Every Day is Halloween 8-Pack

Every Day Is Halloween 8-Pack

by William D. Tucker

$99.99 SRP

Special Features:

Collectible packaging

Interactive Menus

English Language

5K Deluxe New Era Pan-and-Scan

Color

Includes free ticket for Every Day is Halloween 9

Digital Download for Every Day is Halloween (does not apply to parts 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, or 8)

Unskippable 27 minute anti-piracy PSA

Online-enabled microtransactions to unlock the true endings of all eight parts

Exclusive Fealty-Con Press Conference with William D. Tucker

Mystical Copyright Homunculus Prevents Illegal Copying

Trailers

Every Day Is Halloween

I pull on this costume

'Til I break it in.

Take it off before I go to work,

Of course,

But then there came a time

When I just kept it on.

I was kinda depressed, to tell you the truth.

Hard to care about bathing properly,

Flossing, brushing, soap stuff.

But terror twisted my guts at the thought of missing work.

Getting fired.

Having no money.

Not being able to eat.

Eviction.

Now I'm one of those people standing on the side of the road with a cardboard sign.

One of those people that no one cares about.

Because no job, no money, no clean clothes, no status, zeroed out of reality.

Except as a kind of living breathing object lesson

To all the workers.

So I decided I would just go to work with the costume on.

Sure, it was a rebellious thing.

A fuck you kind of thing.

Even though I got along with everybody at work.

The customers were all right, discounting a few hard-ons here and there.

My boss, Becky, she was always cool to me.

It was the routine, the structure, the day-after-goddamn-day-ness of it

That I despised, I think.

So I decided I would just go to work with the costume on.

And nobody said anything.

It was one of those deals where you do that one fucked-up thing,

And you're expecting to get punished for it,

And you're terrified,

But you're also kind of looking forward to being confronted about it, punished,

Especially at work, right?

But the first time I did it

My whole shift making those sugary, syrupy caffeinated coffee beverages

I'm waiting for my boss to give me shit.

But it's like nothing.

I hit every order just right.

I'm greeted by all the usual customers,

I say the expected lame non-funny funny remarks I'm supposed to say,

And laugh at the expected lame non-funny funny remarks my fellow employees say in response,

Just like any other day.

And then my shift ends.

Before, I made a ritual out of going back to my apartment,

Lighting some candles to the spirit of Tom Snyder at the homemade altar,

Stripping out of my work clothes,

Blowing out the candles, singing a praise hymn to Tom Snyder,

Pulling on the costume,

One last prayer to Tom Snyder,

And going out and getting in fist fights and knife fights

With the same old gang of assholes downtown.

We'd been mixing it up like that for about six years or so,

But it seemed more like decades.

We packed all kinds of insane feuds, betrayals, and lunatic ideologies into those days.

I think we started out with some kind of half-sensible rationale for why we were doing it,

But that got lost,

Hmm,

Probably by the end of the third day or so.

Maybe the fourth day.

I don't really remember. Not sure I want to.

So up until that day,

I had my ritual.

Knew exactly what I was going to do with myself every moment of every day.

But that day

I already had my costume on,

So I didn't need to even go inside my apartment.

I just went straight downtown,

Muttered some quick prayers and a mini-hymn to Tom Snyder under my breath,

And immediately jumped on some dude I'd punched and kicked and stabbed a thousand times before.

Only this time

My beloved target

Was possessed of preternatural strength,

And beat the holy glowing feces out of me a thousand ways to Sunday.

One of the best times I ever had.

So I just kept coming back to work with my costume on.

Didn't bathe, either.

Stopped sleeping.

Lost my faith in Tom Snyder.

Just go to work,

Then go straight to the usual mayhem downtown.

Kept wearing it

'Til it was glued to my body by the filth.

'Til it grew into me, me into it.

Like the rope of the swing and the tree it's tied around.

Although it was hard to tell,

At first,

Because I was hallucinating like crazy from sleep deprivation,

The appearance and apparel of the customers

And my fellow employees

Began to subtly change.

A store-bought movie slasher mask here.

Some wild eyebrow makeup there.

And check out the finely carved and lacquered wooden Japanese demon mask on this one.

People started coming in with plastic swords, plastic AK-47s, and plastic pirate hook hands.

And then people started coming in with real steel katanas, live ammo AK-47s, and sharpened hook hands.

And that one guy with the fine wooden demon mask?

