Rhino: ECW's Motor City Monster

 

Bullet With a Name On It

…I’m not a violent person. I don’t carry a gun with me at all times. The last time I got in a fight was in high school. It was a miserable defeat to a guy who mounted my chest and punched me so many times that I got a black eye, numb cheeks, and chewing difficulties. One of the administrators cracked a terrible joke about how I was a lover and not a fighter. I’d expect that kind of humor in the UFC or WWE, but not at school. But I suppose there was some truth in that joke, because ever since that day, I’ve responded to any amount of stress the same way: freezing like Walt Disney eating a popsicle in the middle of a tundra. Fight and flight are gone. Freezing is all that remains. Staying perfectly still and not being confrontational is supposed to be a survival mechanism. But what am I surviving?

 

While I don’t have a violent life or a criminal history of any kind…I have so many violent thoughts swirling in my head. So many people have taken advantage of my freezing response and said whatever the hell they wanted, like the first amendment was made specifically for assholes. No amethyst colors here, just red, white, and blue. I’ve been fat-shamed, called the R-slur, called a pussy for not joining the military, I’ve had slanderous rumors spread about me, and I’ve been accused of laziness when I didn’t want to get a job and go to school at the same time. These people who abused their first amendment rights…they bear the brunt of these violent thoughts. So...many…violent…thoughts…

 

Punches in bunches. Sprawling and brawling. Knees to the face. Kicks to the balls. Maybe a piledriver if I’m feeling strong that day. Hell, let’s go full UFC and throw in a rear naked chokehold. In my brain I’m undefeated, even against well-trained marines and martial arts blackbelts. I justify these victories by saying, “Whose dick did they have to suck in order to get those accolades?” I’m sure they can explain the bruises on their faces, but how will they explain the bruises on the inside of their mouths to their dentist? Dentists can tell what you’ve been up to in the bedroom. Or under the sensei’s desk, wherever you feel more comfortable.

 

But it’s not just unarmed brawling that I fantasize about. Sometimes I’m armed and dangerous. Sometimes I’ve got a big fucking knife. Sometimes I justify those knife victories by saying, “A blackbelt doesn’t give you puncture-proof skin.” Come to think of it…what is a blackbelt good for anyways? Holding up your pants so that we don’t have to look at your Sailor Moon crotchless panties? That kind of intimate wear would never withstand a few strokes from a big ass knife. And neither would your skin. Just hack, slash, hack, slash, an arm there, a leg there, a throat somewhere else, and a glorious bloodbath that will never make me want to shower ever again.

 

But why is it just melee ranged weapons? Why I can’t I shoot a gun? Surely, it can’t be that hard to shoot a gun. It’s like using America Online: point and click. Maybe I’m oversimplifying complicated technology, but remember, it’s my brain, I’m undefeated. If some bozo driving an obnoxiously large truck drives by me and shouts the F-slur, I’ve got a bullet with his name on it. It’s weird to think about, because in order to have a bullet with somebody’s name on it, I have to know that person’s name. Drive-by loudmouths don’t give you their name or any information about them. That’s a big part of what makes them cowards. Not only do they shout their shit, but they drive away before facing any real consequences. Sure, your truck has a badass engine, but can your truck outrun a bullet? Will a V8 engine matter if there’s a bullet in the gas tank? Will all the horsepower in the world matter if the bullet shatters glass and that glass cuts you up? And what good is driving a truck if the driver gets shot and the vehicle flips on its back? Drive-by loudmouths don’t think about these things in advance. Then again, I wouldn’t call anything they do thinking.

 

Violent fantasies are so much fun to have. I love bathing in blood. I love listening to screams. I love the symphonic melodies of bones snapping and organs sloshing. I love listening to my insulters plead for their lives only to lose them anyways. But it’s important to remember that these are fantasies. They don’t exist outside of my brain. If they did, there would be serious consequences. Seeing this many dead bodies would break so many hearts. I’d have my own broken heart as I sit alone in a prison cell with regret on my mind. That’s what you have to remember as you go through life with an imagination: fantasy and reality are not one in the same. That’s why people caution against porn being unrealistic. Porn isn’t designed to tell a realistic story. It has one purpose: to help masturbators achieve an orgasm by any means necessary. If you can’t separate fantasy from reality, you’re already waiting to get fucked.

 

So go ahead and listen to gangsta rap on repeat. Dream of killing your enemies in cold blood. Drink that cold blood like it’s as refreshing as Coca-Cola. Hell, you can even write about some of these daydreams in your stories if you’re an author of some sort. But that comes with its own set of responsibilities. As authors, everything you put on the paper is held in high esteem. Your readers will take everything you say literally and they’ll apply it to their own way of thinking. That doesn’t mean they’re stupid, but they are impressionable. If you’re being held up as an arbiter of truth and you tell a bunch of violent or sexual lies, that’s going to have a bad influence on your readers. Think of all the BDSM rookies who wound up in the hospital after reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Think of all the women who will get pregnant because of birth control misinformation in The Missus, which is written by the same author. You can have your bloody fantasies on paper, but don’t lead your audience astray.

 

If you’re watching Quentin Tarantino movies, don’t duct tape your enemy to a chair and cut his ear off while dancing to 70’s music. If you’re watching WWE television from the 2000’s, don’t simulate sex with a corpse as a way of insulting someone who wronged you. If you’re watching Mind of Mencia and I hope to god you’re not, don’t throw racial slurs haphazardly and then later wonder why you’re being “canceled”. And by the way, cancel culture isn’t real. If you write a shitty story chock full of irresponsible violence and rape, your audience has the right to react in a negative way, because criticism isn’t censorship. Criticism is the other half of free speech.

 

If you must have violent fantasies, reign them in. Don’t unleash them out into the real world. If you’re a peaceful guy in real life, but you have violent fantasies, don’t let anybody judge you for it. Truth is, everybody thinks about violence at least once in their life. At least once, don’t let them lie to you. Nobody’s this candid about their violent fantasies, but we all have them. Some are more mild than others, but they still exist. It’s a normal part of the human experience. Thinking about something is a healthy way to process it. Thinking is the best way to travel. Doing these things in real life will cause so much heartache, for you and your victims. And for the love of god…don’t join the military just because you happen to be good at playing Halo.

