Mark Millar and Bryan Hitch - The Ultimates #1-13

The sun came upon the horizon white threatening void between heaven and earth. This was the empire, rising hopeful, destined for sky. Doomed to fall. Never to fade.

The mind will always detect the origin of an idea. In order to remain real, the idea must be father. Or secret dollhouse safe. A real idea, in the right hands, is an intravenous anti-kick and life is but a dream.     

Jointed legs scramble like metal spiders Through streets and lanes as pneumatic ocean flows, These dark monstrous belching farting riders Reek a methane miasma circus show. Their black asphalt roads were paved long ago.

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

This is an episode about Resident Evil: Apocalypse. 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 [email protected]. 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."