There are demons and spirits to fear, and those to revere. Old Notch-foot is one such derivative Samhain spirit of the latter category; that is, unlesThere are demons and spirits to fear, and those to revere. Old Notch-foot is one such derivative Samhain spirit of the latter category; that is, unless you’ve wronged someone egregiously enough to provoke his summoning, in which case, revert to the former.
Inspired, in part, by the real Pumpkin House located in Kenova, West Virginia—a popular Halloween attraction which is adorned with thousands of jack-o’-lanterns—this is a story with plenty classic Halloween elements including a town enamored with the holiday, a local legend, and lots and lots of pumpkins.
Under different circumstances, this could have been a cozy meet-cute YA novel, but Ronnie has a domestic problem; his mother’s abusive on-again, off-again boyfriend. His new friend and fellow volunteer Sarah—tasked with writing the names of everyone in town on the displayed pumpkins, for more than just representation—had an even more devastating situation at her home. The proprietor of The Pumpkin House, old Mr. Keenan, is intimately familiar with the Old Notch-foot legend and does not discourage its invocation, but cautions to be certain the deed calls for such drastic measures.
This is not a creature feature, but I have a gripe with the rather lazy description of the monster. Pumpkinhead is already another Stan Winston creation which bore resemblance to the Xenomorph from Alien—and it makes sense that a ninth grader might make these references—but that’s about all we get in terms of its physical attributes. It is a demon of vengeance, also like Pumpkinhead, so I would think one would want to distinguish it rather than call out its essential sameness. It was a bit underwhelming, but everything served the story in a more mature Goosebumps kind of way....more
*Many thanks to my inaugural buddy reader Christine Koch. It was a quick one, but time very well spent*
Spiders and the moon; two things replete with d*Many thanks to my inaugural buddy reader Christine Koch. It was a quick one, but time very well spent*
Spiders and the moon; two things replete with dreary allegorical potential and put to much use in this frigid, gothic, sci-fi adjacent, phantasmagorical creature feature period piece, weaved together with characteristically stunning prose from one of the best practitioners of language in any of the aforementioned genres.
The blending of medical horror, parasitic body horror, and creeping existential dread makes for a wonderfully macabre fable.
This is not hard science-fiction. It is not relevant to understand why there is breathable oxygen on the surface of the moon, how rocket technology was so advanced in the 1920’s, or how a spider god possesses psychic and time-folding capabilities.
Although thankfully no cringeworthy references to “the divine feminine,” the time period of barely burgeoning autonomy in which it takes place makes the oft-attributed female qualities of the moon and the spider pertinent. To reduce it to some trendy feminine rage revenge fantasy would be doing the story a great disservice. It is not so blatantly triumphant as that. Veronica is committed by her husband for being too downtrodden to fulfil her wifely duties (her self-loathing reinforced by words from her mother when [or where] Veronica was a child), but there are men committed to the same fate intended for her. Ballingrud does not deal in exaggerated didactic pandering. The head surgeon at Barrowfield Home for Treatment of Melancholy is as condescending to his enforcer/former patient as he is to Veronica. It’s really only gendered in variation and has more to do with experimental attempts by a grandiose malpractioner at cures for little understood mental illness with the real life body horror of prefrontal lobotomies called to mind. Hysteria or melancholy? Never mind. Mutilate the brain.
There are those who think Ballingrud is too obtuse and abstract (especially in The Visible Filth, otherwise known as Wounds, which I loved as well, but can understand. The movie did not do well, but I was impressed by how faithful an adaptation it was). Crypt of the Moon Spider (which, for some reason I have to actively refrain from calling Curse of the Spider Moon) is a classically weird tale and is perfectly cohesive in the moonlight of its wildly unique conceit, should one be willing to accept it. It is a grotesque nightmare, elegantly executed.
Time allowing, I’ll return for some more nitty-gritty, specific points of analysis, because I love a story that sets my symbolic synapses aflame. I will be anticipating and reading the further entries in this Lunar Gothic Trilogy.
“A pinch of your brother, a teaspoon of you, With the head of your sister, would make a good stew. I’d give you a taste, but your tongue’s in the stew.“A pinch of your brother, a teaspoon of you, With the head of your sister, would make a good stew. I’d give you a taste, but your tongue’s in the stew. Irony! That’s what Halloween means to me.” —Stephen Lynch, Halloween
When it comes to flash fiction, or ‘bite-sized horror,’ as the case may be, I struggle with how to read a collection. I’m not much for dipping in and out. I’m a straight-through, cover to cover kind of guy, but flash fiction often feels like ripping the engine cord without turning the clutch. rev-rev-rev-rev done. You don’t get that satisfying sensation as it sputters to life, and there is no journey to follow. They are quite literally over before they begin.
