quickly we rot

The first thing you guys gotta know is... that the man who brought the most horror to your small town video store, now has a blog. Charles Band, started Media Home Entertainment, produced Tourist Trap, Troll, TerrorVision, Ghoulies, and then of course worked on all the Full Moon movies. He is on the road with the resurrected Full Moon label.

So now there is a page that tells YOU when each of your favorite horror blogs is updated. Yes, this blog ('bloodbath' or 'warrenzone', take your pick) is reported on, so the list must be complete. Check it out: Where the Monsters Go: The Horrorblog Update Page and also stop by the blog by the guy who created that resource, a writer named Sean.

Mondo Schlocko, I've never linked to that one before, but the writer likes cheap-ass Brentwood DVD sets (as do I) and cheaply made Polonia brothers films (as do I) so take at look at that blog. We will find out if he is a fan of my writing. I don't get much negative feedback, but if I invite feedback and get no response, I can only imagine that some people wonder why the fuck I even bother.

CineSchlock-O-Rama brings us some news from an actor reminiscing about his role in Color Me Blood Red. I guess that would be an internet exclusive! This writer appears to have met all the horror stars at Comic-Con. I really should have gone to that.

A bunch of new sites rising up, trying to be the next bloody-disgusting. I hope they blow it the fuck away.

Rate the Dead

Horror Classic Films

Channel 13 Forums

Ok, it's up to you if you want to read this. I wrote a fantasy story for cub a couple of years ago when we were first dating. It's not really horror, but the payoff is pretty good if you get all the way to the end...

In any case, more reviews to follow. I have bought so many videos lately, the floor is gonna cave in on my rich Newport Beach neighbors below. I mean, I just bough a box that had two copies of Maniac Cop in it and two copies of Nightmare Weekend. I thought that being away from Amoeba would slow the flow of horror product into my place. I thought wrong. Stop me from my ebay addiction.

Long before Cryter's death, though not long after Panchan was but dust on the streets, she came to a break in her travels to visit with a wealthy suitor. Indeed he was wealthy, and indeed he was old, as most of her suitor's had been and would be, but she did not love him. Still, she stayed with him at his estate and told him, of all things, that his age would not deter her from staying with him. Perhaps he believed her, perhaps he just wanted to, but he was always conscious of showing his age whenever she was around. As they walked his ground each evening, holding hands, he would always push on when Cryter exclaimed "oh you must be tired". In fact each evenings walk became longer, until the night when passing over the seventh hill, they entered a grove no man had ever wandered into before. The last rays of sun illuminated a twilight setting where a sleek young forest cat arched it's back by a crystal stream to drink the mountain water. Cryter lit up at the sight, but it displeased the older man. He quickly pulled an arrow from his quiver and shot the cat through the heart. Cryter cried out and ran towards the dying animal and the man felt like a fool for reacting out of jealousy. The cat looked up at Cryter and said "I know you would not hurt me, so I will help you. Look at my whiskers, they are solid gold. Pluck them and be rich, they are of no use to me now..." Then the cat closed his eyes forever. Cryter wept. She could not take the gold whiskers and buy happiness as a result of the cat's end. Cryter turned to walk away, then turned back, and pulled one whisker. She would not want to forget this cat.

Every spring came the squirrel games where the mountain squirrels would roll boulders in a race with the humans. The man had never beaten the squirrels, but this year he amassed a new team, recruiting the strongest athletes from the university to play for him. He bragged constantly to Cryter of his upcoming victory and she finally contended, "You may win, but only because of the young men you have paid to play. Even when you were young, you did not beat the squirrels." After hearing this the man's stomach dropped. How could he prove himself? He would role the winning boulder.

Before dawn he rose to go to the plains where he practiced boulder rolling as a youth. He spotted the same boulder he once had practiced with, now covered in moss, but surely a great place to begin practicing. He threw his weight into a push, but then every muscle erupted in excruciating pain. As he lay on the ground convulsing, he began to weep.

The walk home would be long he new. He crawled like a sick fool towards the pond to get some drink and was horrified by his reflection. He was covered in dirt from his convulsions and he looked haggard and old. Surely he could not be seen until he cleaned himself, shaved off his grey stubble, and perhaps even put on a wig. Had it come to that? He did not want to be seen by anyone in this state and decided to walk home through the poor neighborhood where no one he knew would see him limp.

The houses in the poor part of town where dilapidated and the smoke off burning excrement in the streets was quite thick. To avoid the sight of creature's corpses in the road, he paid attention to the signs on the buildings which said queer things like "Here there be Grog", "Mercenaries for Hire", and "Fountain of Youth"... Wait, what was the last one..?, he looked again. The shop's windows were too dirty to see in, but the door creaked open. A muffled voice can from within. "Come in..." There was no one else on the street to obey the command, so he did just that.

The man sat before an old crone of perhaps 489 years. Her tattered robes covered her face, but not her scent. She smelled like garlic and spices mixed with vinegar. It was not common for the man to be confronted by the offensive, but he did not leave. He found himself nodding as she asked him if he wanted to be young again. Did he know he would have to do evil to achieve his wish. He knew. All he would have to do would be to take something from a loved on and carry it with him always. She could not know he took it and it would have to be something dear to her. Well that would be a small sacrifice for his new found virility, would it not? "How true.." cackled the witch.

On Cryter's table sat her prized possessions and the man picked up each one to see what weighed the least. After all, he would have to carry it with him always. Her brush? Made of hard stone. Her music box? Light, but too bulky. Wait... there in a crystal vase stood the golden whisker. He slid it into the waistband of his pants, just in time, as Cryter entered the room.

"What are you doing in here?", she asked. "Nothing." He smiled and felt good as he fled scene, bounding down the spiral steps with ease. Before he new it he was outside looking at his own reflection in the mote. He looked ten years younger, no!, twenty. "What's gotten into you.." yelled Cryter out the window. He looked up at her. He would just have to bound back up those stairs. His new youth made him feels excitement. But then, a sharp pain between his legs. In horror he saw his pants turn red with blood. As he tore off his trousers, his final act in life, he saw that the gold whisker was no longer tucked in his waistband, but was stuck through the head of his penis.

epilogue - where the old man died and where his blood fertilized the ground by the moat, only weeds would grow. Even today, when gardeners are equipped where gasoline motors and genetically engineered grass seeds, that bank is still a thorny tangle.