Chainsaw Channing Lugar

VERSE 1

Channing’s paycheck couldn’t buy him a feast

But he’s got beer and Netflix, at the very least

That’s what he gets for selling power tools

At the hardware store right out of trade school

Last thing he needed was the store to be robbed

What was there to steal? Nails and door knobs?

His nightmare came true at his work one day

“Stick them hands up or I’ll blow your ass away!”

VERSE 2

Robber opened the cash box and collected wallets

An act of patriotism is what he will call it

He needed the money to overthrow the “gum mint”

Buy some big ass bombs and some cool gun shit

He turned his back for a second too many

Just when he tried to squeeze out the last penny

Channing Lugar fired up the chainsaw

Morphed from working class stiff to a pain god

VERSE 3

The chase took place across several blocks

Robber left a trail of urine from his cock

Shit from his ass blew a hole in his jeans

Channing smelled Hooters steak and green beans

Even COVID deniers wanted to wear masks

Breathing human sewage is an unenviable task

Not nearly as bad as blood from the slash

Mutilation by chainsaw, corpse in the trash

VERSE 4

Is Channing Lugar a hero or a killer?

Not a rhetorical question or pointless filler

So many questions from lawyers and cops

They wade through blood and biological slop

Local news called him Chainsaw Channing Lugar

Said, “Hold my beer!” to Jason and Kruger

Going too far only works if you’re rich

Powerful too, not a working class bitch

Murder Is Beautiful

VERSE 1
It’s amazing the disputes I can settle with a knife
Could have no more problems for the rest of my life
A blade across your wrists, a blade across your throat
Tie bricks around your ankles, throw you off of a boat
Some of you motherfuckers call it a crime of passion
From a guy who followed all the heavy metal fashions
From a guy who was shit on all throughout school
Nah, I just like bathing in bloody swimming pools

CHORUS 1
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is so sublime!
It’s so worth doing time!
Murder is beautiful!

VERSE 2
It’s astounding the problems I can solve with a gun
One bullet to the dome and it’s all said and done
Or maybe I can blast off your itty bitty dicky
Shoot you in the ass, bleed you like a stuck piggy
Some of you clowns call me a little loony toon
While digging your own graves with a big ass spoon
Maybe I just need a glass of water and some pills
Nah, I’d rather rack up some more of those kills

CHORUS 2
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is so precious!
The fun is so endless!
Murder is beautiful!

VERSE 3
I’ve never been a gangster or a mafia don
I’m just a guy whose sanity is all long gone
Had enough of toxic bitches ripping at my stitches
Opening wounds that should’ve stayed hidden
A baseball bat or a stun gun full of juice
Don’t worry about your legs having no use
You won’t need them where your ass is going
Bombs away! Feel the high winds blowing

CHORUS 3
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is sweet sunshine!
Your ass is forever mine!
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is pretty as fuck!
Murder is a work of art!
Slash your asses apart!
Murder is pretty as fuck!

Covered in Blood

I walk into battle covered in blood

Smelling like ashes, smelling like rum

Looking like the deep fried walking dead

Looking for relief from what’s in my head

I see you on the other side of the street

You could be a mirage from the heat

Or you could be laughing like a jackass

Earning your place among the maggots

I take a bite out of your delicious throat

More pig’s blood to cover me like a coat

Rip out your heart, hell, your whole ribcage

You scream like you’re three years of age

You’ve got some serious pipes for a wimp

Are you sure you don’t belong to a pimp?

If you can feel the pain, you’re still alive

Let’s turn up that shit to a hundred and five

Slurping down your brain through the sockets

Make you fuck your eyes with your own rocket

Pull out intestines and watch the shit flow

Share your corpse with the ravens and crows

The funny thing about this nutritious meal

I get dessert as part of the dinner deal

Who will suffice? Your daughter or wife?

Hell, they left your ass for a much better life

I’ll save my coupons for another day

More satisfying than Mickey D’s anyway

The king of burgers has nothing on this

Sweeter than the redheaded Wendy’s kiss

Pay you tomorrow for a carcass today

My belly is stuffed with violent decay

I burp like a fifteen megaton blast

Nickelodeon slime pouring from my ass

Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight

Try to make it fun, put up a better fight

This Is Extreme

VERSE 1

Shotgun blast for calling me a name

All the drunkards get hit by a train

Every drill sergeant steps on a mine

Every mean teacher battered into slime

This is extreme! This is too much!

Using violence as my favorite crutch

This is extreme! This is excessive!

Victory is mine, I’m feeling possessive

This! Is! Extreme!

This! Is! Extreme!

VERSE 2

A hundred lashes for naughty kids

A thousand more is what we did

Drop a bomb on a town full of bullies

Their undies get drenched and sullied

This is extreme! This is illegal!

A jail sentence will be the sequel

This is extreme! This is disgusting!

More cathartic than endless cussing

This! Is! Extreme!

This! Is! Extreme!

BRIDGE

I dream of extreme every night

I cream at extreme, it feels right

I dream of self-esteem I could never have

I scream for extreme when shit gets bad

VERSE 3

Kick to your head for pushing and shoving

Attack your family, the ones you’re loving

Head butts for you until my brain explodes

I smile as I watch the bloody river flow

This is extreme! Get some damn help!

None of this is worth an eternity in hell

This is extreme! Get some therapy!

Talk about things that are embarrassing

This! Is! Extreme!

This! Is! Extreme!

Crawl and Brawl

CHORUS

Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches

Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches

Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six

Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!

VERSE 1

A super-kick party’s got nothing on this

Ten thousand uppercuts, death match bliss

Taking razor wire and wrapping those fists

Someone’s getting killed, somebody’s pissed

Steel cage couldn’t contain all the bloodshed

A prison riot? We ain’t fucking done yet

Every last dumb shit is waiting to get beaten

Every last dead body is waiting to get eaten

CHORUS

Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches

Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches

Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six

Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!

VERSE 2

A Florida gator will feast on all the haters

A Burmese tiger will bring the fucking fire

An African rhino will gore you in the gut

Trample your ass into the bubbling mud

You picked the wrong fight for tonight

The holy preacher will speak your last rites

The undertaker will take you to your maker

Crawl and brawl until you all fucking fall

CHORUS

Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches

Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches

Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six

Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!

