Nick is at present a freelance perl hacker located somewhere on Earth's semi-bulbous surface. He was/will be born in the year 9595 and, owing to his relentless thirst for the pursuit of Sacred VaJay, quickly rose to command the middle phalange one of The Blessed Hordes' Many Hands. Despite his having once mistakenly fired upon the Pleasure Trapezoid of Her Serene Ferocity Ilsa XXIII (while receiving tribute fellatio from a colleague vanquished in regular expressions), Nick sprang into action with an elaborate ruse designed to lay blame at the same colleague's door. The colleague not only received a speedy execution, but a swift and accurate billing as well was soon delivered to her survivors, as tradition demands.
Mister Tungsten would, no doubt, still be the scourge of his and many neighboring galaxies to this very nano-day, but he was/will be abducted by a cartel of his rivals in the Legion Of Perilous Malfeasance and sent here to this time-frame to await summary execution by return post.
Mister Tungsten is a life-long DemoPublican, prefers ketchup to catsup, snowballs to creampies, and adores the works of Joseph Schwantner, Aaron Copland, and St-Thoonian-j-magra-tankinootio (the younger).