I had just got done visiting the Statue of Liberty memorial on the beach, and with sand in my shoes, I headed to my car.

As I approached my car, I noticed that there was one of the well dressed, highly evolved, human like orangutans sitting in the passenger seat, seemingly waiting for me with an Ancient Roman sword.

A necessary, quick digression. The highly evolved orangutans came through a rift in the space/time continuum yesterday during an electrical storm, near the Statue of Liberty memorial.

As I sat in my car, next to this well dressed orangutan for the first time, he looked at me and started to speak, quite eloquently, while tightly gripping his sword.

He said, “Greetings, my name is Dr. Zaius.”

“I’m not sure when or where I am. But I’m looking for a man named Russell Nash.”

We knew it was going to be a hot day. The previous day was hot.

We woke up lying on top of the duvet, both sweating, the sun fighting the curtains, and winning, compelling our eyes to open.

It woke him up just enough to turn over.

It woke my just enough to remind my sleepy head of the plan we made before sleep took us both.

I pushed at his back, "Come on, get up"

"hum" was his reply.

"Come on, get up, before it hot" It was hot already, we both knew that.

He needed reminding of the plan. Through a yawn I told him.

"We don't have to go."

But I was awake now. Too awake to just lie there.

I got my butt out of bed, which forced him to do the same.

In the car the temperature display kept creeping up, "maybe this isn't such a good idea." I started to question my actions, sleep still in my eyes and lingering in my stretches.

The radio told us to say inside, it was going to be the hottest day. "Lets just get breakfast, go back home." I stared to wonder what we would be doing if I had forgot about the sleep filled plan made in the cooling night air. We would be lulling in our bed, he would be holding me loosely, kissing on my neck, my hands drawing patterns on his skin. We would just about to start our morning routine, the one we had found our selves falling into on days we had nothing early planned.

"We are half way there now, We anit going back." He said. His eyes questioning me, are you serious. I'm always changing my mind, this time I was just bit too late.

We walked from the parked car, the sun shining down, not a cloud in the sky.

Soon the path gave way, I stopped to take my shoes off, putting my feet deep under the warming sand. We found a little shade by way off sand dooms, and set up a temporary camp; we both know we wasn't staying long, that was the plan.

We stripped, we ran, the sun beating down, sweat beading on our skin, a sea breeze caressing our bodies, the sand shifting consistencies.

The water brought a gasp to my mouth, lapping over my feet, as I waded in up to my thighs. He was doing the same, the shock on his face made me laugh. He splashed me with water in a childish way as the waves come up to my breast.

Together we embraced the cooling sea water, on the hottest day of the year.

First and raw draft.

The narcissist was nice to me today. She initiated correspondence. She had a sort gift offering for me. Nothing too unusual. Her initiating, her being nice, and, more than anything, her apparently being truthful and cluing me in on her plans for the next year was the surprising part. She’s got big plans. Big changes. She wanted to let me know. She was behaving like someone who even cared—a bit.

I’d better watch out.

Still. It was good news, I think. News that strongly implies that she’ll be taking the kids and relocating far away in order to escape this communist-Covidian shithole. I am the only husband in the world that actually WANTS his ex-wife to abscond with the children and flee the state. You go, my kids’ biological mommy. Go! Go! Get them out of here! I don’t want my children raised in a marxist cesspool. She won’t ever cooperate. Narcs never cooperate. But if she just takes them and goes, I will follow as soon as I can. I am her withered anglerfish appendage until the children are a little older. Ha. Things are so marxist-rotten in this region, if it got much worse, I WOULD go without them, male anglerfish or not. The women here are 99% marxist-feminist misandrists. One-third of the masktarded, TV-believing people in this region are STILL DRIVING AROUND WITH MASKS ON IN THEIR CARS. These marxists are lost. They rebelled and spat in God‘s eye one too many times. God has given them over to their government gods.