VERSE 3

A golden belt means less than a human pelt

A gold medal will not bring the heavy metal

A trophy cup will not make them shut up

Snuggle with severed heads when going to bed

A bloody dream will make your genitals cream

In the real world, they scream like little girls

Only a true warrior can make the world cry

As they watch their heavyweight champions die

FINAL LINES

Crawl and brawl! X4

Coffin Crusher

VERSE 1

Wake up from the underground

Casket makes a creaking sound

Time to hunt some fuckers down

Make the Spirits of Evil proud

Step up to the hulking mummy

You ain’t got a chance, sonny

Rip the lining from your tummy

Sell your hide for big ass money

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

VERSE 2

Let’s all do the dance of death

Psychotic spirits in our heads

We all know how we’ll die

Rotten fist between the eyes

Brains turned to sloshing shit

Hearts roasting on a stick

Flesh ripped up like love letters

Viscous blood tastes much better

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

VERSE 3

The one-man killing machine

Left behind a genocidal scene

Rivers of blood down his throat

Oceans of tears, where’s the boat?

Mountains of flesh masticated

Hollow corpses exsanguinated

A meal fit for the gods themselves

Bon appetite, see you all in hell

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

FINAL VERSE

Back to the casket for a deep sleep

Pray the devil your soul to keep

If you die before you awaken

Know that you have been forsaken

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

America's Funniest Hardcore Violence

“Warning: the following program is rated TV-MA-LV. It contains strong language and graphic violence. It is intended for a mature audience. Good Intentions Productions does not endorse nor condone the displays of violence shown in this program and discourages the audience from recreating them. Enjoy the show!”

Good Intentions, my ass, thought Vanessa Rollins as she sat in the audience with folded arms and a death stare.

After the narrator got his disclaimers out of the way, two stage lights danced in front of the audience while a timpani drum-roll sounded off across the studio. The narrator’s voice boomed once again over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, who will take home the grand prize of one hundred thousand dollars? Who is the funniest? Who is the nastiest? Who is the goriest? Find out tonight! Live from the Preparation H Pavilion in Paulson City, it’s America’s Funniest Hardcore Violence!”

Everyone sans Vanessa (who shook her head) applauded once the happy trumpet music blasted and the stage illuminated. “And now, here is the host of AFHV: Colin “The Thrill” McGill!” The audience rose to their feet and applauded at their loudest when Colin McGill ran out onstage in his goofiest plaid suit and his cheesiest shit-eating grin.

“Thank you, thank you, everyone! Welcome, welcome, welcome!” greeted Colin as the audience sat back down. “Welcome to America’s Funniest Hardcore Violence: the show where everything is made up and the screams for help don’t matter. The screams are like…steak sauce in India!” The audience let out an “ooo” while Vanessa cradled her face in disgust.

“We’re not going to waste any more time, we’re going to get right to the final three entries in our AFHV tournament. Which one of these videos will take home the big money and fabulous prizes? Will it be…Fire in the Hulk?”

The video wall behind Colin McGill featured a look alike of WWE Hall of Famer Hulk Hogan bent over an ottoman, cheesy blond moustache, red and yellow latex suit, and dark sunglasses to boot. “Well, let me tell you something, brother!” shouted the impersonator. “Whatcha gonna do when Hulkamania blows his fecal matter all over you!”

With Hulk’s pants around his ankles and a dynamite stick poking out of his ass crack, the cameraman lit the fuse while the audience grinned widely with anticipation. Vanessa’s saucer-eyed horror seemed justified when the dynamite exploded. Hogan’s eyes crossed, he screamed in a gruff macho voice, and shit flooded from the brand new hole in his ass like a mudslide. The audience laughed their asses off while Vanessa Rollins held her hand over her mouth in shock. What the hell is wrong with these people? she thought.

“Our second entry of the night…”

Oh god, please no…

“Dead Motherfucker!” beamed Colin as the video wall came to life once again.

A young man stepped down from the sidewalk only to be slammed into by a honking car, sending him flying across the road…only to be hit by another car and sent flying again…only to be hit by a train and sent flying again…only to have his nose cut off by an in-transit helicopter’s propellers. The laughing audience was bad enough, but the money line came when the pilot smiled and said, “That’s one dead motherfucker!”

Vanessa held her ears closed to try in vain to block out the obnoxious chuckling among her fellow audience members.

“And our third entry for the night…Saw Blade! Meet the Saw Blade!”

The video wall showed a Fred Flintstone look alike bound to a torture table with a ball gag in his mouth. He was awakened by the grinding sound of a circular saw overhead, spinning and lowering towards the cartoon caveman. The audience hee-hawed while Fred struggled in his bindings and screamed in his He-Man voice. He managed to chew through the ball gag and yell, “WILMA!” like only he could. It was too late. The saw blade cut open Fred Flintstone’s stomach and revealed that he had blood in his Fruity Pebbles stream.

“And here I thought Fruity Pebbles was the nickname for his balls!” joked Colin McGill, which had the audience dying of laughter quicker than Fred Flintstone died of mutilation.

The one person who refused to laugh at all of this “dark comedy” was Vanessa Rollins, who after a while of tucking her head in her hands stood right up and yelled, “Is this what you people call comedy?! Watching people die in front of you makes you laugh?!” That quickly shut up the audience, watching her seethe with face-reddening anger.

“Well, look who’s come to spoil the fun for everyone. It’s the Sheriff of the PC Police! It’s the New York Time Waster! It’s the fake journalist from Cancer News Network also known as CNN! Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Buzz Kill Feed herself, Vanessa Rollins!” mocked Colin, which earned a round of boos directed toward the journalist.

Vanessa threw down her notepad and pen and bellowed, “This isn’t about political correctness! This is about basic human decency! People are dying so that you can have a ratings spike in your little show! That’s not comedy! That’s exploitation and it’s wrong! How have the police not arrested you and your production crew yet?!”

Straightening the breasts on his plaid jacket, Colin said, “Well, for starters, Miss MSNBC-Section, it’s not like I’m the one murdering these people. All I do is show the footage on the screen. Is it disgusting? Probably. But is broadcasting it illegal? Far from it. You media motherfuckers get away with it all the time when you show soldiers getting their limbs blown off overseas. Yeah, and I’m the one who needs a TV-MA rating. And speaking of which, Miss FCC-You-Next-Tuesday, a TV-MA rating is all I need to make sure nothing illegal is going on.”

