Welcome to Faux Ghostface: Broaching Brandon's Mask

Greetings, Cinematic Fanatics!

Allow us the futuristic, yet present tense, time travailing pleasure of bouncing and beaming you through a time warp portal, you but a cold, calculating cyborg emissary, your mission: stalking, chauffeuring and eating bullets for one tweener/savior/mortal. Connor may just convince you to smile but never fstars chortle; painless the program of your terminator a** would be if the Connors were immortal, but Brother Gambit and I are your alloy thighed, glowing red eyed cybernetic assassin slash protectors, mechanized, weaponized endoskeleton frames concealed by organic tissue, humorless, futuristic wormhole-beamed messengers gifting you this shocking, sensational, stupendous, scary, superior sequel treat of Slick Flick Pick, an entertaining, slick/flick-explaining series, a desirable diversion from the main cybernetic vein of Chemohawk Sessions. There are scenes so jaw-dropping, visually striking and intense, such as when Mr. 1000 puts the petal to the liquid metal in pursuit of one schemer, scammer, tweener: Connor, keeping John, Arnold, the L.A. River rats and us, in suspense; in this role, Rob Patrick proves a dick, if you don't help him, to his terminator satisfaction, you, he'll push around, pull out of the bobcat rig to the ground, silently take down, stab, poke or otherwise liquid metal prick, but he reminds us in the Galleria, whilst looking at the silver mannequin head, that he's as sleek as he is slick: he both owns the screen and propels the plot in this sequel slick flick. This is a gorgeously grim, human value contemplating, outrageously satisfying continuation flick that crosses the space time continuum into a trio of genres: sci-fi, action, thriller-- it transitions so seamlessly between genres and oft simultaneously, in such a way, that you process it as a simple study in filmmaking sleekness.

This flick is comprised of two machines, one prepubescent tweener, one mile-mannered sheep in wolves clothing Miles Dyson and one knee capping, bit** slapping, double tapping paramilitary, as chary and wary as she is scary, who spends half this slick flick barefoot for she is the only one, in present time, who knows humanity's future is uncertain, our technological programs amiss, and Skynet's plan already afoot with an apocalyptic agenda we cannot dismiss badass, ripped, mother/savior/chick, who takes her liquid metal licks and keeps on soldiering-- though she spends a lot of the film's running time people watching at the slayground, and pumping-- into the T-1000's mold--round after godda** round, whether she is staring, screaming, fake sleeping, lock-picking, victim of face licking or comatose without a sound, Sarah remains tightly fstars wound for she spent time at a paramilitary compound and if you mess with her kid, her freedom or lick her face, she'll put you in the fuc**** ground.

We offer you: Slick Flick Pick: Bad to the Endoskeleton Bone-- Slayground Surprise, Ashen Skies and Glowing Red Eyes (There's No Fate but what Sequels we Make for Audiences); (Terminator 2: Judgement Day, 1991). Today, we discuss-- the likelihood of contracting athletes' foot while running around barefoot in the psych ward of a facility, a large swathe of locations including the Galleria, L.A. River, Cyberdyne Headquarters, freeways, on ramps, an fstars foundry and the outskirts of the city, though ripped as she may be, next to Arnold, Linda still seems itty-bitty, compared to the first Terminator, Arnold has grown rather fuc**** witty and though comic relief reveals itself, this slayground surprise and ashen skied thriller is as grim as it is gritty.

Your worthwhile cinephile: Falsetto Prophet and Brother Gambit

P.S. (Procrastinated Statement) *Intro/outro song, Soulicious, courtesy of the artist, Dyalla.

F.C.F.U. The T-888 is a variant of the T-800 Terminator mass-produced by Skynet.