He came in one day with arcane energies crackling from his scaly body,

A wildly darting three foot tongue with its own face,

Which bore a striking resemblance to Edogawa Rampo

Declaiming mysterious verses in some lost language,

And a bouquet of perverted "tentacles" manifesting from his nether regions.

My manager tumbled in, seemingly carried by a strong breeze,

With wavy, razor sharp filaments extruding from every pore on her body.

I thought she was some kind of overgrown plant-seed-carrier-thing,

But then she started a fight with the weird dude in the traditional Mephistopheles costume from Gounod's perennially underrated opera Faust,

Flaying the Tempter down to his oddly poignant skeleton,

And that's when I realized that things had taken a turn.

Everybody began brawling with everybody.

Fangs.

Claws.

Projectile spines.

Unexpectedly pugilistic eyeballs popping in and out of muscular sockets.

Lightning bolts arcing from wizened fingertips.

Fire breath.

Antennae emitting psychedelic death rays.

A huge muscular dinosaur tail knocking a pack of rotting zombies through a plate glass window.

A coked-up bootlegger in a pinstriped suit thumb-wrestling a half-unicorn, half-Richard Nixon whatsit.

A Buddhist centaur lighting its horse half on fire to protest the Vietnam war,

While the human half threw a Molotov cocktail at a police car. Better late than never, I guess.

All the cops got in on the action, too, most of 'em stripped down to their bare asses.

I guess they were all rebelling against the costume, not sure.

In the midst of all this chaos,

Which started with a slow build of about a week,

And then sparked off into a little over a year long riot,

I found myself,

At first,

Exhilarated,

But then,

And this is the part where I know I'm going to disappoint some folks,

But I kinda just

Shut down.

But not.

See, I had all the sugary slushy caffeinated drinks memorized for most of the customers,

Including the times of day when each one was likely to come in,

I even had the other baristas' routines memorized, more or less,

So while this mythological clusterfuck was roiling around me

I started to obsessively make the caffeinated specialty beverages,

And set them at the pick up counter,

Announcing each one with perfect enunciation,

"Mocha blend tiramisu turtle soup Americano with 16 shots at the bar,"

Which was rather impressive for me

Because I've had kind of muddled enunciation all my life.

People have always had trouble understanding me all my life.

Not anymore.

Now there was no more ambiguity.

Only clarity.

Only perfectly hand-crafted coffee beverages.

In a never ending stream.

For all time.

In an ever-growing pile.

From floor to ceiling.

Through the ceiling.

For. Fucking. Ever.

Okay, not forever.

I exaggerate.

But that was the feeling.

As mythological beasts from legend, comic books, literature, and cinema

Slaughtered each other all around me,

As the air vibrated with a pulsing minimalist synth score,

As I became splattered with suspect fluids,

Even on those occasions when I was temporarily conscripted into the infernal army

Of this or that BDSM attired wannabe god-CEO of agony,

Or this or that sentient outsized globally recognized candy bar brand with dreams of inhaling all the gas on Jupiter just to get wicked high,

I would still perfectly pantomime fulfilling the orders

Of all the customers

From that increasingly distant time

That I so dearly hated.

And now so dearly missed, wanted, needed.

Like I said,

I shut down.

But not really.

How can I put it?

It's like if every day is Halloween . . . I don't even know.

I mean,

My life was kind of insane before,

And now it's even more insane,

And there's more insanity on the road ahead, right?

That's not how things are supposed to be.

Things are supposed to start normal,

And then go crazy.

Or you start out crazy,

And then you get your shit stabilized,

Start exercising, eating properly, get on a proper sleep schedule, take the right pills,

Right?

I mean,

I didn't come up with this shit.

This is how things were always presented to me.

You start on one side of the line or the other,

And then you work your way to the other side.

You're either playing the getting over game,

Or the hedonist self-destruction game.

Unless you're born on the right side of the line,

The one that has all the money,

In which case, okay, stasis would make sense,

So, uh, I dunno. I really don't have any clue.

So,

Like,

The universal mythological clusterfuck riot scene went on for about a year,

A little over a year,

And then people started to come down from it.

They started going into their old job routines in pantomime.

Like what I was doing with my barista gig after I stopped taking off the costume,

But I guess, like, I was ahead of the curve?

I dunno.

I mean, I've always been a kind of trendsetter.

Going back to when I was a teenager.

I'd find out about some band that no one heard of, and then I'd tell everybody about it,

Or some movie or some comic book.

