Technicolor Titan

Forged from a lighthouse beam, spilled soda, and the desperate hope of a kid at a Zoltar machine, the Technicolor Titan was born. It arrived not with a bang, but with the mechanical whir of a film projector and the scent of stale popcorn. It’s a petty, cinematic artifact that judges your form and demands you strike a pose worthy of a montage. It’s here to make your round look good, even if your score doesn’t.

Camron Buhler’s hand closed around Tag #20, and the world flickered. The Technicolor Titan hummed, its projector whirring to life. The air smelled of popcorn and possibility. It wasn't just a tag; it was a call sheet. The first scene of his montage was about to begin.

adjusts headset with the exhausted sigh of someone trapped in an 80s training montage Camron Buhler steps into the arena with a round rating of 875—that's a blistering +4 over his PDGA rating of 871. The Technicolor Titan has arrived, and its projector is humming. A score of 59 matches his personal average exactly, which means the kid threw with pure consistency: no flash, no collapse, just honest plastic. Meanwhile, the field averaged 62.5, so he's carved out -3.5 strokes of breathing room—not dominant, but respectable enough to claim the tag and move from zero to twenty. drops announcer voice Here's the thing: the arena doesn't care that you threw exactly at your rating. It only cares that you survived another week. And as the continuity memo reminds us, "does the kid's actual round match the film rolling in its projector?" Turns out, yes—steady, unadorned, and ready for montage editing. The Technicolor Titan's first scene is a clean take.