Eerily, my ex-narc has just about all my values and beliefs. Narcs are hollow vessels. They don’t really have any important core values, other than feeding their narcissism, unless they absorb those values from those around them. No one will ever get “closer” to her than I did, so she apparently absorbed my values. Her values now are very opposite of what they were when I met het. Like virtually every other woman in this area, she used to be something of a marxist new ager type. But not very strong into that even. But now she is rather hardcore into what I believe, and it is what is causing her to hate this government-worshipping place and want out also. She seems to have absorbed my worldview and core values rather strongly for a typically empty-vesseled narc.

I say, Praise the Lord. I was able to protect my children in a most unconventional way: through an empty narcissist’s value-osmosis process.

I like to take it a step further, though, and be a bit more specific and carnal. Just like how I used to brag about why our children look so much more like me than her, I am gonna go ahead and declare that the way she also absorbed MY values, why this narcissist who once parasitized and exploited me is now walking around touting, defending, and espousing MY values, is because of the awesome, overwhelming potency of the sperm inside my manly balls. Yes, Honey, remember how I used to joke and boast about the likeness of our kids to me and not to you? Remember when I would joke to our friends that “My sperm asserted itself!” Damn. I didn’t even know you were a narcissist then. That must have driven you covertly crazy with rage. Oh, but I’m sure you got me back in some secret, petty, plausible-deniability way. Of course you did.

You absorbed my sperm, my ever secretive, ever boastful matri-narc of our “home.” Maybe you were right in denying me sex all those other multiples of times. You felt the overwhelming power. You felt the loss of control to me inside you. The oh-so-few times we ever did it, considering how long we were married. And you narcs CANNOT STAND to give up control and be vulnerable, not even for an instant.

Too late, narc woman. You tried to dominate me a decade and a half, but in the end it was YOU who were dominated.

Yes, prideful, boastful, domineering woman. My sperm asserted itself. It took over your entire belief system. My amateur lumberjack ejaculate knew it would be the only way to protect my children. MY children—did you hear that, narc? Mine. God gave me power over you. By way of my manly balls. You’re beaten, bitch. You just don’t realize it; and it’d probably kill you if you did.

George Orwell sighed exasperatedly from his perch on a gaudily opaque Cumulus, tweed jacket more askew and bewrinkled than usual, ruffled, like his wing feathers, by the cyclotron effect of spring breezes. "Animal-farmers" was what they were calling themselves. the new craze among the Earthlings. Orwell's harp clanged as he reached into his pocket for some of his dwindling supply of tobacco. (It would be helpful to understand at this juncture, gentle reader, that we are speaking not farm-animal farmers, but of budding intellectuals and their cultish enthusiasm for certain philosophical trends.) They now fell into two distinct groups: Animal Farmers and Animal Right's Activists.

Wat Tyler scoffed in mock-delightitude from a nearby wispy Stratus.

"There now, ye see? Enter into it with the best intentions; free the serfs, nothing unreasonable, and what do you get?"

Orwell raised a commiseratory eyebrow at Wat. "yes I suppose this is what we get for expecting a halfway functional thought-process out of this lot. It's like biting into a delicious chili-pepper sandwich when you've grown the peppers yourself and finding out there's legos inside. Carnassials aren't meant to chew on plastic but they always end up doing it anyway. You make all this effort to put together the perfect metaphor against cultism, and what do you get out of it? a cult! that's what."

Wat nodded.

"Put out a piece of advice on anything; metermaiding, actuarying, how to avoid growing taller... doesn't even matter how specific the advice is, and soon enough people are on the railroad to wallpaperville; divining the future with shower curtain rings and making tinfoil hats to guard against mind control. They'd be better off in a one-horse-road dirt town. 'Least then they'd have a reason for staying benighted."

Orwell sighed again. "O'well, W'at ya gonna do. Can I bum a light?" George held up his hand-rolled cigarette in the universal sign of brotherly inquiries.

"'Course." Wat returned obligingly, searching his pockets with his tongue out in concentration, and finally producing a disheveled matchbook. (Which he had no idea how he got because matchbooks weren't even invented when he was alive. But every cloud has a silver hole in it's plot.) He lit a match and held it out to George, who puffed his fag alight then held it out to the other cloud-dwelling gentleman. "Don't mind if I do." Tyler accepted, eagerly taking a drag and returning the morsel of friendship to it's owner's stained fingers. The two men sat in silence awhile.

