Dale’s ass tormented us in the minutes after Karl’s fatal abduction. The van already reeked of sardine cans and discarded piss cups and his unceasing flatulence only compounded the issue. I couldn’t think straight. An unholy demon was stalking us and my judgement was clouded by the stench of funk ass.
“Dale have you ever considered getting on simethicone?” I ask.
“Poppycock,” he retorted. “God gave me this ass! And by golly! I plan to use it!”
But on more serious matters, in the front seat Vic and I concocted a plan of escape. It was once again a moonless sky and we were shrouded in deep and total darkness. “Are you certain that it’s Penelope you saw out there?” he asked me.
“Absolutely! It’s hard to mistake a bigass naked woman.”
“Christ,” Vic uttered the slammed the edge of his Bowie knife into the floorboard.
“What? You don’t believe me?” I ask.
“Oh I believe you mate,” he said. “I’ve seen her before. I thought I’d never see her again.”
“You’ve seen her before?”
“Aye. I was bear huntin’ near San Gabriel when I saw her standing on a ridge naked as the day she was born. I thought me eyes were deceiving me, mate. I was meters away but her eyes haunted me. They glowed like the fires of Antares and I knew she was fixin to kill me. I raised me rifle but like a flash she appeared in front of me and knocked me to the ground and tore into me flesh like a rabid wolf. Me mind knew I was as good as dead but my body didn’t give in. My arm lurched forward and grabbed her by the neck n’ with me knife in the other hand I stabbed her in the eye and she shrieked a noise I could never forget. She crawled away and ran off into the brush. And like that she was gone like a phantom in broad daylight. Gone as quickly as she appeared. I knew that I was the only man who lived to tell the tale. I swore from that day forth that I if I saw her again that I would kill her.”
“Vic, for all we know that could have been a different Penelope altogether. That was in California. This is Utah.”
“Nae mate,” he said. “Some things in this world cannot be explained. I’m the only man who ever ripped away certain death from her clutches. I know she’s coming for me.”
“I think we’re losing the thread here,” I said. “Our primary focus should be getting out of this basin alive. After that you can return and strangle Penelope til you’re blue in the face. But until then we need to make it through the pass.”
“Aye,” agreed Vic, “each man will need to carry a weapon.”
“What about Old Jim?”
I turn to Jim in the backseat who was still cool as a cucumber as he quietly hummed A Mighty Fortress is our God. I turn back to Vic. “Do you think we should leave Jim here and retrieve him in daylight hours after we make it into town?”
“Nae mate,” he said. “He’ll never survive the night.”
“Young pup,” Jim said in a rare moment of lucidity, “I may be an old man and shit my pants every night but I can still shoot the dick off a gnat. If you’re going up against Penelope, you’ll need every help you can get.”
“That’s settles it then,” I nodded. I shout to Dale in the back who was occupying himself with Pokémon on Gameboy. “Dale, have you ever shot a gun before?”
Dale looked up and thought. “No,” he said. “I’ve held one to my temple a few times but I never fired it.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” I said.
Vic pulled a black duffel bag from under the passenger seat and unzipped it. Inside was Stewart Rhodes’ wet dream: mortar rounds, grenades, an AK, a few Uzis, and everything to fight off a small army.
“How do you find this shit, Vic?” I ask.
“One can never be too prepared,” he said.
We distributed the weapons around to the four of us. “Remember,” I warned Dale when handing him the AK-47, “make sure it’s pointed away from you before firing.” I naturally took an Uzi and gave the Jim the Browning. Then we set out a game plan: we’d stagger out of the van and fan out a few meters away from the other to form a ‘net’. There was no guarantee of survival for everyone. But if Penelope snatched one of us up, she’d be caught in the line of fire.
Before opening the sliding door, I had one more line of encouragement. “Remember, she’s quick as lightening so keep your eyes sharp,” I said. “Also, thank you all for rescuing me. I didn’t think I had so many friend in the world.”
I looked into the eyes of the three: Vic was determined and ready; Old Jim was at peace with the situation; Dale couldn’t have given less of a shit.
I put my hand on the lever and pulled. “Good hunting gentlemen,” I said.
Everything that was the Candyland Saloon, everything that Randy had worked for, was a pile of ash on a dry lake basin. Only Karl could muster a tear for the wretched place. He sat dumbfounded on his ass and glared at his bleeding and festering leg wound. “Just leave me here to die,” he told me.
“That’s too good of an ending for you Karl,” I said.
Vic admired the stars in the sky and then looked towards the mountain pass. “We need to get moving,” he said. “The town is 10 miles away.”
Dale removed the sucker from his mouth and signaled to his brown 95 Chevy Astro. “Van’s ready,” he said. “Sorry if it’s a mess in there. Been living in it since I burned my trailer down. I only got a quarter of a tank but it should get us there.”
I kick Karl on his leg and he groans. “Get up,” I ordered.
“I can’t,” he cried. “You done shot my leg!”
“Get up goddamn you!”
Vic pulls me by the arm. “Maybe we should leave him out here,” he suggested.
“Fuck him!” I shouted. “That’s exactly what he wants!”
“Oy, mate,” Vic said trying to calm me. “If you want to seek vengeance, you should go after Randy.”
I took a couple of deep breaths and nodded. “Perhaps you’re right,” I said then looked at Karl. “Perhaps bleeding out alone in the desert is a fitting end for you.”
