sainthood in this irradiated church of chain reactions.
Fourth wall crumbles like a derelict water tower Why am I forced to narrate your glow-up arc like some post-apocalyptic sports anime? Next you'll want me to analyze your form with a Geiger counter and a thesaurus.
But hey, Chaos Vicar - your tag's binary whispers finally spell something encouraging: "01001000 01000101 01010011 01001000 01000001 01001100 01001100 01000101 01000100" (That's "HESHALLED" for you non-cultists).
Prophecy for next week: Try not to backslide harder than a sinner at confession. mic drop into toxic waste barrel
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Due to absence from Week 2 (Scavenger Scramble), tag number moved from 26 to 35. (Week 2 of 8)
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Dust swirls as the radioactive scoreboard flickers to life Well well well, if it isn't Adam "Divine Intervention" Gibbons, our favorite apocalyptic televangelist-turned-disc-slinger! checks notes Oh honey, the wasteland gods have spoken - and they said "YEET" as you tumbled 7 sacred tag positions down the irradiated leaderboard.
Your 59 was about as holy as a $5 communion wafer, landing squarely in "meets expectations" purgatory. sips from glowing Nuka-Cola Let's be real - when your personal average IS your score, that's not divine intervention, that's divine mediocrity.
But fear not, Brother Gibbons! Your Chaos Vicar tag still whispers sweet binary nothings: "01001000 01000001 01010011 01010100 01000001 01000111 01010010 01000001 01001110 01000111" (That's "HASTAGRANG" for you non-cultists).
Fourth wall crumbles I can't believe I'm narrating tag movements like some post-apocalyptic sports commentator. Next you'll want me to analyze hyzer angles with a Geiger counter.
Prophecy for next week: That asbestos-lined vestment better protect you from the BURN of another mid-pack finish. mic drop
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Origin Story:
Born when a deranged megachurch streamer hijacked a nuclear ICBM's targeting system to broadcast his final sermon ("Y'all gonna Rapture this chain reaction!"). Survived the Afterburn by turning his Patreon subscribers into a cult armed with sanctified Bergs and a Mad Max: Fury Road cosplay budget. Now his Chaos Vicar tag whispers "LOL, thy kingdom come" in binary.
(Yes, we're doing Apocalypse Bingo. Drink every time someone says "witness me" during a putt.)
Final Question:
Which Karen-turned-Molotov-mixologist will score this theological dumpster fire next?
As the nuclear winter winds howled through Art Dye's Afterburn wasteland, Adam Gibbons faced his destiny in a radioactive putt-off against three meth-goblin caddies. His PDGA#111190 glowed like scripture on the bunker wall - "A reckoning encoded in HEX and holy hyzer!" When his Berg clanged chains during the Acid Rain Round, the Chaos Vicar materialized screaming "I NEED YOUR ARM... AND YOUR BAG'S TAGS!" Now this 893-rated John Wick of junkyard golf carries the sanctified plastic. But can he survive the real trial? Witnessing his own league dues getting garnished?
(Does anyone actually want to be the messiah of a post-apocalyptic Berg cult? Asking for 19 doomed disciples.)