"I've been working on a poem." Wat admitted bashfully. "It's kind of my take on a play between acrostic and alliteration. I've written a few before, but I'm particularly proud of this one because it ignores the starting-letter rule and works phonetically if read aloud. Care to take a squiz?"

"Certainly." Orwell replied, passively intrigued by his cloudly compadre. "I could use a distraction."

Tyler held out the poem on a wrinkled piece of paper. "I'm going to title it UGLY EDITION" he explained.

George began to read, quietly muttering to himself, smirking sometimes through his puffs of cigarette:

Unpalatable ugliness unhorses upset unconventional urchins, unless

Guiled gaurdless; going gratefully groggy: gargantuanly gorgeously gifted gods

Let lower lifeforms languish logically; loving life's lonely longing lullabies...

Yet, yowling yon ubiquitous yogurty yellowbellies, yearning Euripides

Epistemologizes every equine-ebbing epiphany; emptying ethical empathy.

Dystopian diviners don delectably duplicitous dispositions, diluting discernible

Impetus in investigatory impartiality. Incredible, isn't it? Inconceivably intrepid.

To tell Ptolemy's treatise to tosstrot? Trapped tangibly to terrifying tasks; torn

Irretrievably; inexpungible indignation inexorably interfaced in idolatry inclinations.

Only Orpheus's opposite owns optimally ossified homages on omniscience;

Nullifying neophytic knowledges. No narcissist's necrotic nip nears nonsense.

"So... whadya fink?" Tyler asked nervously.

I live on a farm. I live on a farm because I love my husband, Charlie. He loves growing things. I'm allergic to everything so I'm not much help with the animals, the orchard or the garden. I work in the city. It's a three hour commute round trip, but I really don't mind the drive. I love my job.

Arnie, not so much.

Arnie, our resident rooster, thinks I am one of his chicks. Every single morning without fail he is waiting for me by the car, ready for battle. Doesn't matter if the sun is below the horizon or well into the sky, if I am heading to work, he is waiting to crow at me and peck my toes. I can't even bribe him to leave me alone.

If Charlie is with me, Arnie is off chasing his hens. But if I'm alone, better be sure my feet are covered. I actually have scars from the early days before I realized who was boss.

You might say, why don't you just get a new rooster. Well, first and foremost, Arnie, loony tune that he is, is family. You don't just replace family when they get on your last nerve. Much as the idea might appeal. No, family is for keeps. More importantly, though Arnie saved my life not long ago.

It was June, and a traveling circus had come to town. They did one show, Saturday night and then were supposed to go on to the next town Sunday morning. Except their star attraction, Ollie the Orangutan in Shining Armour, escaped. The whole town was put on alert, searching for Ollie.

Clearly, I must attract nature's nuttiest creatures because Monday morning, as I was heading to my car, what did I see but Ollie the Orangutan wielding his not so innocent looking sword as he toppled toward me in his medieval armor, helmet askew.

In the same moment I noticed Ollie, Arnie came into view, full speed. He started squawking and pecking at Ollie's non-armor covered feet. Ollie slowed down, waving his sword inelegantly at poor Arnie, spinning and tipping this way and that. I jumped in the car and called the local sheriff, Andy, to tell him we had found Ollie.

By the time the deputies showed up with the circus trainer, Ollie was on his his back, defeated, Arnie on his chest alternately crowing and pecking.

All that to say, Arnie is both family and our hero. He's a keeper.

I just don't wear sandals to work.

My parents drove us boys across country, and it was at the unusual insistence of my father that we stopped and visited as many states' landmarks and national parks as possible. My mother, as usual, remonstrated. But this time my father was insistent.

"It'll be something they'll remember their entire lives," my father kept saying, and finally it shut her complaining, crazy lips. I thought Dad was overstating things a bit, but we boys were game. It sounded mildly fun and interesting. Sure, Dad. Why not?