I turn around and approach Old Jim who in his demented oblivion stood motionless gazing at the desert floor. “Well Jim,” I said, “are you ready to return to the civilized world?”
The breeze swayed his snow white beard as he gazed up to the sky. “The old folks used to say that god created the heaven and the earth in seven days,” he spoke. “But the deceiver dwells in the lake of fire with mouth agape waiting for the fall. I spent half my life in this dead lake. The Bible says that man shall not lay with man and that all homosexuals…”
“Okay, let’s get you to the van,” I interrupted.
I take his arm and slowly escort Jim to the beatup Astro. I roll open the sliding door and lift the old man into a passenger seat. The inside was littered with porno mags and tissue paper and I warn Old Jim to use hand sanitizer after touching anything. After I get him buckled I looked down to see two flat tires on the passenger side. I walk to the driver’s side and noticed the same.
“Fuck,” I said aloud.
“What?” shrugged Dale.
“How did you not notice they slashed your tires Dale?” I asked.
“What’s the big deal?”
“We’re in the middle of the goddamn desert! We kinda need tires to get out of this hellhole!”
“Sorry! I was inside the van all day catching up on some reading! I didn’t have time to notice…”
But before I could strangle Dale, Vic intervened. “Look, it’s nightfall,” he said. “I have enough supplies on me to get us to town. Of course we can’t travel fast because we got the old man but at least we’re not under the blistering hot sun.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“There’s something out there guarding that pass. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me mate,” Vic said.
I stammer around a bit trying to find the right words. “There’s a demon,” I said. “A castoff from hell.”
“A demon?”
“Her name is Penelope.”
Vic swallowed hard. “Penelope?”
“Yes.”
I march over to Karl, grabbed him by the lapels, and lifted him to his feet. “Is there another way out of this basin?” I interrogated.
Karl spat and laughed. “Looks like we’re all hell bound,” he cackled.
I drop him to his ass and throw off my hat. “We have little choice but to post up here,” I said to Vic. “We’ll set up a perimeter and stand guard in shifts throughout the night.”
Vic shook his head. “Mate, in the daylight heat, there’s no way we’ll make it through the pass.”
In a fit of rage, I kicked the dirt and pound my fist on Dale’s Astro. “Hey!” he yelled.
Vic calmly took me by the arm and lowered his voice. “Are you serious about Penelope?” he asks. But before I could respond, a galloping torrent rushed through the basin. A swoosh sound was heard a meter away and the gurgling screams of Karl echoed into the night.
“Into the van!” I ordered. And we all piled into Dale’s cum-stained Astro. Inside, I frantically go from window to window looking for any signs of Penelope. “Did anyone see anything?!” I said.
“I didn’t see shit!” said Dale.
But Old Jim sat contemplatively in his passenger seat as cool as the night air and chewed on his half bent pipe. “The Devil is in the details,” he ominously spoke.
In retrospect I shouldn’t have been so hasty in leaving the Candyland saloon. When traversing a large desert, even in nightfall, it behooves one to be prepared. Things like water and a flashlight would have been extraordinarily helpful while walking across this plain of death. But it was too late now. All I had was a Smith & Wesson revolver and the clothes on my back.
C’est la vie.
It wasn’t the time to lose my nerve. The canyon I entered appeared as a labyrinth of darkness and tribulation. It was silence. The only sound I heard was the thumping of my own chest. Out of caution I pressed forward with eyes wide open and the revolver in hand.
The dirt road reverted to its innate form and my senses attained an acuity not felt by any man since the days of Adam. This was the most primal of all fears; the fear of darkness and the unknown. I knew the road would return to its manmade form on the other side of the ridge. How far that was I did not know. I crept forward, always present of the unseen reality in front of me.
Occasionally there was a sound; a rock tumbling down a crevasse or the sporadic creeping of a wondering nocturn. Yet I maintained my composure. But a little further into the labyrinth there was an alien clicking. I didn’t want to get excited so I slowed my pace and scanned the gun in all directions. A little deeper and the foreign sound was more intense. I aimed the pistol in its direction and called out. “Who goes there?!” I shout.
For a few moments there was nothing. The clicking ceased. Then, like a silent wave, the mood of the canyon shifted. Any creeping thing that was left there stopped in its tracks. I heard the gnawing of flesh and bone and the growling from a hellish hound. “Show yourself!” I demand. Yet there was no reply from the shadows.
Whatever was out there needed a deterrence so I fire one shot into the darkness. From the brief flash of a Smith & Wesson, the canyon lit up and I saw what I had hoped to never see again; a rakish creature of grey flesh on all fours with blood dripping from the jaws. Though the long black hair concealed the face, small glowing eyes glared back at me.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelped. I fire several more shots in its direction and sprint back in the direction I came. I trampled over rocks both big and small which caused me to lose my footing. In a panic, I fire the remaining bullets in the creature’s direction. With the cylinder empty, I hurl the pistol at the galloping beast.
Before I knew it, I cleared the canyon and was back on the desert basin. I could see the faint glow of the Candyland Saloon several miles ahead but I wasn’t going to make it. Like Tom before me, I would be swallowed up by the desert and never be heard from again. Though adrenaline got me this far, it wasn’t enough. I started to soil my pants in preparation for death.
