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Archive for the ‘Horror’ Category

s1e1-crime-sceneIf 2014 was anything, it had to have spawned from the savage, swampy, pseudo-Satanic loins of True Detective. In this Golden Age of TV Geek-Outs, I’m not sure we’ve ever geeked-out this hard over a TV show (LOST included). But besides being the TV Event Of The Year, True Detective was also a grim omen of how the rest of 2014 would unfurl: Just when we thought we were making progress, the Flat Circle of Time turned, history repeated itself, the perverted power of the privileged once again pressed its boot to the face of the oppressed and dared us not to lose our minds, Rust Cohle-style, into the abyss of cosmic Lovecraftian horror. At its worst, this year hurtled over us like an uninterrupted tracking shot of chaos, corruption, and police brutality.

As the year ends, it seems like the dark still has more territory, but let’s not forget Rust’s parting words: The light is winning.

2013 Was The Climb, Time After Time

2012 Was Louis C.K.’s Foolish Flailing

2011 Was Walter White’s Mad Cackle

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Murder is a crime! Unless…

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“The Siamese Python” is a flash fiction I wrote, published in Issue 2 of a delightfully twisted UK magazine called The Alarmist back in February 2013. Until recently, the issue was only available in print. But now The Alarmist has posted excerpts from that issue online, and they were kind enough to include “The Siamese Python” in its entirety:

The Siamese Python, if you haven’t already guessed, is a two-headed snake. It’s not actually from Siam, or even Thailand. The Siamese Python is a cold-blooded creature of the U.S.A.

As to where exactly in the U.S.A. it originated, few people can agree. Among the 200 or so living souls who have encountered The Siamese Python, there are approximately 112 different opinions on where it came from. Some folks say it emerged from the sewers of Manhattan. Others claim it jumped right outta the Rio Grande. A couple swear it couldn’t have taken its first slithers anywhere else but the bayous of New Orleans. One man, Gunther Flendricks of Tergen, Ohio, swears The Siamese Python hails from Tergen, Ohio.

Excerpts from The Alarmist, Issue 2

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Unlike 2012, which was clearly Louis CK’s Foolish Flailing, and 2011, which was obviously Walter White’s Mad Cackle, 2013 wasn’t so easy to summarize in one moment of Television. On one hand, it felt like an epic year, one of immense dread and majestic beauty– much like the final scene in the 6th episode of Game Of Thrones’ 3rd season, where Littlefinger tells Varys how chaos is like a ladder, and then Jon Snow & Ygritte exhibit the exhilaration and tranquility that can await the good souls who are strong and brave enough to conquer “The Climb.”

Chaos isn’t a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some, given a chance to climb, they refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or love. Illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is.

On the other hand, 2013 was also an extremely fun year, popping with pleasant surprises and good-time sing-alongs. It was like, in some way, we were all Parks And Recreation‘s April Ludgate, temporarily shedding our smart-ass façades to belt out a few bars of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” with Anne and Donna.

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RonSwansonHunting

(I’ve never written fan fiction or mash-ups before, and I doubt I will again. But I couldn’t resist trying to combine one of my favorite TV shows, Parks and Recreation, with one of my favorite books of the past few years, Frank Bill’s Crimes In Southern Indiana.)

In the cloudy, gravel-gray dusk, Ron Swanson crept past the motel parking lot in his dark red Buick Park Avenue and rolled to a stop. He snatched the .12-gauge double-barrel from the passenger seat, flung open the driver’s door, marched toward the only room with piss-yellow lamplight seeping through the curtains. Didn’t bother to close the car door or even take the keys. No one was around for miles, and besides, he didn’t plan on staying long.

He knew this was serious business. Tom could be dramatic and fragile, sure, but Ron had heard much more than the usual Tom Haverford whining when the little man called him 30 minutes ago in a shrieking panic. Ron heard something he’d never heard in Tom’s voice before: genuine, blood-chilling terror. Ron didn’t even ask what landed Tom in this kettle of shit. He assumed it had to be the fault of Jean-Ralphio, that slimy skid-mark of  a human being. Probably stiffed some gap-toothed mullet-head dealer on a bag of whatever drug he was into this week.

Ron stood before the motel room door and pointed his shotgun at chest-level. He saw a sturdy November breeze rattle the door’s flimsy knob, and figured he could just kick the door open, save a shell. So that’s what he did.

(more…)

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Orson Welles’ ominous narration of “Before The Law,” from his adaptation of Franz Kafka’s The Trial:

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