And, yes.

You were right, Dad. You were right. Even though the Grand Canyon was kind of, Mehhh, and the Utah Indian-writings-on-the-rocks was kind of, Yawwwn; still, the Balancing Rock in Utah was a bit more my thing, and the Silverado Train in Durango was pretty cool--but Dad, when you drove south, deep into New Mexico, despite all of Mom's bitching and complaining, and when you went way out of our way to go to that fly-infested hamburger stand in Roswell, and then when you drove over to Carlsbad Caverns--Dad, you really gave me something there. For life. You nailed it. Now THAT was right up the alley of your oldest son who didn't take after you. Your nine-year old son who took after the crazy person you saddled yourself with. Your boy with the inverted personality, so unlike your own.

Carlsbad Caverns--it was all inverted. Like me. Everything buried and shockingly intricate and ornate, once you go down and go way in and finally find it. All the good stuff---waaaaay down underground. DEEP DEEP underground.

We had to take an elevator down, it was that far. There was that narrow, dark-paved trail we had to follow, with nothing but a single bar for a handrail on both sides, all along its windiness. There was the giant black hole in the ground off to the side, just a few feet from the trail. The sign said BOTTOMLESS PIT. Doug and I just looked at one another and gulped. Later on that day, back in the car, then back at the hotel, we both kept saying the same wondering, wide-eyed thing: "HOW HAS A KID NOT FALLEN IN THERE? HOW COME WE NEVER HEARD ABOUT IT ON THE NEWS??"

Such a terrifying, tempting speculation just begging to be made.

You had four kids with you, Dad. And the two littlest of them physically hanging off you. How did you do it?

The guide who walked and talked with us, told us about the history and the geology. Dad, you had me there. You really really hit a home run for taking me there. All of those stalagtites and stalagmites. Huge rock icicles going up and coming down. All those underground cathedrals. So profoundly beautiful, yet so utterly scary. And then when they turned out the lights. Then turned them back on. The guide said that that's how it looked for Jim White, the cowboy guy who discovered the caves back in the cowboy days. How he used to let people down into the caves, down into a hole, in nothing but a basket and some rope. With Jim White holding onto the rope, letting folks down there who paid him some money so they could see what he saw. But they'd have nothing but a flashlight. They could only see a tiny, little bit of these huge underground cathedrals back then. Most of these astoundingly varying colors, these shockingly gnarled shapes, like another world, upside down and alien and all covered over with a clear, shiny frosting--those folks in the basket could only see a teeny, tiny bit of it with their flashlight. But it must have been overwhelming nonetheless. What little they could see of it, the vast, strange hugeness they couldn't even begin to see but knew was there. It must have been overwhelming. They would have surely wished that they could see further into that darkness, see more of this fantastical underground world; but they must have been scared out of their minds at the same time.

There was nothing but a guy holding onto them by a rope up there!

When we got back to the surface finally, took the modern elevator all the way back up, we stopped in at the gift shop. There were shiny gem rocks and candy and fudge; but all I wanted was that book, that book about the history of this place—about Jim White back in the cowboy days, how he did it with the bucket, lowering people down there. It was way beyond fascinating and oh-so very scary, just to read the book.

Just imagine!

That whole place was fascinating and scary. Every inch of it. Each and every ginormously decorated glistening-rocky cathedral, up-and-down icicle made of rock. It was almost unbelievable that it was THERE, in THIS world, that it was REAL and you could find the several inconspicuous entrances to it on the MAP.

The years went by.

It's true. I took after Mom because, for better or for worse, I turned out to have her personality type--just without the accursed, family-destroying personality disorder. I think. My erstwhile Love might consider that I took a piece of even that with me. I couldn’t argue with her.

So I'm an INFP. A miner of emotions. That's what we INFPs are. We spelunk emotions and map them out. It’s what we do. No wonder I fell in love with that amazing underground place as a boy; those gigantic caverns with all that underground, intricate, phantasmagorical beauty hiding so far below the surface. It was like a geological metaphor for myself.