Naturally, these bite-sized pieces range from gruesomely amusing and ironically twisted to ‘Huh? Did I miss something?’ Some of them are real head-scratchers, prompting a once-again-over. Maybe if I read it with the cadence of a joke, or a poem, it’ll click. Nope? Time to move on. Can’t cry wasted time because it requires almost no time to consume.
I like the frenetic energy of the peculiar project. There are interludes of parodic advertisements, art collages, and self-aware warnings. You’re going to get dead animals, imperiled children, depravity and delight in disregard for human life, but it’s all in good Halloween fun!
You’ll encounter an array of beasties and butchers and plenty of creative concepts. You’ll be riffed on for your basic bitch love of pumpkin spice, hard cider, and candy-corny decorations. With the exception of the professionally offended, and there are some eye-rolling moments, you should find something to sate your sickly sweet tooth, even if some of the treats are spit out and instantly forgotten....more
This is not a fun, spooky, gory, or even necessarily ghostly tale. It is a grim, ghastly and sad story that alludes to mental illness, obsession, deniThis is not a fun, spooky, gory, or even necessarily ghostly tale. It is a grim, ghastly and sad story that alludes to mental illness, obsession, denial, delusion, and broken familial bonds.
Don’t take it for a respectful, miserable exploration of these themes. There are—at least—visions of monsters and apparitions. It is about the horror of ambiguity in a world in which the supernatural is no more widely believed than our own, but which doesn’t dissuade from the potentiality of a twelve-year-old mass-murderer being influenced by something beyond his own or anyone else’s understanding.
Rick, a recently released childhood killer (double meaning there), has not wavered on his story after twenty-five years of incarceration, reaches out to his brother to try and convince him one last time before attempting to rid himself of this nebulous entity for good, but can’t provide any motivation on its behalf.
Does he genuinely believe his admittedly consistent accounting of events? Is it an elaborately constructed excuse; a coping mechanism? Or is there, just maybe, something wreaking havoc on children on Halloween for years, centuries?
It may not be as deep as all that. You may read it, think back to this review (likely not), and think calm down, dude! It’s a lame trope we’ve seen countless times before. Yes, as are most things in all stories. I don’t invest much in the way of murderers crying possession, spirits, extraterrestrial signals, what have you, but in the context of the story, it’s a distressing possibility, however minuscule, to consider....more
”So many awful things to see. So many terrible beasts to be. You’re not you and I’m not me, tonight.” —Lonesome Wyatt and the Holy Spooks, Halloween is”So many awful things to see. So many terrible beasts to be. You’re not you and I’m not me, tonight.” —Lonesome Wyatt and the Holy Spooks, Halloween is Here
That’s what I’m talking about! A fun-size treat that opens cozily and concludes catastrophically.
I didn’t know what to expect with this short story. I didn’t know if it was extreme horror, or spooky children’s fare. It was that mysterious candy you don’t recognize when sorting out your haul after trick-or-treating. It turned out to occupy a Goldilocks zone. It was a direct, straightforward, easy and pleasurable Halloween story that would have been a great addition to a Halloween horror anthology.
Three brief interwoven perspectives of the same unfolding horror show as the sun sets on Halloween night, and all the trick-or-treaters’ costumes render the pretenders a little more literal. The elements were all just right. I cannot find much fault in its simplicity. The aging couple, the horny teens, and the overworked police officer all got just enough time and development to invest before they are blindsided by barbarity.
I would call it old-school contemporary, authentic Halloween horror in good company with Trick ‘r Treat, or Halloween III: Season of the Witch. No embellishment, subversion, politicking, or posturing; just an out-and-out love for the holiday season and the terror we love to safely feel in its imaginative presence. ...more
That’s right! The much anticipated second selection of my nostalgic ‘90’s Robin Williams Junior Novelization Triple Feature Spectacular Extravaganza iThat’s right! The much anticipated second selection of my nostalgic ‘90’s Robin Williams Junior Novelization Triple Feature Spectacular Extravaganza is Disney’s classic, Disney’s Aladdin (which is apparently spelled with only one ‘L’ and two ‘Ds.’ I have a Mandela Effect memory of it being the other way around, making it difficult to search for this book).