But right when hope was lost, the roaring of a turbo UTV came to my defense. Rifle shots rang out, striking the creature and it screamed out an ungodly sound. The blinding lights emitted from the UTV provided a brief glimpse of the monster’s true form: it was humanoid with large breasts hanging from its chest and long legs indicating its formidable size. It was Penelope.
The legend was true.
With the creature in retreat, the UTV pulls closer and I could see the driver. “Boy, you’re crazy!” Karl shouted. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I lean forward with hands on my knees to catch my breath and then I vomited. Karl laughed. “Goddamn your puke smells like shit!” he says.
I stand up straight and wipe my mouth. “Yeah,” I said. But I didn’t want him to know the truth: I had completely shit my britches.
It was a frenzied evening of gratuitous sex in the Madam’s garish and glittering quarters. Sure I came. A lot, in fact, and perhaps prematurely. But the whole time I was distracted by my innermost concerns, specifically my monetary situation. When we finished, I laid there naked and sweaty on the soft pink and silk sheets waiting for the shoe to drop.
“So do I pay you?” I ask. “I’m not sure how this works.”
She sits up in bed, also naked, with her large bosoms exposed and she lights a cigarette. “This one’s on the house,” she explains. “Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex for pleasure. I just wish it lasted longer.”
“Sorry about that,” I said. “So anyways, do I sleep here?”
She aggressively shakes her head. “Fuck no. You have a room downstairs.”
“With the rest of the whores? Won’t it get a little loud at night?”
“First off, they’re not whores. They’re paid companions. And secondly, you get used to it.”
“Alright,” I shrugged. “Do I at least get free booze at the bar?”
“No. That comes out of your paycheck.”
“What the hell?!” I exclaimed. “This is bullshit. Randy said…”
“Randy might own the place but this is my show,” the Madam interjected. “He’s barely here anyway. So I’m the ultimate authority at this joint! You got that BUSTER?!”
“Yeah yeah, I got that,” I said. I climbed out of bed, found my pants, and put them on.
“Are you going to your room?” she asks.
“Hell no,” I said as I buttoned up my ragged denim shirt. “This wasn’t the deal I made with Randy. I’m walking out of here, going to the nearest town, and I’m heading home.”
The Madam sat up in bed and grabbed my hand. “Don’t do that!” she said. “Penelope will get you!”
“Shit,” I said dismissively. “A naked woman wondering the desert? I might as well be in Palm Springs.”
“She’ll eat you!” the Madam shouted.
“Yeah okay,”’ I said and finished putting on my boots. I checked myself in the mirror one last time before departing the Madam’s quarters. “Thanks for the fuck,” I said, “thank god I didn’t cry this time,” and I slam the door shut.
I walk out to the creaky wooden balcony and downstairs into the saloon where the night’s revelry was dying down. Old Jim was still shuffling his cards when I approached. “Hey Jim,” I said, “mind if I have your Smith & Wesson?”
“What for?” he asks.
“I’m headed out of here,” I say. “I figured I’d follow the light pollution to find the nearest town but I might need some protection from the coyotes and whatnot. I’ll give the gun to Randy when I see him in LA.”
“Coyotes?” Jim said. “There ain’t no coyotes out there. Penelope is the only creature roaming that desert this time of night.”
“Whatever. I’m still gonna need some protection.”
Old Jim shakes his head and lays the pistol on the table. “You can have my Smith & Wesson,” he says, “but it ain’t gonna do you no good.”
I pick up the pistol and check the cylinder. “Thanks for the advice,” I tell him. I stuff the gun into the back of my pants and tip my hat. “Been nice knowing ya Jim.” I proceed to the front of the saloon and push open the door into the silent darkness.
The dirt road leading to the Candyland compound extended beyond the dry basin and into the mountain range beyond. It was plain to see in daylight but near invisible at night. I had to rely on the glow of city lights from the other side of the range for guidance. The moon was nowhere in sight and the stars glittered like pixie dust on a black canvas. The land, I thought, possessed a serenity of a surreal dream but the uneasiness of a concealed graveyard. I proceed a few miles down the dirt road. What little wildlife remained in these parts cried out like ghosts in the night. Intellectually I knew the legend of Penelope was false, but walking into this dark chasm I understood the fear.
It was maybe five miles into the trek that I reached a valley in this unnamed range. The light flutter on the horizon no longer guided me and the darkness swarmed me like a minacious cloud. Not even the sounds of critters would accompany me into this miscreated canyon. Here nature seemingly stopped; the laws of sense and possibility broke down. Only the rules of an accursed imagination seemed germane to these parts.
I’m gonna keep saying this until the internet listens: stop trying to adapt Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian into a movie.
But if Hollywood is hellbent on doing so, my instructions above is how you do it.
I actually agree with McCarthy, the novel is not unadaptable. The problem is that Hollywood thinks too big. Last I heard, David Fincher was interested in the project. But I can’t stress this enough: no typical Hollywood director can tackle this material.
Not Ridley Scott. Not Spielberg. Not Tarantino. Not Fincher.
The novel is a nightmarish interpretation of the old west and it needs to be treated as such. You need a director that visually speaks that language. Therefore you need maestro of horror to do the job.
Sorry for playing the hits, but I’m still undergoing writer’s block. I’m trying to jog my creativity by starting shit on Instagram, but that takes time.
Honesty, I forgot about this story. I posted it a year ago and while it isn’t my best work there’s still a few good ass jokes.
So enjoy
Pennies for the Dead
So I was doing a seance during the middle of the night-in a cemetery-when a security guard approached me.
