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We are enfolded in the hot white wings of the red phoenix, journeying into small worlds of pressure, passion, and forced evolution, the thin tendrils of tiny machines licking the flames that power our pathetic lives and make us weep. Is this everything? Our purpose? Beyond the infinite rock that surrounds this cave, what truth is there? Red and claw catastrophe looms.
"Scott my friend...how can I help?"
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Sweet small crime hustlers of Sunnyvale, they of foiled scams, driveways of hash, a daily menagerie, a misfit cast. Theirs is the land of lost souls who lost nonetheless impose their will, trapped in the churning grind of statute mill, self-representing, shameless and still. Within this park under camera lens they scheme and trade the day away until such time as law doth raid and bring the boys from their trailers hence to prison quick to serve sentence.
"You have permission to smoke and swear."
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Fehlende Folgen?
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Everything is fine until, inevitably, the gnarled bone of infidelity protrudes into the world and blood drips onto the pages of your life. You will forget your sniveling soft manor and soft father, replacing them quickly with a man who will take from you your love. You will be made in a camp and let loose into the wild, betrayed by forces that you never had a hope of understanding.
"My name is Smitty. Remember it well."
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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?"
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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!"
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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!*"
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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."
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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."
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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!"
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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!"
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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!"
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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."
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"The Script. The Actors. Final performances, famous last words. Madame Roland: 'Oh, Liberty, how many are the crimes committed in thy name?'"
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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."
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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."
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