And then people would be into that new thing.

And I was fashionable.

I wore pretty cool clothes.

People wanted to dress like me.

Even the teachers.

Even the coaches.

I tell that to people now,

And they think I'm joking.

But it's true.

I set trends.

So maybe now with all this crazy costume shit . . . I don't even know.

So,

Maybe,

That's what was going on with me my whole life?

It's totally nuts,

And like I said, I stopped sleeping. Maybe I'm not seeing what I'm seeing.

Even though I see everything with perfect clarity, especially now.

But things started to get back to, like, fake normal.

No one was bathing. No one was sleeping anymore.

Those who had undergone full-on transformations into mythic and supernatural beings

They didn't really change back.

But they acted like they were back in the old human rut.

My co-worker Ben,

He became this human-shaped thing made entirely out of toes

That was constantly emitting a pre-recorded stream of audio clips of speeches by George W. Bush,

And he didn't change back,

But he went back to slinging those coffee beverages just like in days of old.

My boss, she was still that overgrown plant-seed-carrier whatsit,

She still smoked weed in her Honda every lunch break,

Still a pretty cool boss.

Sidney, the girl who biked to work, still loved to talk about her mission trips to South America,

Even though she was now a difficult to pin down blur of scintillating lights and arcane symbols.

We had all been transformed.

We all had our Time of Fun.

And now we were back to work.

Except there were no more coffee beans, latte mix, or shots to shoot.

Most of the paper cups had been eaten by the naked cops,

And the freaky tentacle rape beast had eaten all the metal objects in the store,

Including all the coffee making machines and assorted equipment.

But the team went into action in pantomime.

Even the customers,

Who had all ritually burned their cash in praise of Psychopathic Deities and Insurgent Barsoomian Spirits,

Who had all offered up their credit and debit cards as sacrifice to the ghost of Tom Snyder,

He of the nonstop witty patter and the perpetually burning cigarette held between middle and forefinger,

Even the customers kept on coming in,

Playing their parts with an exquisite mixture of Chekhovian subtlety and violent, alienating  theatrical gestures of embodiment worthy of Bertolt Brecht,

All of us,

Workers and consumers alike

Possessed with the obsessive yet mindful pantomime of mindless commerce.

Exhausting,

But way better than the real thing ever was,

Or ever could have been.

For we are all now in a Transcendent Rut.

William Blake is really pleased with all this, by the way.

I've been speaking to him

Underneath a collective of regular customers

Who have willed themselves into the shape of a Cubist Sequoia

And he said this was exactly what he was getting at.

But I think he's just being polite.

Not sure. Not sure I want to be sure.

Every Day Is Halloween 2

Sequel

slash the budget

dump it in some film school grad's lap

command and control functions stay with the producer

Maximize marketing budget

optimize gore

optimize tits

optimize confusing, pseudo-arty shaky-cam bullshit

optimize shouting

optimize piss' n'shit grim'n'gritty color palette

optimize bogus "true story" websites

Economize talent

shoot in an anti-union right-to-work state

hire actors with low Q-ratings

for low pay

work them like pack animals

Strangely,

there's always money for 3-D post-conversion

If it's a hit,

crank out another one,

same formula

If it bombs,

write it down,

dodge some taxes

It isn't art,

nor is it truly entertainment,

but it's a healthy living

for the New Era Corporate Citizen.

3: living skeleton actor fuck 

role puts flesh, blood, guts on this frame

not to mention tumors,  scars, bad thoughts, eureka insights,

mercy, sadism, self-sacrifice, greed, ambition, romance;

build each persona up from micro-replicators

into complex thoughts, interlocking processes of pattern recognition,

various esoteric mental exercises culled from misreadings of Stanislavski and Grotowski,

irrational desires, fears, obsessions, joys;

book the gig

fill me up

live in the moment

'til it got heavy

with burdens of reputation

now he's just repeating the same old shtick

fuzzy stretch where I didn't shoot after 4:30pm for about five years

'cause I was stinking shitfaced

but it made me more of a cult fave in the years to come

I'm slurring lines on camera,

always seated, slightly listing to one side,

visible use of body double when standing and shot from behind

obvious ADR by anonymous voice over artist

since lips and tongue were only capable of blotto-talk

the voice is one thing and then another

sad at the time

YouTube clipjob comedy gold in this New Era.

online parodies resurrected me

for stunt casting, for the new wave of self-aware exploitation flicks.