Flailing her arms about in frustration, Vanessa said, “So that’s it? You need a TV rating to tell you what you can and can’t do on the air, let alone in the real world? How about if I punch you in the face and you can put an MA rating on that! It’s no worse than what you’re showing these people, if you want to call them that. Plus, since violence is so fucking hilarious, how about I help boost your ratings with a good clean shot right to your face?!”

Colin’s face transformed from comedic lightheartedness to sour anger as he threw his jacket on the floor and waved Vanessa over. “Go ahead, sweetheart! Come at me, Cluster Fox! Let’s see what you’re made of!”

Vanessa threw her own jacket down and fought her way through the audience to the side stairwell. She even kicked off her high heels knowing they would give her a disadvantage in a fight, although that didn’t stop some redneck from shouting, “Nice feet, bitch!” Before the journalist could respond, a child’s foot hooked her ankle and she tumbled down the stairs to the audience’s laughter as well as Colin’s.

Every part of Vanessa’s body ached with slash marks from hitting the stair corners and bruises from hitting the ground at such a high speed. The audience’s laughter buzzed in and out of her slogging mind, but the sadistic grin on the child’s face was what kept her awake through it all. “Is this…what…you’re teaching…your kids?” she managed to sputter out.

The tiny kid stood up in his seat and said, “Hey, I only tripped you! I didn’t take your clothes off!” Another burst of laughter poured from the audience’s sewer holes while Colin was slapping his thighs with comedic gold.

Tears welled up in Vanessa’s eyes while she grabbed the stair railing and poorly attempted to lift herself to her feet. She could have sworn her legs and ankles were broken, judging from how much agony wiggling her toes put her in. Every time she would grab the railing, she would fall off again and that would make the audience’s laughter even more grating than before. One last hurrah and she collapsed onto the floor ready to give up.

The laughter ended when a device fell out of Vanessa’s jacket pocket. Everyone thought she felt around her torso for broken ribs, but it was really to pull out something that stayed intact this whole time: a microphone and a wire. Instead of laughing, the studio went deathly silent with shock and awe.

“I…I…” Colin pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I don’t understand. There’s no way my security team would let you in with that.”

Vanessa lifted her mangled head and smiled through crooked teeth. Spitting one of them out, she said, “Security? You mean the wanted thugs with criminal records a mile long? The ones I recorded feeling me up before I entered the building? Yeah, they’re taking the night off tonight…and the night after that…and the night after that…and the night after that…”

With the wire gathering enough information, Vanessa could finally plop her face down and allow the sounds of police boots to trample across the studio. To her it was like new age music putting her to sleep at night. She actually could sleep at night hearing the one sentence no criminal like Colin McGill wanted to hear: “You have the right to remain silent.” Except he didn’t remain silent. He bawled like a bitch on his way to the police van.

"Mortal Kombat X, Vol. 1" by Shawn Kittelsen

BOOK TITLE: Mortal Kombat X, Vol. 1: Blood Ties

AUTHOR: Shawn Kittelsen

YEAR: 2015

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Martial Arts Dark Fantasy

GRADE: Mixed

Normally, the first paragraph of these reviews would be a brief synopsis in my own words (rather than copying it from the back of the book). However, there’s so much going on in this graphic novel that it’s hard to piece it all together in one paragraph. Yes, there’s a war brewing between the earth and outer realms. Yes, they involve blood daggers that turn their wielders into psychotic savages. And yes, old characters from the Mortal Kombat videogame franchise make an appearance in one way or another. Something tells me that in order to understand what the hell’s going on here, you have to be familiar with earlier materials (even though this is the first volume). I’ve never actually played the first three Mortal Kombat games, but I’ve watched other people play them on You Tube, so I have a general idea of who the characters are and why I should give a damn about them. But those are the only three games I’ve seen up close. It’s because of this mass confusion and chaotic storytelling that this graphic novel earns a mixed grade at best.

But what the book lacks in coherent storylines, it makes up for tenfold with the violent action sequences. Bodies are getting ripped in half, hearts are being eaten, heads are being chopped off, bones are being broken, and that’s just a warm-up. Hell, the daggers that corrupt the minds of their owners do so by traveling through their blood. “The flesh is a lie!” as one warrior so delicately put it. There’s so much blood and gore in this graphic novel that vampires would use this as their own version of Playboy magazines. Then again, this level of ultra-violence is to be expected from a franchise where Sub-Zero rips the spinal column and skull out of his opponents’ bodies in the very first game. This kind of bloodlust had politicians and activists up in arms in the early 90’s, so the graphic novel will do nothing to sooth their sensitive sides.

The positives of this graphic novel are purely superficial, unless of course you have a better grasp of the storyline than I do. You get bonus points if you can remember everybody’s names, let alone the names of the artifacts scattered throughout the story. If someone can explain this to me and make me feel like an idiot watching Jeopardy, I will be your own personal janitor for a month. I’ll mop your floors and clean your toilets…with my tongue. Okay, maybe that whole stipulation is a tough bet, but you get the idea. The graphic novel is enjoyable, but confusing at the same time. This kind of yin-yang dynamic is what makes me want to give the work a mixed grade.

Thor and Gore

The kiwi-sized pustules on his arms, the surgical staples in his face, the gray discoloration of his skin, and the snot-colored slime in his hair, they did no favors in making Thor exit his house that evening. Only the raw and intense voice of Kyle Houston and his metal band Resistance could serve as his gravity towards public life. Dressed in little more than a Pantera T-shirt and black jorts, Thor ventured into the arena and kept track of the nasty facial expressions he was getting from people walking past him.

These people were on the verge of vomiting themselves inside out. They shivered as though they swam in the Arctic Ocean. They spit out their beer and coughed like drama queens in a viral ward. Few of these patrons spoke to Thor, but when they did, it was in hushed tones about how “fucking ugly” and “goddamn sickening” he looked. Even ears that have been treated to grinding heavy metal music for god knows how long could pick up on these intense whispers. A stream of green slime rolled down Thor’s eyeball and splashed onto the pavement below.

