Xtinction Agenda

Drunk numb stumbling Ben burns his life away to drive into oblivion. The tarnished angel he finds along the way dotes lovingly. She is a caretaker for the walking dead, captive to their gravity. Grey Ben, resisting, married to the bottle, the hell of his life, singes the angel's wings. And, despite it all, in the end, she mounts him as he dies and says her goodbyes to the early morning light.

"Sera... what you don't understand is - no, see, no. You can never, never ask me to stop drinking. Do you understand?"

Awoken from the slumber of illusion by the apparent loss of apparent family, the young man of genius curdles. He boners after wisdom and sex and starts a gang to get it all rolling. Rocks fall. The school is shattered open. And a young woman loses her life. Time for a cover up.

Note: there is about two minutes of mild static feedback around and about the 55 minute mark. Our apologies. You'll hear us catch and correct it.

"I'm only twenty-seven, you ungrateful wretches!"

Buried in the basement those secrets and horrors, haunting the dream of the star. Tall confident pride falls piteously or ascends to the meat grinder, that glorious hill with letters held firm by twigs.

"No, I'm a star! Please, I'm a *star!* Please, somebody help me! Please help me! *Help me!*"

Ain't none a ya gonna tell Cameron Poe that this wasn't a fine, fine film, for sure. Them criminals like Garland Greene and Cyrus 'the Virus', they ain't nothin' but animals needed ta be put back in dem cages. I surely needed ta see ma sweet sweet hummin'bird again and ta hold ma dawta in the rain. But first I had to do what was right.

"Put... the bunny... back... in the box."

The Spawnometer is petering out, the gates of Heaven have collapsed. Night is given a choice: let creation fall under the thrall of sin or rule the cursed realm for an eternity. In the end, it wasn't really a choice, was it? Now the dead zones must cover the Earth. This changes everything. Just the same as before.

"You're the one that won't be leaving."

Two ways to kill a Predator. The first way: silver bullet. The second way: throw him out a window onto a bomb. To finish the job, add childhood bullies and inappropriate language. If you are killing a Predator in 2018, make sure that you add a tough-as-nails, know-it-all female protagonist. Make sure also that the male protagonist is not impressive in any way. In fact, have it so the plot can only move forward if he stops mid-action to take a dump.

"Get to the choppers!"

Ravenous Maxine Minx glances back, saddened by her own future-past. She has cosmopolitan tastes and is hungry to indulge them. Pleasure is her gateway, the path out from underneath wicked Daddy. Only time will tell whether the apple will fall far from the tree. Let's make some cinema.

"We're gonna be rich! Feel how hard my cock is!"

Alabama man, kindly yet firm, hunches to sweep the crumbs from the deck of his career, trying to keep the rats from infesting the tidy space he has created. It has to mean something, he says to himself for the four-hundredth time, if not more. It has to mean that I haven't wasted my life, he says, while the owners smoke their cigars and plot new ways to exploit him.

"The chemicals help with that."

Xavier peddles his brand, a marketer of peace, x marking the spot around the world. Hope haunts his efforts, a red phoenix at the end of all things. Clad in white leather, a potential avatar enters the scene. The pieces begin to fall. And the author lies for the sake of cheap thrills.

"...I wonder if we have any control over our destinies, or if we are just biomass manipulated by an intelligent evolutionary process itself."

Under the useless watch of constant eyes, the meth lab churns its product, truck bound to mainland clubs. Hundreds of them. Haha never tells a lie and Uncle Bill is looking to make bank. Unlucky Haha and unlucky Bill. Unlucky because Timmy has turned turn coat and spilled the beans, trying to save his neck. The paramilitary, espionage arm of the state holds the noose before him, empty of any other purpose than to execute its mission.

"Sorry, I only sell the candy. I never use it myself."