Eat the Rich April is on pause for a moment. Old Man Stuff. Crisis upon us. For the time being, let's see what happens when hack writers from the 70s are given free reign in their own universe. Spoilers: they devolve to their natural state, cruel and mischievous. Or show themselves to be otherwise hopeless and nonsensical. Where in Sam Hill was the editor on this one?! Oh, right, he was the one with the cosmic treadmill in his desk...

Without natural features and only thin walls, the wizard holds back the horde. Dirty and poor, children stolen for parts, they hunger. Planning, probing, and slowly learning, the low must be brought high. The wizard, standing alone, awaits his heir, thinking it all part of his scheme.

"My friend, you suffer from the misplaced optimism of the doomed."

Most people, when they set up a chess board, do so with the intention of afterwards being able to play a game. Not these people. This movie sets up the X-Men franchise in the same way that Mister Magoo walks successfully through a burning building, never knowing they were almost killed. Here the board is merely a helpful suggestion and the chess pieces themselves easily replaced with play-doh versions of My Little Pony. All for the good, mind you. All for the greater good.

"Granted, it's probably not as intimidating as having a gun, or bone-claws, or the fingernails of a bag-lady..."

Pull wide the curtain, send fist through face, and split the fascists open. Set sail through the bleed along a course of retribution against a failing status quo. With blood-soaked hands, we must teach these will-less children to behave.

"I'm here to save the Earth. I'm here to get us all through this century."

Black slithering ooze under the skin, proptosis gestating, hybernating doom. Wars of injection rise up from under the sands, bees bred under clicking slats released like a twenty one gun salute. Enter the white surface cavern concealed where love hovers frozen, intubated. Release her and fight another day.

"Five years together, Scully. How many times have I been wrong? Never!"

Certainty, like an arrow, speeds forward into walls. Confusion, that spiked-drink paralysis, does the same. Stumbling blind-folded through the flooded basement of secrets, you must step carefully but never stop. Stay calm, senses open; wait patiently for the vouchsafing signal. Believe, and in believing, find doubt.

"What I don't want to see is the Bills winning a Super Bowl. As long as I'm alive that doesn't happen."

At benthic depths, a woman hides, working pelagic intrigues from the bottom upward and then back down, twisting memory and thought in on itself until there is nothing. Her world spans centuries, a lake at midnight, the littoral zone a chalk outline of a murder mystery. So tired, annihilated, empty-handed, she cannot go on. There is only one conclusion to draw, she says, there is no truth out there.

"What if, during their memory experiments, Aquarius stumbled onto a mind-control substance?"

Floating adrift on tattered raft, surfacing the blue-into-black abyss, eyes scan nightmare heavens, hoping for a sign. In the distance, the galley awaits. Behind, the colony. Pulled along an incomprehensible current towards the unknown, hands clasp tight into prayer. I want to believe.

"The men you've been seeking are the progeny of two original visitors, clones who have been attempting to establish a colony here since the late 1940s."