The giant zombie swore he wouldn’t get into trouble that evening. He imagined the scenarios with law enforcement playing through his head like a depressing movie. He could toss and chomp on as many cops as they want, but even he was no match for bullets and tasers. Thor was a human zit ready to explode. When he passed into mosh pit, his rage was ready to explode when somebody from the upper deck poured beer on his head and laughed with his friends. He thought maybe coming to this Resistance concert was a bad idea. Maybe life would be better in his house underneath the sewers. The rats wouldn’t judge him. The bums would be in even less condition to judge. But these fucking metal heads who thought they were badasses…ugh…

As Thor lumbered through the crowd, he earned more disgusted looks and varsity jock laughter from everyone around him. He breathed heavily in and out to calm his nerves, but all that did was get some slimy saliva on those who worked so hard to back away. “Fuck it,” he thought to himself. “I just want to listen to some goddamn music.” Ask and ye shall receive. The minute he shimmied towards the center of the pit, the lights went out and the crowd went ape shit for their favorite metal band. Thor cheered and roared along with them, not giving a damn about the red saliva dripping from his stapled lip.

The neon orange stage lights shone down upon the crowd and they cheered even louder than before. The guitarists (rhythm and lead), bassist, and drummer appeared onstage wearing Guy Fawkes masks and black hooded robes, true to their band name. The crowd and Thor along with them nearly had a verbal orgasm when the lead singer Kyle Houston approached the microphone wearing camouflage khakis, black combat boots, a backwards ball cap, and a sadistic grin. “What the fuck is up, Paulson City?!” he shouted into the microphone, which earned him a huge pop from the crowd.

The drummer tapped the high hat three times in succession and then the adrenaline-pumped music boomed throughout the arena. The crowd bumped and shoved each other with such intensity that they resembled dominos when they fell. Three hundred pound bouncers in black T-shirts swarmed in on the scene to eject troublemakers by way of full nelson. Kyle Houston’s dirty vocals were indecipherable through the shitty speakers, but Thor secretly never cared as long as the music was good.

The guitars continued to grind, the double bass continued to pump, and Kyle’s vocals sounded like a horror movie monster was ready to devour its victims alive. Speaking of horror movie monsters, as the mosh pit intensified, Thor found himself being shoved around and knocked to the floor a few times. When the music got louder, Thor began feeling elbows, fists, and feet against his already explosive skin. He bled like a fire hydrant and the bouncers did nothing to stop these rowdy patrons. “I won’t get into trouble,” Thor said to himself. “I won’t get into trouble….I won’t get into trouble…” As soon as a sharp elbow connected with his cheekbone, he yelled, “Fuck it!” and moshed right back.

Except Thor’s version of moshing was much more destructive than an elbow to the face and more violent than a kick to the patella. These people had one chance to behave themselves. They had one chance to accept Thor for who he was. They had one chance to keep Thor from feeling lonely in a world that type-casted the ugly as villains. They blew it. They blew it big time. Thor never held back. He took big bites out of patrons’ arms and painted the floors with blood. He grabbed them by the neck and tossed them around like small children. He head butted one three hundred pounder and sliced himself open worse than he did his victim. Thor even stuck his muscular arms out and spun around in circles, clotheslining anybody who came in contact with him. For his reward, Thor was treated to faster, heavier, and louder music from the fine young men of Resistance.

Before the mosh pit could resemble a bombed slaughterhouse, the chubby bouncers finally decided enough was enough and swarmed in on Thor. They grabbed him by his bloody arms and legs and held on like boa constrictors. But the harder they pulled, the harder Thor pulled as well. He sent them rolling around on the floor like three hundred pound bowling balls. The heavy metal zombie even took a bite out of a bouncer’s shoulder, causing the would-be tough guy’s girlish screams to echo louder than Kyle Houston’s monstrous growls.

Playtime was over for these pieces of heavy machinery in black T-shirts. They punched, kicked, and elbowed Thor in every part of his body imaginable. One guy even went for a groin kick and doubled the zombie giant over. The bouncers continued to beat the shit out of this giant and spread his pus-infused blood all over the dance floor. Whatever was left of the crowd cheered on like wild animals as the bouncers grabbed a physically and emotionally wounded Thor by the ankles and dragged him toward the exit.

“I said I wouldn’t get in trouble tonight,” Thor thought to himself. “I said I’d be a good boy…What happened to me?...Where are these men taking me?” Slimy tears poured from the zombie’s eyes like a schnoz suffering from an allergic cold. The laughter and cheering from the heartless crowd pumped even more viscous fluids from his eyeballs. And then the music stopped and Kyle Houston shook his head in disgust.

“Let him go!” he shouted into the microphone. Everyone in the room, including the bouncers, went quiet and doe-eyed at this strange request. “Are you fucking retarded? I said let the poor guy go! Do it! I have no interest in pressing charges!” As ordered, the bouncers reluctantly let go of Thor’s ankles and slowly backed away with their hands defensively in the air.

Kyle scratched his head in mock confusion and asked the crowd, “What in the hell is wrong with you people? You think I didn’t see how you guys treated this poor son of a bitch the minute he came in here? If you guys pulled that shit with me, I’d want to cannibalize your sorry asses too!” The crowd booed lightly, but were quickly silenced with a grating, “Shut up!” from the lead singer of Resistance.

“So this is what humanity has come to, huh?” asked Kyle while pointing an accusatory hand at his patrons. “This is how we treat people who are different from us? I’ve always thought the whole reason for heavy metal was to escape that bullying bullshit. I know that’s why I got into it. Yeah, the guy’s got some…not so desirable features, but then again, I’d rather rock out with a slime-covered motherfucker than a bunch of close-minded dip-shits like you anyways. And just so you fuckers know, I had a cleft lip when I was a kid. I had to have surgery to fix it and the hospital bill nearly wiped out my family’s savings. My dad walked away shortly after. So when I see even the least attractive looking guy being treated like this, I take it fucking personally.”

Tears and snot slithered down Thor’s face as he slowly stood back up on his feet, no worse for wear. The blood and slime on his body was all in a day’s work. Kyle asked him what his name was and he answered with a monstrous growl, “I am Thor!”

“Nice to meet you, Thor. If I got beaten up as badly as you, I’d be Thor too!” joked Kyle, which got a modicum of laughter from the neutered crowd. “I’m just kidding, man. Come up here to the stage, buddy. I’ve got something for you.” The zombie trudged across the goop-covered floor and gazed into his heavy metal hero’s eyes like a typical fan boy.