a lot of work,

a lot of love from all over the world

festival and con bookings

I go even if it's on my dime

depends on the size of the marketing budget

but I'll go just for the feeling

nothing like this was ever supposed to be in my future

what a racket,  you know?

my latest job

is a dipshit detective

gets his head cut off by a psycho lumberjack

they didn't even do a proper cast of my head

the wig

from behind

kinda looks like my hair

but they do it old school when they put my head through a hole in the set floor

and have me silently work my mouth like a freshly decapitated fish head,

it's actually an homage to a previous death scene I played

in the 1980s

one of the Italian Mad Max knockoffs

I did three or four of those back in the day

current crop of directors go crazy cramming in callbacks,

scenes from the past,

b-movies constitute their own reality, history, liturgy

I have this weird dream:

I strip it all down to the bone.

not even rehearsal clothes, like in my repertory theatre days,

not even the bare skin, like in my experimental protest theatre period.

no skin, blood, guts, eyes, brains, lips, tongue,

just the skeleton

all pinned and jointed together,

suspended from an ornate carved rack,

polished and lacquered to a piercing sheen.

you crank up the air conditioning,

put the script in front of the vent,

words lift off the page,

whisper'n'rage through my ribcage.

Something that stripped down-well, they could slather on some CG if that's too pure of a hit.

Make me into a transforming talking car or some shit.

4: All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person

A god-the God?-answers the sweaty, gross prayers of some degenerate aspiring filmmaker, most likely some jerk-off film school graduate ... 

And some god-the God?-spake . . .

saying . . .

If you're willing to inject a virus into the computer graphics pipeline

while wearing DIY prosthetics makeup

of a monstrous being you spent a month of Tuesdays cooking up inside your brain

must be an original

no cosplay allowed

AND

you agree to shoot using only film and 100% analog editing equipment and techniques

no sound,

must be black and white

AND

you light one of the letters of the Hollywood sign on fire-any letter, so long as it burns

then

you will be blessed

with an All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person

a kind of ersatz human from another plane of existence

(e.g. a recent theatre school graduate)

who has been completely neutralized, stripped of all individuality by advanced acting techniques

who you will be permitted to use as you see fit

in your artsy-fartsy black and white shot-on-actual-film movie

typically,

end-users stab and/or shoot these neutrals after imbuing them with the identity of their choice of fantasy target

(identity induction protocols/procedures are included in an accompanying instruction booklet found inside a kangaroo-ish skin pocket in the abdomen)

it could be

man, woman, child

someone you knew in life,

someone powerful,

someone evil,

someone innocent,

mom,

dad,

an ex,

someone you imagine,

even a fictional character,

I mean

vengeance fantasies are stupifyingly common among aspiring filmmakers these days.

BUT

you don't have to go down that road

you could cultivate your neutral into a real human being

befriend them

nurture them

set them free

even if that almost never happens-you could do that shit

you really could

you could break that mold into tiny pieces

but the odds will most likely exert a crushing power over your pittance of "free will,"

and you will run to type

and make some kind of an arty fucking snuff film

as per usual

as per the norm

just another angry little shit with a camera,

aaaand

a head full of power/domination fantasies

nothing special

but go ahead and prove my ass wrong

wrong as Richard Nixon

I would be very amused by that

amused AF

5: Shadowing Up

Santa pulls the chains

attached to the steel arrows

buried deep in the heaving flanks

of His twelve cloud-tripping reindeer.

Claus reaches into His bottomless sack

(all done up with runes that keep twisting themselves up into ruins evocative of bygone empires, makes your brain hurt to stare at it too long, makes you want to go build an empire, just so it can eventually be all bygone and shit)

grasps the blazing industrial complex of intertwined mandalas of intertwined industrial complexes within

transmits dreams of world-girdling conspiracies through all the face-splitting hairs of all his beards

(which are, of course, mystically empowered antennae, learn something new every-)

to all the faithful of all ages

gives them ENEMY

gives them the Rubblemind to go deal with ENEMY

broadcasts to all the boys and girls

on both lists, actually,

who have all mostly organized themselves into competing militarized secret police agencies,

the militarized secret police model having displaced all the others-nuclear family, tribe, organized crime, cult/organized religion, legacy political party, terrorist cell, tabletop role-playing gathering, online gaming network-to become the primary mode of human professional and/or social activity.