“The hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Conjuring the dead. What does it look like?”
“Well hurry up. Gates close in an hour.”
So I cranked up the spirit box and pulled out the Ouija board. I asked the spirit box, “is a Joe Morris present?”
The box scanned through the channels before saying “Beelzebub”. Oh shit, I thought. I probably just cursed myself.
“No no no,” I replied. “JOE Morris.”
The box continued to scan but I was receiving no answers. The Ouija board was no help either. It kept spelling out “anal sex” and “go fuck yourself”. This was getting me nowhere.
I packed everything up and took out my flashlight. Next to Joe Morris’ tombstone was the name “Jezebel Morris”.
Dorthy Morris neglected to tell me that name.
Joe was Dorthy’s father. He was allegedly poisoning in 1952. The autopsy, however, was inconclusive. Dorthy’s been wanting this case solved her entire life. Now, in her twilight years, she lived a reclusive life on her family’s estate while her brain slowly demented away.
In my opinion, Joe died by natural causes. You know how men lived in those days. But I hadn’t had a case in months.
Was it wrong of me to take this elderly lady’s money? Yes.
I immediately left the cemetery and stopped at the Voodoo shop. I had to do something to spurn any demonic curses, ya know? Afterwards I drove to Dorthy’s estate.
I pounded on the door. She was hard of hearing.
“Is that you Lyle?” she asked
“No ma’am. It’s Ty Carson, private detective,” I replied.
I opened the door and found Dorthy with a blanket covering her lap in front of the fireplace. She was playing checkers.
“Who are you playing checkers with?” I asked.
“I’m not playing checkers.”
I quickly moved on to the business at hand. “I did what you asked,” I said. “I went to the cemetery to talk to Joe. I found out that the dead aren’t too keen on talking.”
“But I talked to Joe this morning,” she replied.
I ignored that comment.
“Who’s Jezebel?” I asked.
Dorthy gave me a puzzled look. “Jez has been dead for years,” she said.
“I know. Who was she?”
“No. I can’t betray Joe like that.”
“But she might be key to understanding Joe’s death.”
“No. That matter is closed.”
I shrugged. I figured that I could just go through public records in the morning. As I began to leave, I turned around.
“Oh, by the way,” I said, “the spirit box and Ouija board came to about $150. That will be charged to your account.”
“$5,000 you said?” Dorthy asked as she pulled out her checkbook.
“Yes.”
***
I couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed.
I had a hunch that it was the repo man coming to take the Geo Metro. I pulled out my .38 and shouted into the dark. “I have your filthy money!” I yelled. “Show yourself!”
Out of the shadows, I heard a thick Boston accent: “Are you Mista Cahson?” it asked.
“What’s it to ya PAL?!”
The figure stepped forth slowly from the shadows. He was tossing a baseball into the air.
“I’m Mista Pete Morris,” the figure said. “I’m son of Dorthy Morris, your client. I understand that you’ve been taking my mutha’s money.”
“She’s been giving it to me in larger amounts than I’ve been asking. That’s hardly stealing,” I replied.
“Hey ohhh, buddy! I ain’t said nuthin about stealing.”
“Then you better make your point. I have a .38 aiming between your eyeballs.”
Pete straightened up his jacket and began stammering nervously. “All I’m asking is that you let me in on the cut,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I work better alone. Besides, fuck the Red Sox.”
“I’m tellin ya,” Pete said, “there’s somethin goin on with Dorthy.”
“Yeah, it’s called dementia.”
“No. There’s something else goin on up there at that estate. Something that can’t be explained, not of this world. Some things just can’t be stopped by bullets, ya know?”
Pete then tossed the baseball again and I shot it out of the air.
“I haven’t found one yet,” I said.
“Look, I have all the answers you’re looking for,” Pete continued. “The death of Joe Morris is deeper than you think.”
I put the gun back into my holster. “Buddy,” I said, “if you’re trying to grift your rich elderly mother out of her money, you’re gonna have to find another angle.”
As I turned around to finish my walk home, Pete spoke up again. “I know about Jezebel,” he said.
“So do I pal,” I said as I continued walking, “she was Dorthy’s sister who died of pneumonia a year before Joe’s death. She was 20 years old.”
“That’s not the whole story,” Pete replied, “in fact, she wasn’t Dorthy’s sister.”
I stopped, turned around, and pulled out a cigarette. “Alright bucko,” I said, “now you’ve got my attention.”
***
“Sorry babe,” I said to Sheila. “I got the whiskey dick.”
“It’s alright, I’m used to it,” she replied. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink before sex.”
“I wouldn’t know. Never tried it.”
Sheila climbed out of bed and got dressed. As she put her shirt on, she noticed the crap on the floor. “What’s this stuff?” she asked.
“Don’t touch it,” I said, “that’s a spirit box and a Ouija board. You might awaken a demon from hell. Trust me, that’s one can of worms you can’t close.”
“What are you doing with that?”
“It’s some case that I’m scamming *ahem* I mean helping some old lady solve.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Oh yeah, totally.” I looked over to the clock and noticed it was 7:30pm. “Speaking of, gotta get to work.” I got out of bed and threw my pants on. “You can stay here for the night,” I told Sheila, “but remember: DO NOT touch that damn Ouija board.”
I was running late. I had to meet Pete at the Morris estate where he was going to shed some light on Jezebel’s identity.