Kyle placed a hand on his shoulder with no regard for the hygienic hazard before him. He said, “You did a sweet job defending yourself against these morons over here. It took a whole gang of fat asses to bring you down. I’ll bet you not even one of these bastards could do the shit you did tonight. That’s because they can’t walk in your big ass shoes, my friend. I’ve got a job offer for you. I’ll pay you a five-figure salary to travel all over the world with me as my bodyguard. Are you in or are you in?”

Even more sludge poured from Thor’s eyes as his stapled lips formed the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable, revealing his buttery yellow teeth and serpentine tongue. “Anything is better than living in the sewers!” which was Thor’s way of saying not only yes, but fuck yes.

“Nobody should have to live in the sewers no matter what the hell they look like. Congratulations, you’ve got the job! Now get your big ass onstage and shake my hand!” grinned Kyle. Thor launched himself onstage with one step and hugged his new employer rather than shaking his hand, getting slime all over Kyle and acquiring a lot of awkward looks from bouncers and moshers alike. “Grow the fuck up, people, it’s nothing a long shower can’t fix.” As soon as the sloppy embrace ended, Kyle said, “Your first day on the job starts right now, buddy. Help me and my band get the fuck out of this dumpy arena. And by the way, your first hour on duty is also your lunch break if you know what I mean.”

Thor drooled with delight and whispered, “I know exactly what you mean.” One guy in the crowd shit his pants so badly that he became just as disgusting in appearance as Thor.

"The Blood Files: the Case of Arnus Mortem" by BJ Taylor and Marie Krepps

BOOK TITLE: The Blood Files: the Case of Arnus Mortem

AUTHORS: BJ Taylor and Marie Krepps

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Vampire Horror

GRADE: Pass

Between the years 1929 and 1930, Arnus Mortem a.k.a. Jack the Ripper has been slaying and raping prostitutes on the streets of London with no signs of stopping. He piques the interest of vampire legend Dracula, who turns him into a vampire through a sexually charged ritual and sends him on a mission to build an army of vampires and conquer America. The murderous bloodbaths continue all over the streets of San Francisco, California, where even the cops are powerless to thwart Arnus and his new minions. Will America fall into corrupt and bloodstained hands? The trail of battered bodies seems to agree.

As a lover and writer of gory fiction, I applaud the level of gob-smacking violence the two authors have peppered in this novella. The way the blood, organs, and bones splatter and explode onto everything is delicious even to a non-vampire like myself. It’s almost as if the vampires are painting a masterpiece using the their favorite shades of red, pink, and purple. The sexual overtones are perfectly laced into these violent beat downs. While I won’t go into explicit detail as to how arousing the bloody sex is, make sure your kids are tucked into bed and that your own bedroom door is locked tightly. You might want to invest in a bank vault door if need be. If you love R-rated beauty, you’ll love this novella.

One minor complaint I have about this story is that there are a lot of corrupt characters in this story that are hard to root for. Arnus Mortem is a cold-blooded murderer turned vampire, Dracula is a genocidal misanthropist, Anne beats the crap out of her friend Susan with a baseball bat, and Renfield is a crooked cop who breaks more laws than he upholds. Even the last good guy in the book, Private Investigator Randall Jones, is a home wrecker for his secretary Penny as the two of them have a sexual affair together in his office. There are no clearly defined heroes in this book since everybody is either a murderer, a rapist, a genocidal lunatic, or a combination of all three. As much as we love to root for the villain, those are not likeable qualities for main characters. All they want to do is kill and have sex without any sign of a moral compass. But as I’ve said, that’s only a minor complaint and doesn’t take away from my ability to enjoy this brutal piece of horror fiction.

Not one human being in this novel is safe from vampire driven slaughter. Saw, Hostel, and even Blood Drive can’t compare to the brutality you’ll see in this novel. This novella is not for the weak at heart. Only the toughest and most badass readers will get a kick out of this sexy gore fest. I happen to love every page of this book. Marie Krepps and BJ Taylor are an outstanding team when it comes to vampire fiction and I hope they put out more books like these in the future. Come to think of it, there was a “to be continued” disclaimer at the end of the book, so it looks like my bloody desires will come true yet again! These two authors deserve a passing grade for this hardcore effort. Drink it in, folks (the story, not the blood, hehe!).

Knives to Meet You

VERSE 1

You look so cute when you’re on the floor

Bloodied and broken, a victim of gore

There’s only one way to end our little war

Slash and stab your ass a little bit more

CHORUS

Knives to meet you! X3

Knives!

VERSE 2

My blade reminds me of an Otter Pop

Licking it clean, never missing a drop

How can something so goddamn bad

Taste so good it drives me bat shit mad

You’re damn right I’m sick and I love it

Take the edge of my knife and stuff it

Right into your most delicate places

If these are your holes, I’ve got the aces

CHORUS

Knives to meet you! X3

Knives!

VERSE 3

A serial killer and a blood spiller

Intoxicates me like a bottle of Miller

Gets me high like a needle full of drugs

Gets me horny when you’re covered in bugs

This is my idea of black comedy

This is my idea of peace and harmony

The silence of the lambs is new age music

Goddamn, it feels so good to just lose it

EXTENDED CHORUS

Knives to meet you!

Fight and defeat you!

Slash and beat you!

Carve and eat you!

Until we meet again!

In the world of death!

Knives to know you!

Knives to own you!

FINAL VERSE

Don’t worry, my love, it’s all a punch line

Drink in the humor like a bottle of wine

Put your feet up and enjoy the show

It’s all you can do in a hellfire glow

Violent Fantasies

***VIOLENT FANTASIES***

Nobody will ever come out and admit to having violent fantasies about their enemies, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Everybody has that one person in their lives who they feel deserves double hand strangulation, a blast from a flamethrower, a Columbian Necktie, or any other savage means of torture or murder. Some fantasize about violence more than others, but it’s something we all do whether we’re open about it or not. Anybody who says otherwise is a goddamn liar. Even the most peaceful people have angry thoughts every once and a while. That’s what the mind is for: it’s the last sanctuary of privacy we have. If we actually had psychomantic powers (a.k.a. telekinesis), then we would all be shit out of luck.

