Afleveringen
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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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Zijn er afleveringen die ontbreken?
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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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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."
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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!"
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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."
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Inverted twin catastrophes, machine and flesh, spawn crawling apocalypses, waiting. The simian turns feline. Marriage is cold. Frost touches and torques. Platinum cards pay for drinks after crashing dust up. And from the iron prison of the foreign empire, the star child is released. His wings are his alone.
"Doesn't everything seem mildly traumatized to you, Scott?"
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Imperative verb meaning 'to be free', calling out commands. Singular pronomial object, speaking directly to you alone. And emphasized in the weirdest way possible. We can only conclude that the speaker is attempting to confuse you. Or using words to drill down. Which is fitting, you see, because they want you to free yourself from below.
"Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see."
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