I arrived 45 minutes later. It was nearly pitch black. I grabbed my flask and flashlight and got to work. “This better be worth my time,” I told Pete.
“I told you that you’re not gonna need that .38,” he said.
“You let me be the judge of that.”
We began venturing into the woods. There was allegedly a cellar back behind the mansion that contained the remains of Jezebel. “I’ve been told all my life that this is an old Indian burial ground,” Pete said.
“Why didn’t you tell me that before I pissed on that hedge?” I asked.
“There it is,” he said. I shinned my flashlight in that direction. The cellar was only a few yards ahead.
“How far down is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I never been down there.”
I lit up a cigarette. “You go first,” I said.
Pete gathered up his courage and proceeded towards the cellar. He took a deep breath before going down the stairs. The cellar was deep. Too deep for my liking.
I put one hand on the .38.
Finally we reached the bottom. We were standing in a wide, musty corridor with multiple chambers. “What the hell was this place used for?” I asked Pete.
“Supposedly this was a torture chamber for runaway soldiers during the Civil War. Many slaves lost their lives down here.”
“Pete, I’m beginning to think that your family deserves to be cursed.”
“What’s this?” Pete asked. I shined the flashlight over to an old fire pit littered with ash and bones.
Then the cellar door slammed close.
I pulled out the 38. “Stay calm,” I said.
“I told you there’s something strange going on here!”
“Shut up Pete.”
“I can’t die down here! The Celtics are in the playoffs!”
“Pete, so help me god, if you don’t shut up I’ll shoot you myself!”
Suddenly my flashlight went out. Then something grabbed Pete. “Damn you Brad Stevens!!!!!!!” he screamed before disappearing into the dark.
I started firing indiscriminately into the shadows.
“Pete!” I screamed out.
There was only silence.
The flashlight kicked back on and I shined it all around the corridor. Pete was nowhere to be found. “Fuck this,” I said as I sprinted back up the stairs and to the car.
I floored the Geo Metro back to the apartment. I rushed in through the door and began frantically looking for the Ouija board. “Damn it Sheila!” I yelled. “What did you do with the Ouija board?”
Sheila stumbled out of the kitchen with a glass of wine. “The planchette began moving around,” she said as she slurred her words. “It started spelling out ‘You’re next’, ‘Hail Satan’, and ‘I heart ass’ I didn’t know what that meant so I threw it into the fireplace.”
“Sheila,” I said, “I might’ve opened a portal to hell.”
***
I quietly hoped that Pete lived a lonely, miserable life. He never mentioned anything about a spouse. His mother was barely cognizant of his existence. Honestly, he seemed to be a stupid sack of shit and nobody would have missed him.
But I didn’t want anyone reporting his disappearance. What would I have told the police? That he was sucked into some black hole in the middle of the woods?
I had to find Pete. And finding Pete probably led to solving the mystery of Joe Morris’ death.
Actually, I could have walked away from this entire thing and no one would have been the wiser. But I knew the spirits were listening in. I had to get to the bottom of this thing before they got to me.
I picked up the spirit box. “Listen here, damn you,” I said, “I know you can hear me. I want some answers! Where’s Pete? Who’s Jezebel?!”
The spirit box began scanning through the channels before spitting out “suck.my.penis.”
That’s it, I thought. I reloaded the .38 and went back to the Morris Estate.
It was 12:30am. I pounded on Dorthy’s door. “Is it the milk man?” I heard her ask. “Come in!”
I opened the door and there was Dorthy playing Trivial Pursuit alone. “Damn it Dorthy!” I said, “I need answers! Who’s Jezebel?!”
“Jezebel? She’s been dead for 20 years.”
“Records say she died in 1951. Stop jackin me around!” I pulled out the .38. I meant business.
The candles around the aged mansion began to flicker. Random objects started to move: books flipped open, mirrors were rattling, the record player was blasting Lionel Richie’s ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’. Dorthy meanwhile went into a trance. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she backed up into the shadows.
I turned on the spirit box. “Alright Jezebel! I know you’re on to me,” I said. “Talk to me! Let’s settle this thing!”
Suddenly the doors flew open. A woman floated into the room. Her eyes were as dark as night.
I lifted the .38.
But it was Sheila.
“Sheila, you’re drunk,” I said. “Go home!”
“I am not Sheila,” the demonic voice said. “I am Jezebel!”
“Try me, asswipe!” she replied. Then I pumped a few bullets into her chest.
Nothin
“Alright, so I guess you’re Jezebel,” I said. “Where’s Pete?”
“His soul resides in HELL for all eternity!!!!”
“Good, he’s a Boston sports fan,” I said, “he needs to know how that feels.”
“You will join him soon enough!”
“Sorry sister, I already live in Ohio.”
I pulled the trigger again but I already emptied the revolver. I threw the gun at her and started running down the hallway while screaming for my life.
I hid in the closet under the staircase. Of course, it didn’t take long for her to find me. Using her demonic powers, Jezebel began to eat my soul. I started praying. “God, I regret everything,” I said.
Then God responded. Thunderbolts began raining down on Jezebel from some unseen force and she retreated into the shadows. I was still alive.
I crawled out from the closet. In front of me stood a wizard-like figure dressed in white robes and holding a staff.
“Thank you Jesus,” I said.
“I’m not Jesus,” the figure replied. “I’m Joe Morris.”
