Hero of the beach. Man of muscle mystery. Lost long ago. No room left. Seems like I deconstructed the fun out of this place. Because no matter how many alleys I peer down, I never seem to catch a glimpse of Russian super-spies battling giant brains, or crystalline aliens trying to turn the world into glass. Once there were allies. Tom O'Bedlam turning the eye one step from tedium, and even dull, straight old Superboy used to have the decency to reimagine Moby Dick with a red-winged space whale. Want Steel Claw. Not this mockery of our once grand, strange joy. Not even Lord Fanny's going to get us out of this one. And she keeps giving me, me this look, like I'm the one who went and packed away the glamorous rocket-men. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe we're not stuck with the flabby-minded dreams of middle-aged men. We can still tell Garth Ennis we've grown tired of his macho power trips and reject this conservative, monotone wailing that passes for gritty realism. But my feet sink into the concrete street, and as my skin forms a chitinous carapace and insect lungs burst forth from my legs, I hang my head in shame at this pathetic excuse for transhuman possibilities. Ah, forget it! We're still feral, and our minds are filled to bursting with copulating images from stranger times. They'll never be able to stop me visiting our Martian neighbours, or exploring the dangerous sexualities of the mole men. Need Rachel Pollack. Bring Coagula. Find Dan Dare. Get Starman. Because I don't know. No I don't know. I don't know if even Alan Moore knows the score anymore.
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