Having violent thoughts doesn’t make you an evil person. Hell, it’s the sanest thing a human being can do without actually committing those acts. The moral crusaders like to complain that videogames make the youth of today violent people and we all know that’s serious bullshit. Videogames, martial arts cinema, horror novels, these things don’t promote violence, but they give the average human being a channel to release their most hateful thoughts. When I was in high school, my favorite form of violent entertainment was watching old school ECW (not the WWE revival of it, which sucked). Watching The Sandman and Tommy Dreamer smack their opponents with kendo sticks and suplex them onto barbed wire made me feel giddy inside. Did I actually do any of these things to my fellow classmates? No, I didn’t, because that’s considered assault and it’s highly illegal.

Being able to separate fantasy from reality is the most important thing a person with angry thoughts can do. There are kids who play Gears of War or Call of Duty on their X-Boxes and think they can go overseas and do actual military service. When you step on a landmine in a videogame, that’s okay, because there’s always a reset button. If you step on a landmine in the real world, you’ll either lose your legs or you’ll die instantly. And trust me when I say this: real life war has no reset button. The same thing is true when you are the aggressor and another person is the victim. If you think about shooting another human being with an AK-47 and that fantasy makes you smile on the inside, congratulations, you’re a human being. But if you actually shoot someone with an automatic weapon, it’ll fuck with your mind for the rest of your life.

There are plenty of ways to channel violent fantasies into productive and creative results. I, for example, wrote a heavy metal song last night called “Chainsaw Samurai”. Not only was it about a samurai who preferred a chainsaw over a katana, but that samurai was a murderous psychopath who left seas of blood everywhere he went. In the fictional world, a chainsaw-wielding samurai is cool to me. Hell, I’d even watch a movie, read a book, or play a videogame if that person was the lead character. But if someone like that popped up in real life, I’d be scared out of my mind. I might not even want to come out of my room for several months if I knew such a vicious person was coming to Port Orchard. Of course, violence in Port Orchard is about as unnatural as a fireball falling from the skies, so I don’t know why a chainsaw-wielding samurai would ever want to come here, but that’s beside the point.

So go ahead, ladies and gentlemen. Relax in your easy chair and visualize your worst enemies chained to wooden posts with tires stacked around their bodies and a blazing fire crawling up their soon-to-be corpses. As long as you don’t do it in real life, you’ll be just fine. That’s what made the 2000’s detective show The Shield so cool. We cheered like animals when Vic Mackey pressed Armadillo Quintaro’s face against a burning stovetop. If Darren Wilson did that to Michael Brown, however, the media shit storm would never end. It would just become a biblical flood of brown juices stinking up the entire country and making everyone sick to their stomach. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Speaking of violence and burning people alive, my next Dark Fantasy Warrior will be Debra Cameron from the “American Darkness” short story “The Pyrocrats”. Does it seem strange that a woman who burns everything to the ground for a living is considered the sensible one in that story? This is a violent fantasy at its most brutal level. I’ve already drawn a picture of her psychotic partner Eduardo Mendez, so Debra Cameron is naturally the next one to be featured. I probably won’t draw a picture of The Fire Marshal (because we never actually see his face) or Xavier Melanson (because he’s not a warrior; he’s a puss-bag).

***MUSIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

“Dear Diary, it was cold today. The sun came out later, so I strolled about looking at the shops. Didn’t see anything I liked, so I didn’t buy anything. On my way home, I posted a letter. It’s been quite a nice day. Somebody exploded an H-bomb today, but it wasn’t anybody I knew.”

-“Dear Diary” by The Moody Blues-

Chainsaw Samurai

OPENING SCREAM

Chainsaw Samurai!

VERSE 1

Forget about your fucking dishonor

And focus on your eventual slaughter

Which one of your limbs must go first?

Your arms, legs, or German bratwurst?

Slice off your head, a mummified trophy

He opens your mouth and says, “Blow me!”

A bloodbath is coming from the Rising Sun

Violence and gore became a shit-load of fun!

CHORUS

Chainsaw Samurai!

It’s too late to beg and cry!

Enter the dragon, bitch!

Death is a business; he is rich!

VERSE 2

Hara-kiri has never been so easy

But the anxiety makes you queasy

He’ll choose for you; kick down your door

Squeeze every drop of blood from your pores

Chug your red juices like a bottle of sake

Chew your flesh with an appetite so sloppy

Dinner is served to the disgraced samurai

He’s hungry for more, get ready to die!

CHORUS

Chainsaw Samurai!

It’s too late to beg and cry!

Enter the dragon, bitch!

Death is a business; he is rich!

VERSE 3

The beast from the east has enjoyed his feast

And he doesn’t feel sorry in the fucking least

He’s going back to the Land of the Rising Sun

But his war with the world is far from done!

EXTENDED CHORUS

Chainsaw Samurai!

It’s too late to beg and cry!

Enter the dragon, bitch!

Death is a business; he is rich!

Kill Bill he fucking will!

He’ll cut quickly if you hold still!

Ninja Assassin, your life is passing!

“Who can stop him?” is what you’re asking!

CLOSING SCREAM

Chainsaw Samurai!

Violence, Blood, and Gore

VERSE 1
Enough of this G-rated garbage
Don’t cater to a flowery market
It’s time to put on our gloves
Fight like it’s all we ever love
Broken skulls, shredded flesh
Electric wire, steel cage mesh
Someone’s getting knocked out tonight
It’s a brutal battle, it’s an epic fight


CHORUS 1
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s see some gore!
Come get yourself some!


VERSE 2
I’m sick of this PG-rated sewage
I’m getting ready to fucking lose it
Beat some ass, smash some heads
One of us is going to end up dead
Swing that Singapore cane with style
Watch the bruises bleed for a while
Leaking with pus and other sickly stuff
This is what we are, this is what we love


CHORUS 2
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some gore!
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s beg them for more!


VERSE 3
TV-MA has gone out of fashion
Lost forever to violent passion
Rated-R Superstar falling far
Down like a brawler in a bar
NC-17, you must be dreaming
Triple X, you’re not steaming
Lost innocence doesn’t have a limit
Bloodthirsty warrior’s my only gimmick


CHORUS 3
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some gore!
Let’s break the silence!


HOOK
EC-dub, bitch! EC-dub!
Join the party! Join the club!
The janitors will clean and scrub
The bloody stains, puked up grub
This is what I call mortal combat
With a drunken brawler and a conman
Nobody gets out alive tonight
Lace up your boots, get ready to fight!

