Xtinction Agenda

Black-circle sunken red-webbed sclera, eyes of hang dog priest begging for a slim chance at peace. To walk away from bleeding streets, plastic-bagged men who reek the wretched stench of milk, the dying, and the dead.

"What the hell kind of name is I.B. Bangin'?"

This one is for The Troops.

"I grew up in Kansas, General. I'm about as American as it gets."

Coal crushed underverse condensation fragment glints among the F-35s, kept small to be kept safe and quiet before explosion, pale red and blue among beige and black. The sins of the father a playground of skulls, atomic fire like the sun. Happy ending workplace kink.

"I wanted to hit that kid. I wanted to hit him so bad."

Green, shitty loose-fitting masks. Change task, lift metal, Maltese ISIS cult plan. We're off the map, man. Among the dads we are the daddest dad. Take aim and... blam.

"It's fine. I'm in the CIA. Do we have anymore of that Crash."

Corrosive chatter follows the flightless grey temple strongman. He travels ghost-like, gathering exiles of violence and self-doubt, dragging them into the sun. Despite this, round table lamentations shadow liberalism's end. The only option left: quit the game and bring the thunder.

"Maybe it was never going to work. Not on this planet. But I made a promise to poor, doomed Jack Kennedy."

"Daddy, please hear this song that I sing."

Five graveyard years, crystal black reborn, he listens. Up where gravity fades, zone of salvation, he listens and watches. For her. Through walls and ocean sprays, her warm flesh radiates across the world. He listens. And laments his choice.

"He said: You can print money, manufacture diamonds, and people are a dime a dozen, but they'll always need land. It's the one thing they're not making any more of."

Razor point rat death. Diamond encrusted celebrity. Angry and alone. Wishing humanity lost. All while father watching, soothing mother-like. Dirty city needs beat down. Cowabunga.

"It's not Donnie who's lost."

Sex sprinkled over death, jokes and push. Reach back, paste past wound. Two steps, take five. If you leave them behind, forever gone.

"Somebody blew up our desalination plant?"

Four-colour monstrosities, polymorphous perversities, dashing from hole to hole, and lording it above the rest. Reach over to hard crotch in the dark of the theatre and put it in the ass. Through binocular clear, the depth of depravities, adds up slowly to broken bridge and ruined world. Jack boots to clean.

"Hughie, fuckin' twat him one!"