[This is a review of, or summary of, or comment on on The X-Files – the complete, nine-season television series and the two movies – written under constraint.]
The title files, the X-Files, exist. His fief.
His silliest, fishiest thesis: Lithe, sexless elitist “eels” exist. These sliest eels flit. These eels felt his sis. Eels flee. Exit sis. She left: Exile.
She, steel theist, feels little. Little else lifts life.
His fetish: Elfish feet? He, slitless, sexless, sees little fetishist sex, feels less.
She sifts the lifeless: filth, shit. She lifts the sheet: The stiff. She sees his teeth, hefts his testis. The fifth stiff, the sixth stiff…
The telex testifies: Hellish flesh seethes, flies flit.
He hits the shiftiest sexist, fells his stilts. The sexist flees — the shit.
She, fleet, heelless, hits the feistiest, flexile thief.
Effete esthetes teethe filets.
His ties stifle.
She flexes; helix lilts.
He flees; she flees.
Hell itself seethes.
Islets: Sessile shellfish sit.
He tilts. He hexes, his hex hits. She feels his hilt. He feels titties. Sex! … Sex?