Short Story "The Xinli Incident" by Andrew Weatherall
(Liner Note of Tomorrow Never Comes)

The detective in the passenger seat, with a single self-assured action, flashed his warrant card and asked directions. "Twenty-third floor sir... Out of the lift and turn left - you can't miss it... Terrible mess and not very pretty at all, I can tell you..." With that the barrier lifted and the car headed toward the executive parking area of I.D.M. Industries. The lift made a silent journey to the 23rd floor, and on exiting and turning left, the two detectives immediately saw the reasons for their being there. The scene of the crime lay trough an open doorway emitting occasional puffs of smoke and wafts of shimmering vapour. Reaching into the pockets of their elegant yet provocatively conservative black coats the two men pulled out state-of-the-art gas masks, and donning them walked across the corridor. Standing just inside the room, on the only patch of floor not covered in broken machinery or bubbling liquid, Her Majesty's finest surveyed the scene. What was once a hyper-sterile working environment had been
turned into a mass of shredded wires, smashed samplers, smouldering laptops and shattered zip-discs. The laboratory once used to manufacture electronic music for earnest sixth-formers around the world was now a digital funeral pyre. "I've not see anything like this since the Prog-Rock studio trashings of '76", said detective number one, the words turning metallic as they made their way trough the gas mask's filter. "Let's leave it to forensics", replied number two as they both backed slowly out of the room, pulling the door shut behind them. As it clicked shut had anybody been left inside they would have seen the back of the door reveal, in still dripping painted letters, the words...
'XINLI SUPREME'