Xtinction Agenda

O Seymour, Crank file keeper, Reach through those thin missives. O Seymour, Avatar emissary, Grasp the leather-bound truth. O Seymour, You are A pimple 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 Bangkok! "

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 laserdiscs!"

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... "

Government spooks and tunnel rat slashers. Crack strikes again. The city has gone crooked, rained out, lost. It needs something true. Straight. Something spine light, with eagle feathers fletching. Strong enough to kill.

We are all marionettes, our lives upset, dancing over desert red, a fog of memory lost, the dead giving clues through what was said to where we began and where we are led, so alchemy wed, we find ourselves, shattered golden maidenhead, returned by strings to innocence shed.

Firing side knee supporting firing side shoulder, the rounds flame outward, evaporating into the air's thin film interference, a sickly rainbow of annihilation. Her cruel heart destroys reptile plate and horn, shocking even herself, leaving yet another slumped cadaver in her wake.