Category: Tall Tales

The swamp’s still smoldering from the mech’s crash-landing, a faint haze of burnt steel and lizard ash hanging over the cypress trees, but Rex “Coyote” Malone’s already got a fire going. He’s crouched by a makeshift grill—some scavenged metal grate propped over a pit of glowing coals—flipping ribeyes that sizzle and spit like they’re pissed…

The banksters’ orbital HQ detonates like a goddamn supernova, a nuclear fireball swallowing steel and scales in a roar that shakes the stars. Rex “Coyote” Malone’s got Lysara Vaxx pressed against him in the stolen mech’s cockpit, her bare skin slick with sweat, his hands locked on the controls as they blast out of the…

The banksters’ orbital fortress is a screaming mess—alarms shrieking like banshees, steel walls buckling, and the WOKE_VIRUS turning every system into a woke nightmare. Rex “Coyote” Malone’s in the mech bay, ribeye grease still slick on his fingers, rigging his stolen Titanfall rig for a getaway. His Harley’s strapped tight, chrome glinting under strobing red…

The banksters’ orbital fortress is coming apart at the seams, and Rex “Coyote” Malone’s loving every goddamn second. The WOKE_VIRUS—Mama Bastet’s digital middle finger—is tearing through the mainframe like a drunk through a liquor store, turning Zylor Vaxx’s high-tech empire into a clown show of glitching mechs and pronoun-obsessed lizards. Rex is halfway to the…

Rex “Coyote” Malone’s boots echo through the banksters’ orbital HQ like a death knell, the stolen keycard hot in his pocket and his hexed cigar trailing smoke thick enough to choke a mule. He’s deep in the guts of the station now, past the gala’s glitz and Lysara’s panting aftermath, slinking through a maze of…

The banksters’ orbital HQ hums with cold precision, but Rex “Coyote” Malone’s about to turn it into a goddamn furnace. He’s got Lysara Vaxx pinned against the wall of a private suite off the gala ballroom, her black dress hiked up to her hips, legs wrapped around him like a boa constrictor on a bender.…

Rex “Coyote” Malone doesn’t do subtle. So when the interstellar recruiters told him to ditch the Harley for their shiny shuttle, he laughed in their visored faces, strapped his Panhead to a stolen Titanfall mech he found rusting in a swamp hangar, and hotwired the bastard with a Bowie knife and a prayer. Now he’s…

The swamp outside New Orleans stinks like God’s own armpit—rotting cypress, stale water, and the faint whiff of something dead and pissed off about it. Rex “Coyote” Malone’s boots sink into the muck, his Harley parked on a rare patch of dry ground, its engine still ticking like a heartbeat. It’s past midnight, and the…

New Orleans, April 10, 2025, and the air’s thick enough to choke a mule—humidity like a wet dog’s tongue, jazz horns wailing through the French Quarter with the mournful notes of ‘St. James Infirmary Blues,’ a tune that’s followed Rex since his first kill, and the faint tang of swamp rot creeping in from the…

One Marine’s Galactic Fuck-You to the Bankster Overlords Listen up, you degenerate bastards, because I’m about to drop a bomb on your sorry asses that’ll make your eyeballs bleed and your guts howl. Welcome to Smoke, Steaks, and Satoshis: One Marine’s Galactic Fuck-You to the Bankster Overlords—a nine-part series that’s gonna hit your screen harder…