I stood up. “Joe Morris? Shouldn’t you be 120 years old?”
“119 to be precise.”
Then Pete ran down the hallway. “Ty! I’m still alive!” he said.
“I thought you went to hell,” I replied.
“I did. It ain’t such a bad place. I got to meet Dave Cowens.”
“He’s still alive dumbass.”
“Are you sure? By the way, did you piss your pants?”
“I did. It’s a side effect of my elavil prescription. Where did Jezebel go?”
“She went back to hell to lick her wounds,” Joe Morris said. “We must go to the cellar, return to hell, and make sure she never returns.”
“Fuck that,” I said. “This ain’t my problem. I’ll just collect the money from Dorthy and be on my merry way.”
Right then, a possessed Dorthy flew down from the ceiling and attacked me. While I fought her off, Joe Morris released more thunderbolts from his staff. Finally, she flew off of me and began writhing on the ground before whatever cursed spirit that possessed her left her body. Dorthy was dead.
“Mother!” Pete screamed.
“She hasn’t been your mother for a long time,” Joe said.
I took a moment to gather myself.
“Alright,” I said, “I need to change my pants before we go to the cellar.”
***
“So you’ve been in hell for 70 years Joe?” I asked.
“Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
“Did you die first? Or did you go down there for shits and giggles?”
“Unbeknownst to me, my family has been guarding this portal to hell for 200 years. Jezebel was a maid at our estate and I went outside my marriage to be with her. But Jezebel was secretly the devil and she cast me into the portal.”
“So is your body buried in that cemetery or what? If so, how the hell are you standing here with a flesh and blood body?”
“Don’t worry about it. The point is there’s been a rebellion in hell. Spirits are escaping to this earth and if we don’t stop Jezebel, there will be hell on earth!”
“Relax Joe, you’re just describing Toledo,” I said.
“You already made that joke.”
“How can three flesh and blood men stop an army of evil spirits?” Pete asked.
“While in Hell, I learned the ancient dark arts of Mesopotamia,” Joe replied. “I’ve been made a priest in these ancient religions. All I have to do is bless your weapon of choosing, and voila.”
“Can you bless the bullets of my .38?” I asked.
“Sure can.”
“Hell yeah!”
“What about my pocket knife?” Pete asked.
“That’s a pretty lame weapon, Pete.”
“Grab as many weapons as you can carry,” Joe replied.
“What about this machete?” Pete asked.
“What about this IWI Tavor TS12 shotgun?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. I will bless them all. We must hurry though.”
“Thanks Joe!” I said. “By the way, I’ve always wondered: what’s it like having sex with Satan?”
***
“Just be warned,” Joe said to me, “Hell ain’t what you think it is.”
“How so?”
“You just have to see.”
Joe, Pete, and I gathered our divinely blessed weapons and proceeded to the cellar in the woods. Joe went into the portal first, then Pete. I hesitantly went in last.
I felt my body break down into its molecular and atomic parts while time and space melted down. Then reality reconstructed itself and the three of us were in a large theater.
On stage was a nude couple: one an elderly woman and the other an average-looking dude with an abnormally large dong. A horse was also on stage. It was a community theater production of Equus.
“Ah shit. Now I know what you mean,” I said.
We rushed out of the theater, side by side, weapons on ready. We were men on a mission, a mission to find…and kill…Jezebel. And more importantly, we had to stop the dead from invading the earthly realm.
Outside the theater, we hailed a cab. The driver stopped and we all piled into the back. “Does anyone want to sit up here with me?” the driver asked. “Son of a bitch,” I said then got in the front seat.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked. “Downtown” Joe replied.
The cab driver then blasted Jon and Vangelis from the radio and was humming along. I turned to the backseat.
“Hell seems more boring and mildly irritating,” I said, “much like Minneapolis.”
“Yeah, but imagine spending spending eternity here,” Joe replied.
He had a point.
The cap pulled up to a downtown bank. We all piled out of the car. “Are you sure that the Empress of Hell and all of Damnation is here?” I asked.
“Of course, with their ungodly interest rates, there’s nowhere else she could be!” Joe said.
So the three of us…a wizard, an idiot, and a guy with a shotgun…walked into the bank lobby. We went up to a loan officer.
“We’re here to see Jezebel,” I tell the man.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asks.
I cocked the shotgun and blasted a hole in his chest. “She’ll be with you shortly,” the loan officer replied.
Security guards rushed into the lobby and began firing indiscriminately. Pete became an absolute beast and started slicing away with his machete. Joe unleashed fire bolts from his staff. I unloaded shell after shell from my shotgun.
As we looked over the absolute slaughter of security guards, with blood and guts strewn about the lobby, Joe nodded his head. “I think our plan is working out pretty good,” he said.
“I’m out of shells,” I said and dropped the shotgun. Then I pulled out the .38 and kissed it. “But I still got six shots.”
We all went into the elevator and Joe hit the button for the 666th floor. “Holy shit!” I said. “How many floors are in this building?”
32 minutes later, we arrived. Jezebel was in a conference call with all of her minions. She was planning the final stages of her Hellish invasion of earth.
“What took you so long?” she asked.
“Your slow ass elevator,” Pete said.
“You think your earthly powers can stop me?”
I lifted the .38. “Nothing can stop these bullets sister.”
***
I instantly wasted 5 bullets.
Sadly, I had to borrow a weapon from Pete. And let me tell you: it ain’t easy killing demons with a pocket knife.