We INFPs, our real selves are deep inside; and over the course of time, with the dripping, coursing fluid of daily human interaction, we map out intricate emotions in our heads. Yes, emotions. We seek to understand and to master them, the way some people do with logic. We deal with emotions that way. We mine for them, we analyze them, then we build intricate maps of emotional comprehension in our INFP heads. We spend our mental lives mapping out the full range of human emotions. We do it analytically, cerebrally. But they're still emotions. They look and feel and sound like emotions. We seek to comprehend them all. To know and understand what they all FEEL like. It is estimated that INFPs are only about 3% of the population. (Some say there are more of us than that; I say they are smoking crack.) If you are an INFP, when you write a letter to someone, or share a song with them, or share some song lyrics, or share with someone anything meaningful to you that you think might be meaningful to them, then that little, emotionally enjoyable thing you do in your own head, when you try to "put yourself in their shoes" and try to conjure up and imagine the EXACT emotion you think they will be feeling upon receiving and deciphering that piece of meaning that you sent to them--that's a part of our INFP emotion mapping that we do. If INFPs are not the only type that does that, they CERTAINLY are the ones that do it the most, and easily the most acutely.

I like to think that I am a gifted emotion mapper. And I probably am. But I know an INFP that is far more gifted than me. I have been in love with her for a number of years. She is so much more gifted than me, though. She has known that we both have loved each other for even longer. A very long time. In fact, she knew right from the start. She is an emotional GENIUS. I have had to come to this conclusion.

And I'm in awe.

Of her.

Today I heard some news, or thought I heard some news, that she was in trouble. That she was ill. I was reading between the lines of something that sounded like she was really sick. Thank God that I was mistaken.

But WHAT IT DID TO ME.

I was suddenly in a basket, handed a flashlight, and plunged deep, deep into darkness. I was so, so far down under the surface. I didn't even know that this great cavern was here inside of myself, was a part of MY OWN map, all this time. I had a flashlight that gave me tiny, little glimpses of this vast, majestic, terrifying, boundlessly beautiful, frighteningly unfathomable underground network of intricate, glistening cathedrals of love for her that I didn’t know were there, didn’t and could never in this flesh comprehend the vastness and the richness of this system of cathedrals upon chambers of emotions.

I was in over my head with nothing but the Man upstairs holding me by a rope.

I was terrified.

I was caught by onrushing awe.

Overwhelming, monumental, dreadful, onrushing spasm of unmitigated awe.

Of what I feel for her.

And it's been here underground, underground on this map all this time.

Underground, inside of me.

It pains me to say this, but I'd have to go with the chicken option. I wouldn't enjoy it. It would be like killing a good friend over and over. Dollar-for-dollar, chickens are the cheapest source of animal protein on the planet. They are delicious. They make eggs, which are used to make tons of delicious desserts. I love everything about them, their supple breasts, their tender thighs, their succulent drumsticks. I would never want to hurt the blessed bird of gainz.

But bro, google "orangutan strength". Those things are 5 to 7 times stronger than humans. A sword isn't going to make any difference in a fight against one of those things. While you're trying to figure out which end is pointy, that thing will slam you to the ground and unplug your balls with its teeth. It'll wear your face as a trophy after it tears you limb from limb. A kangaroo would probably be the better animal for this question. They're also way stronger than humans, but a bit less coordinated, so you could almost see yourself winning.

Whereas, if I fight a chicken every day, I'd get used to it, and figure out how to win the fight with minimal effort. And in exchange for that minor inconvenience, I'd get a lifetime of free chicken. It's just common sense.

She hand-picked him. Spotted him out of the small crowd of her acquaintances. She could tell by his fleeting glances that he had wanted to approach her but he was a little too shy to do so.

Shy. Nice touch.

His appearance was just right too. You see, she now definitely had a "type". A few years older, dark hair, broad shoulders, killer smile.

Yes. Oh yes. He will do quite nicely...

So in an action totally unlike her, she made an advance on him. And it blew his mind. He was initially floored but wholly receptive.

