Xtinction Agenda

The jointed legs scramble like metal spiders Through streets and lanes, like ocean flows Over shipwrecks and under large-billed crows, Reeking methane that burns your nose. This black asphalt road was paved long ago.

The weight of the jagged towering broken lattice,  glass and steel torn from sky,  birthed a billowing grey man made petty and small.

This is an episode about Resident Evil: Apocalyps e. As far as movies go, it was fine. For some strange reason, the internet thinks this is the best installment of the franchise. If you are one such person, please drop us a line at xtinctionagenda6@gmail.com . We would like to understand.

It is common now to place the essence of life into that of another . Numerous times, this has been done. New question: can a soul descend into its own material self and somehow speak?  Time to find out.

Buncha do nothings, deadend bored at the bar, desperate to keep away the night, riding sleek, red single-rider beasts into the maw of the city, slipping between teeth and nearly swallowed by the belly of it all. Sometimes the future comes to us from places that we didn't expect.

Man, the strait waistcoat that folds over struggling breast, weighs tightly. Heavy, coarse-haired, inescapable, old when history was young, he binds wrists and spreads legs. He is a charnel house. What will remain from his passing? "So, uh...How much do I owe you for the clean underpants?"

The peen of a hammer unsheathed crunches the unsuspecting sternum of child trafficker baddies. He climbs their bodies, bludgeoning bone. Somewhere in all this violence, innocence huddles, waiting. "Looks like a Chinese mute looking for his daughter."

Red volcanic screams sought peace, blooming fire and sucking dust. To no avail. Peace instead inched its way into the world through a firm foot slid backwards into sand, through piteous burning whimpers, and through thin filaments of care.  "My heart's pounding."

O Seymour, Crank file keeper, Reach through those thin missives. O Seymour, Green shirt avatar, Grasp the leather-bound truth.   O Seymour, You are A stomach Ready to burst.   "You have two more pages to fill before you eat, thanks to that goddammed ass-kissing accord!"

Whether on green, unbroken crests Or across the barreled boneyard, Love fetches and lifts. Keep your ear close to the face of the wave, Let its thunderous static surround you. "Two bricks coming up."

Faced with the threat of burning, crawling, infectious hatred, Of mothers clutching babies, popping thin skulls on cobblestone, Of last days in the third Cybertronian war, The second king quested and beguiled Ripped wisdom from the heart of his son, And in a sacrifice of souls proclaimed, "Now light our darkest hour." "-  But Prime, I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy. - Nor was I."

He asks you to ask questions about yourself, All the while imagining a scalpel-sharp blade Severing your horizontal fissure,  Soft pink cubes soon soaked in v inegar For ten minutes or more, Before washed, salted and spiced,  Cooked and finally fried, A thin sliver of smile across his face.   " You have to convince yourself the lion is not in the room. When it is, I assure you, you will know. "

The pressure of sex Bends mirrored love Like stone on spandex; It shatters it into thin sharp fragments, And then mends it, fitting glass madly, Until time and choice collapse.   "Time to win some hearts and minds!"

How cool is this comic? We didn't even talk about the costume re-design. The costume re-design was literally the least interesting thing about this comic. And that's not a slight. It's a cool re-design. A cool re-design in a cool comic. For cool people. Like you.

Blue womb in barren sand, an endless supply of civilization. Soon the city will return to the nuclear wastes, born of nuclear love. All that now remains is a man.

Brain hemorrhaging cadaverine cephalopod stares, unblinking. Fearing crosshairs of world's grim end, it is released. 

Like grease on your beard, greed flavours the rich man's every bite. He sniffs and snorts and rummages in greed, the rich man. Crawling, he seeks just one more thing to swallow and shit. Better to burn such a creature and leave its bones for the dogs. " Is this the one who's got you all concerned about the dirty snow? Jesus, Forrest! You and me, we bought hookers better than this for five bucks in...

Within the predator, prey, survivor types fallen into the trash-strewn streets, guilt blossoms, a black flower with leather petals, seeding some simulacrum of restored hope and the promise of brutal revenge.

Bro is just like us, bro. Sure he's an Avenger, and an adventurer and a ladies man, but--bro--underneath all of that, bro is actually a Zen slacker screw up. So it's okay for bro to like him. I mean, look at bro's relationship with his sidekick. That's a good dude, bro. The creators definitely aren't engaging in a high-end art rock Gen X nostalgia white wash of a shitty character, bro! "Hey, my la...

Smirking mini-van mother, self-aware, symbol of a fallen world, pockets the cash. Its getting so you can't even tell who the gangbangers are anymore. School yard bullies turn out to be lost, wounded princesses, needing saving. And soldiers know sign language.

Stubborn rubber ring bearing hand strokes the veiny shaft, milking the bull, oblivious as hot cream pulses neighing into grey bucket. He is reminded of her yellow teeth. And yet he drinks.

You know how sometimes people do that thing where they come at The Odyssey or whatever from an oblique angle? Like that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern shit? What I want to know is: what if we did that with Archie in Watchmen ? That rugged and loyal companion abandoned like truth in the snow. What was his story, I wonder?

Hunkered down in cathode glow, cutting grass,  dirty hippy hunter, "Doc" Sportello,  Ponders the mystery before him, the tarot,  And scrawls his prayer, a steadfast arrow.   " Honey, make it quick. I got a live one tonight and I totally fucked up my face. "

What to wear at the end of the world? A cloak of night beyond walls. Ancient wings and something with a name as long as your arm. Something that makes them afraid. Because better to be feared than loved. Better to find modes and orders at the sharp edge of a razor blade hurled or with bulb burst electric screams.  "Ace the cloak."

Goaded in the hall of thunder by the horn-mad giant, the lumbering, clever tongued dude seeks audience with his other, an indignant man on a false throne. Chastised yet triumphant, the dude takes his prize. But alas, hell and all its demons now have for him a quest.  " It's all a god damn fake, man. It's like Lenin said: you look for the person who will benefit, and, uh, uh, you know... "