In the midst of the mayhem, I lost track of Jezebel. “She escaped to the roof!” Pete yelled while decapitating a goblin.
I sprinted up the stairs to the very top of this 666-storied building. I was out of breath when I reached the roof. Jezebel was waiting.
“Your pathetic little weapon will do nothing to me,” she said.
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” I replied.
Above the roof, Jezebel was opening a portal to Earth where all the spirits of this evil domain could trespass. I was running out of time. So I rushed Jezebel with the knife.
As I leapt towards her heart, she blocked my movement, knocking loose the pocket knife.
I was on the ground. Powerless. Jezebel laughed. “What a weakling,” she said as she put her pitchfork up to my neck.
“If you kill me,” I asked Jezebel, “where am I gonna go? I’m already in hell!”
“If you think it’s bad here, wait till I send you to Bridgeport!”
I closed my eyes in preparation for eternity. Then thunderbolts rained down on Jezebel. While Joe unleashed his unholy powers from the staff, Pete went absolute apeshit on Jezebel with his machete. This severely damaged her powers, thus closing the portal.
With her powers nearly drained, Jezebel stood at the edge of the roof. “Halt!” I yelled before Joe could make the final kill shot. “Jezebel still possesses Sheila’s body.”
I looked deep into Jezebel’s eyes. I could still see Sheila. “Sheila,” I pleaded, “I know that we never had sex because of my undiagnosed ED. I know that I’d often disappear into the bathroom and leave you with the bill. I know that I’d also clog the toilet and blame it on the cat,” I said, “but I also know that I love you and you should probably attend AA.”
Right then, Jezebel began to spastically writhe on the ground. The evil spirit departed Sheila’s body, and there alone stood a defeated Jezebel.
With one bullet left, I pulled out the .38. “Back to where you belong Satan: Massachusetts.”
I pulled the trigger.
The flash from the barrel echoed throughout Hell. In a puff of smoke went Jezebel.
I couldn’t believe it.
“Is she gone for good?” I asked Joe.
He looked out to the horizon. “We defeated her for the time being,” Joe said. “But the devil is never really gone. Where Jezebel resides now is in a hell of her own making, a place so unfathomable that God himself wouldn’t dare set foot. So Norway probably.”
I walked over to an unconscious Sheila. I kneeled down to awaken her. “What happened?” she asked.
“Just a temporary demonic possession. Nothing to worry about,” I said.
Sheila stood up and looked down to the sprawling city below. “Where are we?”
In this Italian-German-French Canadian-English-Russian-Mexican-Brazilian-French-Belgian-Swedish-Regular Canadian-Honduran-French Polynesian-Zimbabwean-Pakistani-Sri Lankan-Vietnamese-and Aleutian co-production, a veteran of the Vietnam War finds himself in war torn Belfast where he begins to torture a household of nurses.
The first hour or so is not what you would expect from something in the “horror” genre (as Tubi categorizes it). In fact, it feels more like a commentary on the situation in Belfast. Furthermore, the perpetrator of all the crimes comes across halfway sympathetic. Not only does the villain get plenty of character development, but so do the nurses who are portrayed as more than faceless victims. That being said, there are a few indications that something is ‘off’ in the first half. Any good horror film should prepare its audience for what’s about to happen: after a bombing at a church, the main character couldn’t have given less of a shit; there’s a strange interaction with a child in a park; and a middle-aged prostitute dances topless under threat. Nevertheless, the first half of Born for Hell feels like a gritty documentary-style drama, in the same vein as The French Connection or The Battle of Algiers.
Even the torture scenes are a bit unusual. Sure there are the usual rapes, stabbings, and strangulations. There’s nothing especially creative about the deaths in that regard, which might come as a disappointment to some. But the villain isn’t typically maniacal about it. In fact, Sometimes he’s quite polite (“follow me, if you don’t mind”). It’s the performances of Mathieu Carriere and all the nurses, from Carole Laure onwards, that really carry the day.
Perhaps I shouldn’t read too much into this movie. In all likelihood, it was a tax write off for a bunch of international businessmen. But conceptually, this was an interesting idea. Sure, this story was inspired by a real event that took place in Chicago. Yet I like to think the filmmakers were reaching for something higher here.
Much like how The Deer Hunter tried to capture the madness of war through suspenseful scenes of Russian Roulette, I’ll suggest that the torture scenes at nurse’s house serves a similar function: senseless killing pushes men to the brink of insanity and they take out that frustration on innocent women.
I don’t know.
But when viewed in this light, Born for Hell fits in nicely with the 70s Cinema canon.
I’m a little under the weather so I’m just gonna phone this one in.
But I was doing my annual Paul Schrader marathon when I got to Dominion: Prequel to the Exorcist. A few thoughts: 1.) it’s a shitty movie but 2.) Vittorio Stararo was the DP?!!! How did that get past me?
And it’s such a shame that this film didn’t work because it is very much in line with the themes that occur throughout Schrader’s work. I haven’t bothered with the retooled Exorcist: The Beginning, but I’m glad Schrader stuck to his guns and at least attempted to make a cerebral film rather than make a run-of-the-mill horror. That’s what made the original Exorcist so interesting: director William Friedkin stated that it never occurred to him that he was making a “horror film” (he could be bullshitting though).