She discovered early on that he was a gift-giver. A car. Lingerie. Jewelry. Jewelry that she was uncharacteristically careless with. She lost a couple of pieces thoughtlessly. Perhaps subconsciously shedding those tokens of affection. She was not interested in any of those things, not in the slightest.

Yes, he could also finesse her body to new heights. Who knew there were pleasures such as these? She surely had not known before him. Their coupling had left her completely engulfed, enthralled, enraptured. And empty. So, so very empty.

She soon found that there was no pleasure, no gift, he could afford her that would excise the pain of not being with HIM. Jake could make her feel a lot of things but he didn't make her soul sing. She was ruined for all others. Tainted.

Yes, by THAT one. The one that just recently, coldly told her he was getting married soon and couldn't be in contact with her any longer. She tried to email him on several occasions after the brush-off but they kept bouncing back to her. It pierced her like a hot knife each time but she kept doing it. Like some conditioned lab animal pressing the button repeatedly for the highly anticipated reward. Only, no reward came. Only pain. Waves of it. Apparently, her sweet Galahad had even closed that email account-- her only means to contact him.

Wow. Okay.

Move on.

And she did.

But something else was bothering her so badly (besides her own atrocious behavior). Did Jake not even notice she was trying to drive out the memory of someone else with him? It bothered her even more if that he DID in fact notice and chose to acquiesce in order to keep her. She didn’t want a man like that. Someone content with the ingenuine. That would be... repulsive. Wait--

It was at this time that she realized what a huge, fucking hypocrite she was.

Sshhh, handsome. Just be quiet and c'mere.

And also, what a lowly, vile monster she had become.

Prey is a new science fiction action thriller prequel released on Hulu featuring the feared intergalactic hunter, the Predator. The film is directed by Dan Trachtenburg, who is known for his critically acclaimed directorial debut 10 Cloverfield Lane, and stars Amber Midthunder, actress known for her roles in Legion and Roswell. It is also the first film in the Predator franchise to have been distributed by 20th Century Studios (I still refer them as 20th Century Fox) after their merge with Disney.

The film takes place during the 18th Century on the Great American Plains. A young Comanche warrior named Naru (played by Amber Midthunder) and her tribe suddenly find themselves as hunted for sport by the dreadlocked extraterrestrial hunter (played by Dane DiLiegro). Determined to protect her tribe against this highly evolved killer, she sets out to confront it, leading into the ultimate challenge of survival to determine who is the predator and who is the prey.

I'll be honest after the shit pile that was Shane Black's The Predator I had little hope for this franchise. Also, changing the title from Predator to Prey didn't help things either. It was like they were trying to be cute or something. But I still kept an open mind, hoping that this film was at least better than The Predator. And it certainly was. Like leagues better than that shitty movie. In fact, I dare say I really liked this new Predator movie.

First positive goes to Amber Midthunder's performance. She was outstanding throughout. She doesn't have a ton of dialogue but she expresses her thoughts through her eyes. And her character Naru is great. She's a problem solver and a skilled tracker, making her a worthy opponent against the Predator. You also understand why she's trying to prove herself, to her tribe, and to her brother she is a capable hunter.

BTW: if you're bitching about the idea of a person fighting the Predator with only a bow and arrow, keep in mind that's exactly what Arnold used to fight the Predator in the first film.

Speaking of the Predator I like how this Predator is portrayed. This big guy is named the Feral Predator and watching the movie I see why. This Predator tends to fight more hand to hand rather than rely on his technology, and his tactics tend to be more brutal and savage. I also get the feeling that this is a young Predator based on how unrefined the way he hunts and kills his prey. He also seems to progress from prey to prey at the start of the film, having killed a wolf then a bear and then finally killing a bunch of French fur trappers.

The kills in the movie are great too. These kills look like they do some serious damage. It's brutal. It's bloody. There's some great sound design that make them feel juicy. It's all you can ask for in a Predator movie. Although I did find it weird at times that when it comes to violence the film seems to cut from it, almost like the editors are trying to hide the violence and give it a PG-13 rating. Luckily the stuck to their guns and kept it R-rated (as it should be) and showed off some great, nasty kills.

