Sci-fi can be succinctly defined as speculation, whether based on established scientific facts or on logical pseudo-facts consistent with the framework of the fiction in question, involving smelly green pimply aliens furiously raping or eating, or both, beautiful naked bare-breasted chicks, covering them in slime, red, oozing, living slime, dribbling from every horrific orifice, squeezing out between bulbous pulpy lips onto the sensuous velvety skin of the writhing sweating slave-girls, their bodies cut and bruised by knotted whips brandished by giant blond vast-biceped androids called Simon, and written in the Gothic mode.
A glorious band, the chosen few / On whom the Spirit came; / Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, / And mocked the cross and flame. / They met the tyrant’s brandished steel, / The lion’s gory mane; / They bowed their heads the death to feel...
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