I thought it it would be funny if they just took an abridged version of the original story from One Thousand and One Nights, slapped the cartoon cover on it and called it a day. I doubt that’s the case, but stand by for confirmation....more
Jumanji is horror. The quotidian promotional movie photo used for the cover of this novelization does not negate that. (I mean, c’mon. It looks like aJumanji is horror. The quotidian promotional movie photo used for the cover of this novelization does not negate that. (I mean, c’mon. It looks like a self-distributed Board Games and Your kids: Is it Safe? release during the VHS boom).
I don’t have time to start a new novel before All Hallows’ Read 2024 is in full swing, so I’m opting for a nostalgic ‘90’s Robin Williams Junior Novelization Triple Feature Spectacular Extravaganza! What are the other two? You’ll just have to wait and see!
I can really only describe this short story as insignificant. It smacks of being produced by a randomized writing exercise generator, which are fun, bI can really only describe this short story as insignificant. It smacks of being produced by a randomized writing exercise generator, which are fun, but infrequently worth reading, let alone publishing:
Main Character: Demure restauranteur Place: Koreatown Situation: Demonic possession Theme: Ancient cultural wisdom
I am a collector of limited edition horror chapbooks. That is why I read this as an inexplicably standalone horror farce with no better additional stories to curve the rating in its favor.
Pansu is a preposterous horror-comedy skit devoid of scares or humor. One would at least expect an ironic twist or creepy cliffhanger to bring it home after the lame proceedings, but it ends with what I suspect was a pitiful attempt at a joke about Asian cuisine of the “let’s do the opposite next time” variety so common in straight-to-video schlock from the ‘80’s. (e.g. *couple gets attacked by shark while vacationing in the Bahamas* Last line: “For our next vacation, we’re going to the mountains.” *Freeze frame* *Credits* Har har har!)
I have copy 393 of 600 signed and numbered softcovers of this story and it’s a cool-looking collectible on account of Glenn Chabourne’s exquisite contribution as cover artist, but I can’t rate it higher just because it would make a good framed piece without the junk inside....more
Why am I reading a stupid spinoff of a stupid side character from a stupid junior novelization adapted from a stupid ‘90’s movie based on a classic coWhy am I reading a stupid spinoff of a stupid side character from a stupid junior novelization adapted from a stupid ‘90’s movie based on a classic comic book? Shut up! That’s why.
Ooh, a page of twenty-seven year old temporary tattoos at the back of the book? Score!
Fuck it. 5 stars!
Oh shit. The protective plastic cover lining is missing. These tattoos are useless.
1 star!
Wait, there’s Yellow #5 in temporary tattoos? What in the name of Hydroxypropyl Methylcellulose gum was the FDA thinking approving this taint-shrinking compound gunk to be a part of my library?
2 stars…
Okay, I’m relying too heavily on jest and not enough substantive analysis lately. I’m too busy to read protracted classics, let alone devote my depressingly limited schedule to exhaustively researched, thought-provoking, unique perspectives on grand works of profundity which few will care about or read anyway.
I’m grabbing short, random books and buzzing through them so I can be the quirky weirdo reading long-forgotten, disposable pop-culture buffoonery and having a go at them for ‘likes.’
So, out of respect for the late Alan Grant, who had a respectable career in comics including work on Batman (duh) and Lobo, I will say that this was a not entirely joyless hour of reading. It was better than it needed to be under the coat-tail riding cash-in circumstances. Hell, it was better than the movies in between which it takes place.
Batman and Robin qualm with one another regarding their crime-fighting methods and the petulant Dick walks out after taking down The Riddler and Two-Face during the events of Batman Forever . He takes a security job at a late-night diner.
Meanwhile, a bitter proto-incel with no skills or means of securing a livelihood for himself makes an impulsive decision to become The Enemy. He mugs a woman, feels a rush, and eventually inadvertently kills the kind old man who gave Dick (Robin) the security job. Dick takes him down, reunites with Batman, and establishes a near-future run-in with a refrigerated Schwarzenegger and a botanical Uma Thurman.
I’m sure it was stipulated that nothing of consequence could occur in this in-between side-plot that would interfere with or confuse the cinematic bookends, but that’s kind of how all ongoing comic book series are. It’s better than having to retcon everything time and again by introducing multiverses and time-warping wormholes or whatever.