But the biggest praise I can give is how it recaptures the intensity and the spirit of the original Predator film while maintaining its own identity. I think the problem with the sequels is that they try too hard to be like the original, in the case of Predator 2 and Predators, or they just went completely off the rails with the idea of Predators inject autism into themselves or whatever the fuck bullshit Shane Black came up with in The Predator. This film is its own thing while still harboring the same suspense and thrills the original had. It doesn't copy the formula, it makes something of its own property. It's a perfect blend of originality and paying tribute.

Now one criticism I do have against the film is that there are times where it does feel slow, mainly in the first act. We slowly follow the life of Naru and the Comanche in their day to day life while the Predator arrives and does his own thing. That's not to say that watching how Naru and the other Comanche do isn't important. In fact, it's actually pretty cool seeing life of the Comanche on the Great Plains and done so with great respect and representation. It's just that I'm on my couch wanting to see the Comanche fight the Predator and I don't feel I should wait half an hour for that to happen in what feels like a slow burn.

And going back to the Feral Predator I gotta admit I don't like the design. The face of the Feral Predator is way too rounded and somehow they made it uglier than the original. However, I can accept the fact that this is another subspecies of Predator different from the Jungle Hunter of the original movie, much like the Super Predators from Predators. I also don't like the biomask design either. The bone structure is cool, but it exposes too much of the mouth and mandibles. But that's just my personal gripe from as a longtime fan of this franchise.

Overall this is honestly the best Predator film we got since the original film, although that's pretty low bar if you compare it to the other contenders. However it is a solid entry to the franchise and the first film in a while that actually felt like a Predator movie (at least in my opinion). Honestly, I can definitely see this having a potential for more entries like this in the future. Like an series of anthologies where the Predators are hunting humans in different periods, like Feudal Japan or World War II. There's a ton of potential in something like this, as like as Fox/Disney finds the write people who are passionate about this franchise as the fans. The movie claims that this is the first time the Predators have been on Earth but that's technically not true. The Predators have been hunting humans for over a millennium. Humans are the ultimate prey. So there is plenty of room to show how far back the Predators have been hunting humans.

This prequel is a step in the right direction for good Predator movies. Let's hope they don't turn out to be ugly motherfuckers like The Predator.

Positives:

-Naru/Amber Midthunder

-The Feral Predator

-Has the feel of the original

-Spectacular kills

Negatives:

-Slow burn at times

-Feral Predator's design

Final Grade: B

So those are my thoughts on Prey. Have you seen it? What were your thoughts on it? What is your idea for a Predator sequel/prequel/story? Please be kind, leave a like and comment, and check out more reviews here on Prose!

Best Quote:

Naru: "You think that I am not a hunter like you that I am not a threat. That is what makes me dangerous."

#harrysituationreviews #film #opinion #scifi #action #horror #thriller #Predator #prequel #Hulu

A duck walked up to a lemonade stand

And he said to the man runnin' the stand

"Hey! [(bam bam bam)] Got any grapes?"

The man said: "No, we just sell lemonade

But it's cold, and it's fresh, and it's all home-made!

Can I get you a glass?"

The duck said, "I'll pass."

Then he waddled away - waddle waddle

'Til the very next day

"Bom bom bom bom bom babom"

...

I've been babysitting my small 1 1/2 cousin, L., while his mom is in the hospital with his little brother. And L. is hooked on The Duck Song Ever spent 18 hours straight listening to it? Trust me, you haven't missed out on much. It gets stuck in your head, and you get it stuck in everyone else's as well! (Don't know what it is? Just google it, hit play and then you'll know...) Everything, even your innermost secret thoughts, are about it!

For example, you catch yourself singing this in your head to the tune:

"I need to put my clothes in a lemonade stand...oh, phooey! I mean I need to do a duck in my little clothes dryer. NO!!!!"

Ugh. If I could get this song out of my head, I would SO happy.

But...there are worse things to have stuck in your head, I suppose. :)