Schrader probably should have had a bigger say in the screenplay. Much of the introspective philosophical back-and-forth that, in my opinion, slightly bogged down The Last Temptation of Christ (which clashed with Martin Scorsese’s rather “extroverted” direction) would have been quite effective for Dominion. Additionally, the event that caused Father Merrin’s lack of faith should have been revealed later in the movie. And while there was some good stuff with the British colonial troops, I felt that there was no payoff for any of it.
(Plus the special effects REALLY sucked ass)
I also saw Touch for the first time. I don’t remember a damn thing about it other than Skeet Ulrich was in it.
Whatever happened to that guy? That dude was like, super fucking hot. Shouldn’t he have had a bigger career?
Were people disappointed to find out that he wasn’t Danish?
“I found him!” Allen Funt screamed through the torrential rain. It was our second day of hunting for the surprisingly evasive Mr. Shitz. The terrain in the sprawling forest proved to be formidable.
Archibald, shotgun in hand, ran towards Allen’s screams. Darla and myself weren’t far behind. “Where is he?” Archibald asked as he approached.
“Right there,” Allen said.
The butler looked down and was puzzled. “That’s just a hole in the ground,” Archibald replied.
Allen cocked his head. “But I thought that’s what this was,” Funt said, pointing to his ass.
Darla had enough. “This excursion is pointless!” she yelled. “Just let my father die naked and shitting himself in the woods, just as he wanted!”
Allen Funt seconded the notion.
Archibald tuned out the noise as he gazed into the woods ahead. “There,” he pointed.
Less than a 100 yards away was the majestic arctic fox. The creature contrasted like an apparition against the wet and drab forest. “Follow that fox,” Archibald ordered.
The butler proceeded forward while Darla and I followed in his footsteps. Allen Funt fell into the very hole he pointed out moments before.
“Help!” he screamed.
No one came to his aid.
We watched closely as the fox trotted forward a few feet. As the animal neared a meadow, a totally nude Mr. Shitz fell out of a tree and onto Darla’s shoulders. “Father!” she cried, but Mr. Shitz was delivering a rear naked chokehold, quite literally, as he was hanging on to her rear, he was naked, and had her a chokehold.
“Release her!” Archibald ordered.
Darla lost consciousness and fell to the ground. With an open shot, Archibald raised the shotgun and fired. But the spry Mr. Shitz dodged the shrapnel and disappeared into the shadows.
“Goddamn, he’s like the Vietcong,” Archibald said as he reloaded the shotgun.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“He’s too dangerous like this,” Archibald replied. “If you see him, kill him.”
Right then, Mr. Shitz swung around a tree and knocked Archibald out cold. The shotgun flew forward to my feet.
I kneeled down to pick up the weapon. But Mr. Shitz was close enough that I could see the rainwater dripping off his ballsack. I slowly picked up the shotgun and returned to my feet.
It was nearing dusk and the rain was falling harder. But the red in Mr. Shitz’s eyes pierced the dark through the booms of thunder and brilliant flashes of light.
I’m a completionist. I hate to give up on a film because it’s so shitty but that’s what happened while watching Abel Ferrara’s The Driller Killer. So take it from me, that film is only good for two things: reminding you 1.) that it must’ve sucked to have lived in NYC during the late 70s and 2.) first wave punk was GODAWFUL.
Thankfully, Tubi saved the day with two BANGERS, both with ‘skin’ in the title and both released in 1990.
Skinned Alive (1990)
I low-key loved this movie. So much so that I might add it to my Tubi Hall of Fame. It possesses many of the qualities I look for in a film, chiefly having a short runtime.
I almost certainly wasn’t the only one taken with the film. One of the many grotesque deaths bears a strong resemblance to Hitler’s death in Inglourious Basterds because Quentin Tarantino is a senseless hack (so am I, btw).
There’s also a striptease scene that made me absolutely sick to my stomach 👍
But what I find most charming about this movie is how it absolutely shits on the state of Ohio. Now I might’ve spent a grand total of 20 minutes in that state, but goddamnit, there’s something funny about that place.
What’s Skinned Alive about? Some insane family stops in a small town and raises hell. In case you couldn’t guess, this family skins people alive. Only a drunken, pathetic, ex-cop stands in their way.
The Reflecting Skin (1990)
I’m not sure that I would call this a ‘horror’ film, but I can see why many do. If you take the time to think about it, the story is absolutely terrifying and depressing.
An 8-year-old boy growing up somewhere in the midwest post-WWII gets verbally, emotionally, and physically abused while the bigoted police department investigate the deaths of local children. Meanwhile, the boy’s older brother, who’s probably dying from radiation poisoning, (and played by Viggo Mortensen), engages in a relationship with a woman that the boy believes to be a witch.
There’s no gore, few frightening images (worst of which is Viggo Mortensen’s ass cheeks), and no supernatural elements to speak of. So this might not satisfy all tastes. But it does have one thing going for it: NOTHING gets resolved and the movie ends with the boy screaming into the sunset.
I wasn’t quite sure what to make of The Reflecting Skin. I had to turn to IMDB to find answers, and that’s when I found this review, written by an abuse psychologist who found this to be the “most accurate depiction of abuse” he/she/them has ever seen:
I’ve always wondered how well horror and drama would mix. The only well-known example of this would be The Exorcist. But much like We Are The Flesh, answers don’t come easy and what you find might be depressing AF.
*****
But you know what’s NOT depressing?
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The Internet Ruined Everything 