Xtinction Agenda

The beaverine buck toothed threatens the imperial servant. Sick sweat permeates the flesh of students and teachers alike. The consciousness of the headmaster fills the young woman he secretly loved in that retconned moment that lives underneath all that happens. The womb is the world and the battle is joined within woman herself. But not really.

"There. The sentinels in your blood-stream..they are dead now."

The cage is locked. The project has begun. We enter the catacombs and descend. Our object? The supreme object of desire. A vessel in motion filled to the brim with suppressed feeling, manic and confusing. What are its habits and tendencies? What does it want? What rare bird awaits our eyes? Find out.

"Carla was the prom queen."

He doesn't care about innocent bystanders. That's the part that rings strange. Flaming skull? Fine. Ethereal motorcycle? Okay. Spirit of Vengeance? I'm with you. But he doesn't care about innocent bystanders? Wouldn't that negate the righteousness of the Ghost Rider's cause? The first time he accidentally kills a kid, he's going to end up punishing himself, getting kicks from burning his own soul. And then we're looking at a recursive loop. Cold fire burning cold fire burning cold fire. Forever.

"You're yella!"

Something is lost. The lost void, pin-pricked by bastard stars in a grim bastard universe. A universe of pathetic men enervated by a lack of ideological release. They either cum or become nothing, capable of such virility only so long as the Ideal is there. So long as the frontier continues to exist. So long as one does not agree to abide by trade routes only.

"The freak who runs the boarding-house sold his remains on to the crabs to recoup his rent money."

"The Script. The Actors. Final performances, famous last words. Madame Roland: 'Oh, Liberty, how many are the crimes committed in thy name?'"

Inconsistent stamp of images placed side by side, depicting however possible the exploits of soap-opera heroes and heroines. Hank had a date and so did Charles, one woman inside and two without. Scott and Emma beside do little of use as Jean holds off a small invasion, while Logan, alone, fantasies hidden, acquires yet another protege. The world is fallen and as-yet unredeemed.

"You're a mutant, the world hates you. Hell, even I hate you and we only just met. Deal with it."

Stampeding brain-mad cattle, burning, gleefully defiling, massacre divine. That voice you hear in the back of your mind when someone cuts into line. That lust to twist the joint beyond the point of no return. That warm smile that welcomes you to atriocity. This is the beginning and end of everything.

"Nice suit, you fruit."

Thundering repetition of muzzle flashes, shattered glass and motorcycles roar. Bodies leap and roll, defying gravity. Mangled storylines cut and paste, cloth made to fit the boy. A rare spice. Across the ocean, hungry bank accounts smack their lips and wonder how to get a taste of that exotic recklessness. It will not be.

"Give a guy a gun, he thinks he's Superman. Give him two and he thinks he's God."

The father fears the gun metal grey of evil that his arm has become. This planet, so small and soft yet mighty, spins through the darkness, a ripe fruit for foul devils who reach from the stars. In these times, we remember family and loss. And in these times, remembering these things, we fight for our survival.

"Dad? Dad, wake up!"

This podcast should be EXHAUSTED. It hasn't slept in DAYS. But it CAN'T GET TIRED. No matter how hard it TRIES. Not on a night like THIS. Not with the PULSE pounding in its EARS and dear GOTHAM calling to it like a sultry SIREN. This is the GOD DAMNED X-Tinction Agenda, scum. You'll remember it for the REST of what passes for your MISERABLE lives.

"Oh, I find that power plenty speakable, Hal."