“Your next review will be sexy.” —Janie, My Previous Review
Lie back, relax, loosen your blouse, and let me do what I do best; wax nostalgic about crim“Your next review will be sexy.” —Janie, My Previous Review
Lie back, relax, loosen your blouse, and let me do what I do best; wax nostalgic about crime-fighting reptiles. (That concludes the sexy portion of the review, but it counts, Janie!)
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze was my favorite movie as a whippersnapper. (I wore out the VHS tape and my mom had to buy a second copy). As an adult, with a more refined taste in children’s entertainment, I recognize that the first live-action adaptation is vastly superior. This one has a dearth of Casey Jones, inadequately supplanted by the squeaky-voiced pizza boy, Keno.
The other big let down of this sequel is that, despite there being no blood or on-screen death in the first film, mothers across the land complained that it was too dark and violent, leading to toned down, more light-hearted fair that had the turtles fighting not with their trademark weapons, but with sausage links, yo-yos, and pool noodles. Just another example of whiners and committees compromising artistic integrity. (I will give credit to the novelization. Leanardo commanded his brothers to stow their weapons, stating that a true ninja is a master of his environment, and their environment in the moment happened to be a toy store being robbed, so at least I got an explanation denied me as a child).
The subtitle of the sequel refers to the origins of how the turtles became mutated, and Donatello, the most logical and scientifically oriented member of the family, ironically has an existential crisis w/r/t how they came to be. He wanted there to be more, to have been deliberately created, which has the most religious subtext in anything I’ve seen in the series. I would have enjoyed that theme being explored further.
Tokka and Rahzar are awesome. That’s all I have on that. They were shoehorned in as stand-ins for Bebop and Rocksteady, and everyone would have wanted to see them on screen, but the wolf and snapping turtle costumes looked outstanding. They were the highlight of the movie.
Vanilla Ice was not mentioned by name, so I’m guessing his iconic involvement was not a done deal before this was written, or there was a rights issue. No matter. The Ninja Rap is a classic.
The biggest disappointment is with the Shredder. He survives an appropriate send-off in the first movie/novelization only to meet a trivialized and disgraceful end. (Yes, I know I’m essentially reviewing the movie, but the book is just a dumb cash-in tie-in. Leave me alone). He drinks the mutagenic ooze to become Super Shredder. He looks badass. He is primed for an epic battle…and he dies by taking down a dock on himself. It makes sense that he would be consumed by his anger and lust for vengeance and thus be the source of his own destruction, but it was a super weak climax.
I still watch the movies regularly, and it was fun to revisit them in a different form, but I’ll never read these novelizations again....more
”I have tried to channel your anger, Raphael, but more remains. Anger clouds the mind. Turned inward, it is an unconquerable enemy. You are unique amo”I have tried to channel your anger, Raphael, but more remains. Anger clouds the mind. Turned inward, it is an unconquerable enemy. You are unique among your brothers, for you choose to face this enemy alone. But as you face it, do not forget your brothers, and do no forget me. I am here, my son.” --Master Splinter
Movie novelizations are a top genre for which this arbitrary rating system proves itself insufficient. (It’s their fault, not mine!)
There was a plethora of dark children’s fantasy in the ‘80’s (much of it from Jim Henson Studios), but nobody could have foreseen that an obscure, three-thousand copy debut run of a gritty, violent, Daredevil parody about anthropomorphic turtles and a vengeful rat would become a billion dollar franchise beloved by generations from X to Alpha and likely beyond (but most of all, I would presume, by Millennials).
The 1990 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie holds up like it’s been taking daily Tadalafil for the past thirty-four years. It stayed as true to the original source material as best it could while incorporating enough of the popular cartoon’s raucous cheese to make it—mostly—palatable to families and children. (More on that when I discuss the sequel, The Secret of the Ooze).
The movie had wit, style, wisdom, mature themes, turbulent family dynamics, exceptional costume design, and a better personality profile indicator among the four brothers than Myers-Briggs and 16 Personalities. (Tell me you’re a Michaelangelo, and I’ll understand what you mean quicker than saying you’re an ENFP(T)).
It was a staple of my childhood. It is an enduring bonding agent between my brothers and myself, and it fleshed out and brought into their own the individual characteristics of the turtles themselves better than any incarnation of them, prior to or since.