Santa makes sure to shadow up

before appearing on radar as a paid propaganda asset of various military-industrial-infotainment complexes around the world

or for His select on-camera major media market appearances

wouldn't do to let the kids-of-all-ages behold the pierced reindeer

(reindoors, actually, that let Claus clip in and out of vanilla space-time, make the goddamn schedule)

definitely would not do

to let anyone

of any age

behold His true face

or any part of His true body

which is mostly a lot of teeth, claws, and agonized vestigial faces

glitching in and out of mundane reality

too many leftover, conflicting design assets,

too much malevolent design creep going in all directions,

over too many iterations

across too many corrupted, partial-build realities

trying to be too damn many places at once'll do that

gotta provide all the boys and girls

of all ages

on both lists, mind you

with ENEMY

on schedule

in all the asshole realities.

Which doesn't leave much He can reveal without properly shadowing up first.

Ho-ho-ho, motherfuckers.

6: Fade Into Flesh

dimly remembered trailer from the early 1990s

logo for an independent distributor zaps in from four corners of the frame

something like 'Montage Sunset' or 'Sunkissed Pictures' or something to that effect

eerie electronic drumbeat as we zoom in on a bewildered teenage boy's face amidst drawing room settings

a middle aged man-the teen's father?-reaches out to the camera as uniformed men drag him away

a flash of light

the teenage boy grabs the sides of his head

a silhouette is seen outlined against a blazing light

electronic roaring sneaks up on the drumbeat

a psycho hand holds a wicked blade aloft

a movie detective puts his feet up on a desk as he takes a drag on a cigarette indoors

an angry mob of suburban husbands and wives jeer and shout into the camera from above

the teen's father lies on the ground bruised and beaten

a respectable looking man in an ultramodern home reels from an unseen assailant knocking over an abstract sculpture as he stumbles

a psycho set of black-gloved hands caresses a shining blade

the light from the blade hits the stumbling man right in the eyes

the teen's father begs up at the camera

a yuppie bastard laughs as he splashes gasoline from a red can onto the camera

freeze frame on a cruel laughing face through the twisting fall of fuel

a rising electronic howl

as we cut to a zoom into the face of the teen holding his hands to his ears

movie detective stalks the labyrinthine darkness of an abandoned mannequin factory, service revolver in his fist

movie detective stands with his hands in his pockets as a lingerie clad informant makes eyes at the cop from a chaise lounge

a psycho hand holds a wicked blade aloft, catching the light just so

the lingerie clad informant gets a blast of blade light in the eyes

movie detective aims his service revolver directly into the camera

zoom into a hateful obsessive eye peering at us from the unzipped eyehole of a fetish leather mask

the hateful eye flashes solar

horribly burnt hands close themselves into gory fists

teen holds hands to ears

the hateful eye flashes solar

movie detective catches the lightblast right in the eyes as he fires his service revolver directly into the camera

the gunshot echoes and echoes

the electronic roar howls and howls

we see the back of the teenage boy as he stands before a blazing fire somewhere in suburbia

cruel neighbor faces stare back at him from across the fire

title card zooms into us with a metallic crash

FADE INTO FLESH

movie detective takes a puff on his cigarette,

smiles,

says,

"It was such a lovely little neighborhood, you know?"

quick burst of credits

month

day

Rated R

7: Lost Bronson

From the Obliteration Frontier forums . . . posted under user name LostBronSon . . .

Against my better judgment,

I decided to marathon all of the Charles Bronson Death Wish movies,

all five of 'em,

over the course of one day.

I felt so filthy and corrupted by this experience

that I had to do it again,

day after day,

week after week,

for a year,

and,

of course,

I lost everything.

Job.

Friends . . . I only had three.

But they were cool dudes.

Not as cool as Charles Bronson.

But they were a'ight.

Girlfriend . . . which hurt a bit. But I would argue that ours was a mostly notional relationship anyways. Iris and I mostly connected through the realms of a MMORPG called Obliteration Frontier,

and to look at us in real life,

out-of-shape, bad haircuts, conversations which mostly focus on the minutiae of Obliteration Frontier lore,-

-Hey.

I get it.

The jokes write themselves.

But you must consider: some of us in this world don't feel wholly comfortable in our own bodies.

Yes, we should exercise daily.

Yes, we should eat better.

No, we do neither of those things, nor do we care to, nor are we over concerned about our own early mortality.

I could tell you in great detail about how there's no free will, and we are all in thrall to hardwired "central tendencies" and "forces of history,"

but you would find me tedious. And unconvincing.