Savages

MOVIE TITLE: Savages

GENRE: Crime Thriller

RATING: R for graphic violence, gore, language, and sexual content (including rape)

GRADE: Pass

In the beautiful sunset strip of California, life is equally beautiful for Ophelia and her two lovers, a marine named Chon and a pacifist named Ben. The three of them grow marijuana out of their own greenhouse, peddle it, and smoke it while having the most mind-blowing sex imaginable. If life was really this heavenly 24/7, then Savages would have been a soft snooze fest.

It so happens a Mexican cartel run by the ruthless Elena Sanchez wants a cut of Chon, Ben, and Ophelia’s profits. When the cartel doesn’t get what they want, they kidnap Ophelia and bend the wills of Chon and Ben by threatening to kill and torture her. The two marijuana dealers have to pull every favor they’ve banked to both do business with and fight back against the cartel.

If you know anything about how brutal Mexican cartels can be, then you can appreciate the difficulty level of what Chon and Ben are trying to achieve. These gangsters will slash, rape, shoot, and immolate their way to a higher profit and they don’t care whose blood they spread across the desert sands. The title Savages could be a reference to the violence and hatred Elena Sanchez’s cartel brings to every battle.

Or the title Savages could refer to what Chon and Ben must become in order to do combat with these mafia thugs and live to tell about it. If the latter is the case, then they can’t just be an ex-marine and a lover-boy respectively; they have to be homicidal lunatics with their business and combat tactics. All of this gore and all of these guts over a beautiful woman who doesn’t deserve the draconian living conditions she’s placed under.

There are many reasons why somebody would like this movie. If you have a fetish for gore, that’s one reason. If you like to be frightened, the cartel gangsters can hook you up (maybe that’s not the best figure of speech). If you like a good story where the lead characters have to go through hell in order to earn their happy ending, then goddamn it, Savages has all of that for you. If you want to see some hardcore sex scenes, then Savages could be an iffy deal for you since the consensual scenes are brief and the rape scenes are disgusting. If you take a huge interest in gang culture, then this movie will give you paranoid thoughts about moving to either California or Mexico.

There’s something in this movie for everybody provided they’re at least 18 years old and are not genetically predisposed to psychological trauma. The chain whippings, blood splatters, fiery explosions, eyeball pops, limb slashes, body burnings, forced sex, and even Elena Sanchez’s slap across Ophelia’s face can all attest to how important movie ratings are.

The Simpsons Treehouse of Horror

SERIES TITLE: The Simpsons Treehouse of Horror

GENRE: Animated Horror Comedy

RATING: TV-PG for strong violence, mild language, black humor, and disturbing moments

GRADE: Pass

Anytime I browse the internet looking for a conversation about The Simpsons, it seems as though there’s always a raucous debate going on about whether or not the animated series is funny. People say it was funny in the 90’s but not after that. Others say it stood the test of time. Something definitely happened to the series when time transitioned from the 1990’s to the 2000’s and 2010’s. The style of humor is different, that’s for sure. But the one thing about The Simpsons that will remain a constant is the yearly Halloween episodes aptly called The Treehouse of Horror series.

In a regular Simpsons episode, you can expect zaniness and quirkiness throughout all 30 minutes. In a Treehouse of Horror episode, you’d better be wearing dark pants with a diaper underneath. Every episode is 30 minutes of something TV Tropes calls Nightmare Fuel. May God send a lightning bolt through my body if I’m lying. My skin isn’t crispy and my hair isn’t black, so I must be telling the truth.

The Nightmare Fuel begins with the music. During the opening sequence, the regular Simpsons theme is done in a slow and creepy whistle with dramatic symphonic music in the background. During the closing credits, the music is faster and closer to the real Simpsons theme, but it’s done with the creepy whistle yet again and this time either a church organ or harpsichord, depending on the episode. While you’re listening to this music, you somehow get the feeling there are monsters in your house waiting to chomp you like spaghetti and meatballs. It’s a haunted feeling and you will be disturbed by it.

After the end credits are over, we go to the Gracie Films logo. The variation differs from episode to episode, but it’s generally always been the same. Instead of a gentle shushing noise, it’s a woman giving off a high-pitched, blood-curdling death scream. Instead of a soothing electric piano, the Gracie Films theme is played on a church organ and in a minor key. Every year when I watch the end credits, my heart races and my blood goes cold in anticipation for this Gracie Films spoof. It’s that creepy.

The couch gags from the first ten Treehouse of Horror episodes are nothing to be comfortable around either. They started using couch gags in the third annual episode, which showed The Simpson family as skeletons. The episode after that showed them as bloodthirsty zombies. The sixth Treehouse of Horror might be the scariest as it shows the Simpsons being lynched with their necks snapped and their eyes crossed. When the next shot after the couch gag shows opening credits on the TV, it puts the point of view directly in front of the monstrous versions of the Simpson family. Which means they’re right behind you. If you don’t have your head on a swivel, you’re going to be zombie chow. Watch your back before Bart plants a dagger in it or Homer takes a bite out of your shoulder.

These aspects of the show are scary enough on their own. But let’s not forget the bulk of every episode is the three stories within them. These episodes are so bloody and gory that you’ll need a rowboat to navigate the sets. The monsters are so ugly and hideous that you might die of vomiting yourself dry before they get a chance to eat you. That zany and ridiculous humor you were counting on in the regular episodes? We’re getting a little darker with that, so dark that Anthony Jeselnik, George Carlin (RIP), and Daniel Tosh would all need Xanax to combat their nightmares. Good thing dark comedians have a high salary, because it’s all going to therapy.

Commonsense would dictate that anybody who wants to have a functioning heart or a hair color other than white would stay away from these episodes of The Simpsons. Every year, these episodes disturb the shit out of me, more so than any legitimate horror movie like Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13^th, or Poltergeist. If you can take a whacky comedy series and turn it into a Nightmare Fuel station, you’ve got some serious skills. Despite being horrified by these episodes, I look forward to them every year and I sit down to watch them. I will say this, though: despite receiving a passing grade tonight, the Treehouse of Horror franchise went from being horrifying to darkly funny over the past two plus decades. There is some legitimacy in that argument. But you know what? I always keep my black athletic pants in my closet for such an occasion.