But what of this hasty, mid-grade, mid-elementary school adaptation of an adaptation that begins with Dickensian gravitas?
“It was the worst of times. The citizens of New York were being victimized daily by a terrible crime wave.”
Well, it adhered to the script well enough, but it was rushed, breezy, and could not compete with the admirable concatenation of elements that brought the movie together in its ideal form. It’s little more than a tie-in to bolster movie sales, so I can’t get angry about it (how pathetic would that be?) but most of the best moments from the movie were brief plot point sequences of the meanwhile… or and then… variety and without the context of the movie as a companion, don’t leave much of an impact. In one egregious case of preposterous trivialization, a moment of terror and rage when the brothers discover their father has been abducted, the book’s narrator actually applies the neologism ‘ratnapped.’
On a couple occasions, the narration fortified the implications of what was on screen, so what follows are a couple examples of clarity that are, if not necessary and still probably better off unspoken, at least appreciable:
1. “There was a frightening intensity to [Raphael’s] anger.” This wouldn’t have worked as a line of dialogue, but the description as a precedent for not only what would contribute to his near-downfall and—as an adult—my favorite scene between master and student, father and son, works. Splinter waits for Raphael to return home after blowing off steam late into the night and demands that he sit and listen (see epigraph above).
2. Another wonderfully implied moment from the movie is when Mikey is waiting on a pizza and Donny approaches to ask if he ever thinks about losing their father, what it would be like to be without him. This is foreshadowing of course, but it is a telling character moment for Michelangelo as well. He dismisses the question, wipes his hands and says, “[t]ime’s up! Three bucks off!” Mikey does not want to deal with such cogitations, and focuses on pizza. It is his coping mechanism. This novelization provided insight into such behavior:
“Donatello understood that some things were just hard for Mike. It didn’t mean he didn’t care; it didn’t mean he didn’t think. Mike just didn’t like to talk about them.” (This is true for many men, especially those who mask their pain and fear with humor and indulgences).
All in all, however, I would implore any readers to watch the movie. Revisit it. It is among the best younger audience movies using almost entirely practical effects and encapsulates a bygone era that I don’t believe has been surpassed....more
Early Bret Easton Ellis spunk is all over this novel. However you choose to interpret that statement, it will be accurate and appropriate. In particulEarly Bret Easton Ellis spunk is all over this novel. However you choose to interpret that statement, it will be accurate and appropriate. In particular, the rich and the famous wallowing in their exuberant misery, in a perpetual daze of pharmaceuticals, stimulants, booze, and wanton, casual sex.
But Chandler Morrison is his own beast. At first, a seemingly acid hate letter to the Los Angeles lifestyle; American Narcissus is an acerbically hilarious, cataclysmic tale of dread and desolation as four interweaving characters burn toward ruin, incapable of distinguishing reality from their respective self-induced stupors.
All the while, a grinning menace and a spreading wildfire auger the inevitable.
There are times when, despite a penchant for a particular sub-genre, a story presents itself with such brooding promise, affixing an expectation of unThere are times when, despite a penchant for a particular sub-genre, a story presents itself with such brooding promise, affixing an expectation of unspoken dreadful delight. Some stories call to me as if a dream I once had was disseminated through ethereal channels into the pen-holding—or laptop slouching and clacking—hands of a sage designated to transcribe what I fabricated in my vagary and releasing it at the appropriate time for me to discover and relish, and of which I would subsequently proselytize on its behalf (if not consumed with envy that I had not written it).
Solipsistic suppositions aside, I felt tremendous anticipation for Undead Folk from the crudely superimposed, yet enticingly ominous and atmospheric cover design alone. Let’s talk about how that turned out:
The author does not lavish, mercifully sparing the reader a recounting of the cause of the current, barely habitable state of the world. I say this not because Katherine Silva is unskilled in prose—she is quite skilled—thus risking a tedious preface of apocalyptic events, but because, as in McCarthy’s The Road, it is not particularly relevant. (Demands for this kind of expository banality in stories that do not call for it always vexed me in writing workshops).