Just as I find myself

tedious

and unconvincing.

Yet,

that magical Free Will

never manifests.

And I am locked into a spiral of increasing habit, self-loathing, and cosmically recursive guilt that drives me faster and harder in a circle 'round the drain.

I could go on and on.

But I have concluded I am just a survival meat-bot, executing program over and over,

ingesting food,

ingesting liquids,

showing up to job to earn money

to purchase food, liquids, escapism, clothes.

Until I began asking myself, "What if I just unplugged?"

But this was too scary.

I fantasized escape every day, night, in dreams, awake,

but I'm no survivalist.

I could never go off the grid.

I am the Grid . . . but that's a tale for another time.

Occasionally,

I'll watch a movie. Usually something weird and violent.

Iris hates movies,

she sees them as an outmoded medium,

and I largely agree.

But movies from long ago,

with physical special effects,

and actual stunt performers

give me a charge that high-end CG animated avatars cannot contain.

Wuxia. HK heroic bloodshed. Arnold. John Carpenter's The Thing. That grisly 1980's remake of The Blob.

Bronson.

I'd always meant to watch the Charles Bronson movies.

Especially the legendarily trashy and exploitative Death Wish franchise.

And so I set aside a single day to do it.

That was my habit.

Take a day out of the week to watch a bunch of old, sleazy movies.

Iris leaves me alone to do this. I just let her know a couple days ahead of time,

"Think I'm going to take a movie day."

I already had a hard drive full of Charles Bronson movies I'd been collecting through file sharing and torrents over the years.

Just had to go in, cue up the five Death Wish flicks,

ready to rock-and-sit.

Have you seen the Bronson vigilante movies?

I'm tempted to say if you've seen one you've seen them all . . . but this isn't strictly true.

But they are similar enough, that if you watched one you sort of get the gist.

You'll know if you want to watch more once you've seen one.

Many watch one

and feel totally repulsed by the copious amounts of sexual violence, rape, shootings, stabbings, and not so subtle overtones of racism and misogyny,

and if you are repulsed,

then good: you are free to turn away, and embrace life.

But if you are drawn to it,

as I am,

then you realize you are in search of something in the vortex of madness.

I found that something.

I should tell you at this point,

that I have innovated a superior method of watching movies and television and other passive forms of media (music videos, online video essays, etc.).

I see no point in consuming media according to official dictates.

I'll download, re-edit, re-score, re-arrange, and even re-voice the scenes as I see fit.

Sometimes my tinkering comes about as a result of dissatisfaction:

a movie is too long; actors' performances are poor; a film needs new scenes to be properly finished, and so I'll insert appropriate scenes from other media, or I'll compose crude animatics to fill the lack.

This is an engaged, serious-minded approach to media consumption.

Not riffs. Not parodies. Not swilling beers, and cracking jokes with the gang.

These are modifications made to satisfy certain, serious aesthetic desires,

and these recut versions do not circulate outside of my own secure, offline system.

My own private cinema.

But I do watch the movies in their original forms at least once, the first time through.

But even during the first watch,

I'm looking for that new vision, that new cut,

but it doesn't just come from my own imagination

or caprice;

rather,

the feeling is that there are other possible films lurking within a given film,

or series of films,

or maybe it's more like each shot

is a unit of communication within the totality of global cinema.

Each film is an imperfect,

often times confused

expression of this global cinema emanating from individual, seemingly isolated production,

and it is this global cinema

that I'm seeking to articulate.

But even I am an imperfect vehicle for this expression.

I tend towards my own tastes, fantasies, preferences.

I scorn CG animated movies, even if I largely relate to Iris and others through an online video game,

I strictly prefer my cinema to be as physical and celluloid as possible.

So,

I do not hold out hope of becoming the perfect vehicle, a kind of prophet.

Maybe I'll transcend my own limitations if I keep at it diligently.

From my first marathon watch of the Death Wish franchise,

I saw the untapped potentialities.

But they were all strictly in the realm of satire, making jokes, swilling beer with the gang.

No, on a private level, I'm not above such foolishness.

But I refuse to allow my public persona to be that of the comedian.

And so, the following weekend,

I took another movie day to watch the five Death Wish movies again.

I noticed the use of squibs-small triggered explosions of fake blood to simulate bullet hits-in the first movie and compared them to how they were used in the subsequent four movies.

The squib work is low key, and somewhat grisly at times,

yet I sensed that there could've been a higher outrageousness to the bloodshed,

particularly in the third installment which lapses into meta-cinematic self-parody

as an enraged citizenry follow the example of their vigilante Christ

and take to the streets to gleefully fire off their guns and kill, kill, kill.

I began to see this mode of madness

as the secret heart of the Bronson Death Wish cycle.

In Death Wish 3, the filmmakers decided to flaunt the fascist power fantasy of vigilantism, and confront the audience with its own twisted desires to see an emotionless, near-silent Charles Bronson kill scores of people in the name of law and order no matter the ethics, the collateral damage, or even logic of such actions. "Here it is, gorehounds, eat your fucking fill!"

And so I set to work pulling apart the scenes,

re-suturing them in a highly disjunctive style,

mixing and matching past/present/future,

having middle-aged Bronson/old Bronson/elderly Bronson shoot at himself,

I even manipulated the audio to make it seem like the squibs were the firing guns,

and the discharging guns the wounds.

I looked deep into Bronson's sad, wrinkle entombed eyes,

and I knew I had to free him,

and all the other actors,

from the fascist idiocy,

from my own idiocy,

and so I created . . . a kind of sixth Death Wish film . . . in which the actors do not fire off their guns . . . they wander a vast empty city . . . a cheap backlot set . . . and when they encounter one another . . . they do not draw their pistols . . . their bodies writhe and burst and spray each other with bright red, viscous syrups and chunks of raw hamburger meat . . . and they do a little dance like they're playing a typically exaggerated shooting death scene in a violent action flick . . . everybody's just squibbing all over each other . . . this was the secret film I unlocked within the official franchise . . . the Lost Bronson Classic . . . this new movie accesses random selections of scenes based on complex algorithms within the code . . . yes, I had to draw new scenes completely from scratch . . . most of it, as of this post, has yet to be properly finished . . . it's all in my all-too-sad head . . . because this movie doesn't need to exist outside of my mind . . . it's too good for this world. People would see it, and would have no choice but to start squibbing all over themselves and each other uncontrollably, until the world drowned in fake blood and chunks of raw hamburger meat.

The secret of the Lost Bronson Classic will die with the final deactivation of my idiotic brain functions.

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

But I got weak.

I just had to share the secret of the Lost Bronson Classic.

I'm living with my cousin, Mike, typing these words over WiFi I cannot afford. I sacrificed my old life to realize this vision. I'm not sure it was worth it. I'm not sure I can forgive myself for ditching Iris like I did . . . but that is a story for another time-one that will never come around, a story I'll never be able to tell . . . or, you know, I want it to be like that. I want the dramatic end of self-destruction.

But I lack the free will to execute such drama.

I'm a survival meat-bot, faithfully operating according to program,

day-in, day-out.

Neither wholly convincing nor wholly fanciful,

not quite a full-on filmmaker, not quite a sarcastic piss-taker,

I work in retail,

and am grateful that my cousin Mike took me in despite my madness, my malfunction,

my momentary eruption of free will.

8: Hell in the Depths of Franchise

Soaked red in carnage,

Shoulder pain fucks his game up,

Masked madman yells "Shit!"

Victim at hand bolts.

Masked killer throws knife, sticks wall.

Humiliation.

This deep into it,

A masked killer asks himself,

"Now, can I be killed?"

"Sure," says Voice of God.

"As long as this one flops hard."

But the money rains.

Geek show audience

Howls for gore treats tasty-yum-good,

Served safe, open palm.

Capital pressures,

Hell in the depths of franchise.

Automaton kills.

Killer stabs again.

A killer must stalk the night.

Profits just enough.

Killer's arm is tired.

He dreams of prestige picture.

But the money reigns.

Killer stabs own heart.

God thunders, shocks a flatline,

A killer stands tall.

God, fire upon brain,

Says, “Son, there must be terror,

To increase the faith.”

Killer stabs own heart,

God thunders, shocks a fuck-up,

A killer stands tall.

God says, “No more, Son,

Not ‘til we reach End-of-Days,

And then, you may die.”

Killer’s mind fills up.

The world entire, stab-murdered.

No variation. 

But then killer thinks,

Who will make the damn money?

Spend the damn money?

God says, “In End Times,

Money shall make itself, Son,

No humans needed.”

Killer's death left him.

Shoulder surgery scheduled.

Resigned to his fate.