Similarly, it did not concern me that necromancy was a given through use of some nondescript herbal, floral, elixir solution and an incantation. Call me a rube, but folkloric wisdom and supernaturalism—even if sentimentally motivated—make for much more compelling reading to me than bogged-down scientific jargon. Such ‘just because’ explanations are often condemned as lazy, but most people don’t consider the metabolic process of energy consumption and conversion through the alimentary and digestive system; they just know they’re hungry. I don’t need a rundown of plausible explications of sorcery, telekinesis, or ghosts any more than I need a dissertation and lineage chart of each tribe in a sprawling, fantastical monomyth. Get on with the story! (or at least with the exuberant, verbose tangents. Ahem…)
So, Undead Folk commits no error the pedant in me could nitpick if so inclined, but the final third of the story (which is to say, the last 20 pages or so) meanders off into a wasteland. Once Amos, the resurrected fox with partial amnesia was revealed, I guess—it seemed to be a revelation, a twist, but it whistled hollow—to be…something (God, I hate working around spoilers), this reader’s interest receptors became belabored.
Our vengeance seeking protagonist, Ella, or Janet, or Barbarella, traverses a formerly familiar terrain permeated with corrupted memories. Encounters with nostalgic ruins and liminal decay are the strongest parts of the story:
“Snagged in the threads of her thoughts, she looked down at Amos. He’d stopped a little behind her. The mouth of the old tunnel stared back at them from ahead: its darkness vast. It seemed to tug at the edges of her thoughts: little fragments of her memories with Hugh sifting away like sand in a receding tide.”
I dare say, this description sets up the tunnel itself as a far more threatening adversary than the cancer-stricken geriatric who doesn’t even show up in the story until it’s time to confront him. I loved the anthropomorphic qualities written into the tunnel—muddled sensory metaphor notwithstanding: “The mouth stared back[?]” (Italics, boldness, punctuation mine).
Hearkening back to the tunnel as a symbol of confronting darkness ahead and behind—blinding darkness—is another line of significant simplicity: “There was nothing to look forward to. Only to look back on.” Even when you emerge from the other side of the tunnel, battered and assailed, you will look back and see its gaping, black maw ready to swallow you again. What’s done is done and you cannot escape.
I know there needs to be progression, setup, payoff, but the familial could have been explored, the futility in vengeful pursuits; all of that, without devolving into what I considered to be shoehorned representation and a feeble final confrontation. It is probably evident that I had hoped for more dwelling in/on the tunnel. Once emerged therefrom, I didn’t look forward to much, but that is not to say I wouldn’t to future efforts....more
Remember when The House of Wax remake came out at the tail end of the Teen Beat meets Elm Street slasher revival?“What’s your deal with Paris Hilton?”
Remember when The House of Wax remake came out at the tail end of the Teen Beat meets Elm Street slasher revival? Probably not. Well, the marketing campaign relied heavily on bringing people to the theater to “See Paris Die.” For reasons that are not terribly mysterious, people had a violent aversion to P. Hilt’s perceived vapidity and privileged promiscuity.
Numerous depictions of her gruesome demise have appeared in media, including being burned alive—as if in effigy—on Celebrity Deathmatch by none other than her The Simple Life costar, Nicole Richie, being used as a full-bodied rectal suppository in South Park , and then literally being face-penetrated by a pipe in the aforementioned House of Wax. (The difference being that she was involved with that movie).
And then we have this. To the best of my knowledge, Paris Hilton did not give her blessing to be brutally eviscerated and decapitated in a small press splatterpunk micro story, but that would be cool. (She seems to have taken all that in stride). There is nothing else to the story, but it delivers in excess on the title and succeeds as gory absurdity. Without that and a hint at the hypocrisy of the mutilator of Paris Hilton, it may have come across as an alarmingly mean-spirited fantasy, but wearing a horned furry costume for the abduction and demanding that his accomplice refer to him by the code name ‘Demon Dog?’ That was a clever way to include some necessary levity to what might otherwise come across as an unhinged threat.
There are two additional stories in this slim volume. The first is a mummy in a punk band. It was almost wholesome in its random conceit and in contrast with the vileness of the subsequent entries.
My favorite of the three is the middle story, Snailwart. It is a repulsive, goopy nightmare of a fun time in good company with the Troma team, or prestigious ‘melt movies’ like Street Trash.
A restaurant worker develops grotesque pustules on his hands, hilariously failing to conceal them from his bewildered and disgusted team members. He inadvertently infects the food, with deliquescing results: “Like a melted crayon writing on paper, his face rubbed off on my dirty blue work shirt.”
This trio was short, sickly sweet, and satisfying. I’ll be reading more perversions from M.P....more
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