Horror Movies to Savor and Detest

By JM Cozzoli

I"m a horror fan with a blog. Scary.

Within these pages you will find horror movies to savor and detest. So many horrors, so little time to be terrified; frightful, isn't it?
As a monsterkid in the 1960s, I grew up in Brooklyn with three theaters in walking distance (the Loew's Oriental and the Benson on 86th Street were my favorites). Many weekends and many nights were spent watching horror and sci fi movies (my mom would take me to the horror movies, and my dad took me to the science fiction ones). My first true scare was watching Night of the Living Dead (I was way too young for that!). My fondest memories are watching all those wonderfully good (and some frightfully awful) movies on my local NYC channels , hosted by either Zacherley or the Creep, and eating way too much sugar-loaded cereal on Saturday mornings while I watched Scooby Doo, The Monster Squad, and Groovie Ghoulies. I was doomed to horror from the start.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JM Cozzoli
• Release date: Nov 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310896583

JM Cozzoli

As a fan of horror and the fantastique in movies, books, and popular culture, I write about the genre that people love to fear. Growing up as a monsterkid in the 1960s and 1970s, and having two theaters in my neighborhood, it was bound to happen sooner or later. So I'm a horror fan with a long-running blog.Scary.

Book preview

Introduction

Welcome to Zombos' Closet, a rather dark and cloying place (for a blog, that is), filled with untold treasures and just plain lousy stuff Zombos keeps stuffing into it. You remember Zombos, don’t you? He's the monsterkid in all of us, yearning to be scared and to scare.

You remember Zombos, don’t you?

A grade B actor in numerous grade C horror movies (just pretend, okay?), most of which are forgotten by his few remaining and decaying fans. He is such an aging dilettante; always looking backward, while reluctantly edging forward into the new age of horror. He pines for the old, less gory days, but secretly enjoys those zombies and slashers. And I, his patient and understanding servant, am charged with finding more and more room in his immense closet to accommodate his passions of the moment. He pines for the old, less gory days, but secretly enjoys those zombies and slashers, and cool horror shows on television, that go far beyond what came before.

Within these pages you will find all the horror to savor and detest. So many horrors, so little time to be terrified; frightful, isn’t it?

As a horror fan starting in the 1960s, I grew up in Brooklyn with three theaters in walking distance (the Loew's Oriental and the Benson on 86th Street were my favorites). Many weekends and many nights were spent watching horror and sci fi movies (my mom would take me to the horror movies, and my dad took me to the sci fi ones). My first true scare was watching Night of the Living Dead (I was way too young for that!). My fondest memories are watching all those wonderfully good (and some frightfully awful) movies on my local NYC channels , hosted by either Zacherley or the Creep, and eating way too much sugar-loaded cereal on Saturday mornings while I watched Scooby Doo, The Monster Squad, and Groovie Ghoulies.

So you can see how I'd turn into a horror fan with a blog.

Scary, isn't it?

From the old to the new in horror movies in these reviews and views, here and there you will also meet up with these curious characters in those reviews, along with their sundry adventures. Chalk it up to the cheeky writer side of me.

You remember Zombos, don’t you?

I appear as Iloz Zoc (my blog’s alter ego), full-time--and long suffering--valet to Zombos. Within these pages you will meet others who live in and visit his mansion on the Gold Coast of Long Island as he and I delve into some of the worst and best horror movies. I do it for the fun of it, of course.

Here are some of the other odd characters you will meet.

Zimba—Zombos' alluring wife.

Zombos Jr—Zombos' annoying son.

Glenor Glenda—our rather sensitive housekeeper. She can never make up her mind.

Lawn Gisland—Ex-rodeo and silver screen cowpoke, all six feet and three inches of him. Having starred in numerous television Westerns during the 1950s and 60s, he and Zombos go way back together. He hung up his spurs and retired to Florida to wrestle gators for the tourists. Getting bored with that, he had an itch and scratched it by touring as a trick-riding and fancy shooting cowboy for the Smith and Walloo Brothers 3-in-1 Circus. For a man his age, he doesn't show it. Zombos often jokes that Lawn must keep a decrepit looking portrait in his attic like Dorian Gray. All joking aside, I think he's right.

Jimmy Sosumi—Zombos' crackerjack estate lawyer. His smotto is ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way…to make money.’

Paul Hollstenwall—our annoying neighbor, purveyor of bad movies, which he insists on showing us at every opportunity. The Hollstenwalls live at 0004 Gravestart Lane, a short energetic walk from the mansion.

Pretorius—our quite ancient groundskeeper who keeps a very neat lawn.

Chef Machiavelli—a culinary god; we’d starve without him.

I hope you have as much fun reading these reviews as I did writing them. Check out my blog at www.zomboscloset.com. There you will find monster magazines, Mexican lobby cards, horror movie pressbooks, and so much more.

JMCozzoli

Dear Mr. Ebert

Silent Hill, 2006

Dear Mr. Ebert:

I am aghast that you, as mentioned in your review for Silent Hill, cannot describe the plot for this movie. I, as you, have not played the video game, but even so I think the plot woefully obvious. Allow me to illustrate it, with as much brevity as possible, so you can better appreciate the nuances of this gripping horror story.

But before I begin, I was wondering what you use for a light source when you take notes during the movie? I've tried various book-lights and pen-lights, but they're either too bright, annoying those sitting around me, or too awkward to position, or uncomfortable to hold for long periods of time. I was lucky with Silent Hill as there was an Exit sign which cast just enough reddish light for me to see what I was writing. Of course, I had to sit on the floor next to it, but it wasn't too uncomfortable; except for the occasional person stepping over me to go to the bathroom or concession stand. It's a good thing I don't review Disney movies as I'd have had the little monsters and their rude parents incessantly running back and forth trampling me.

Getting back to Silent Hill, the plot is a simple one, often repeated in horror and science fiction movies. It even reminded me of the Star Trek episode, And the Children Shall Lead, where Gorgon, an evil alien who appears to children as a friendly angel (played by real-life attorney Melvin Belli), takes advantage of their naivety to further his evil plans. He uses them as a conduit for his nasty powers. Now instead of an evil alien, in Silent Hill we have a kid, Alessa, who's being used by a malevolent demon to exact malicious mischief and revenge on the titular (I always love using that word: it sounds so naughty) townspeople that did her wrong.

Now—oh, wait a minute—is it a demon that is using the girl as a conduit or is it actually the dark half of the girl that's taking revenge on the townsfolk? The convoluted explanation toward the last quarter of the movie, oddly done in an inappropriate grainy fake-home-movie-styled flashback, describes how badly the poor kid was mistreated, and how she eventually split into a dark half who curses and destroys the town and everyone in it, and a good half the dark half sends away, only to call it back after nine years.

But then why bother to send the good half away, only to have it return after nine years?

I missed something. I better start over.

Dear Mr. Ebert,

I'm surprised that you, as mentioned in your review for Silent Hill, can't describe the plot for this move. I, as you, have not played the video game, but even so, I think the plot fairly obvious. Allow me to illustrate, with as much brevity as possible, so you can better appreciate the nuances of this atmospheric horror story.

Alessa, born out of wedlock, is tormented by her classmates, victimized by the school janitor, and cooked like a hot dog by a wacky religious cult. The poor kid, amazingly, survives all this rude treatment and, naturally, develops an evil personification that can reach out from her badly scarred and bed-ridden body to maliciously destroy her tormentors. No wonder there.

Then again, you could look at it this way: a demon from hell takes advantage of the poor girl’s revengeful, hate-filled state of mind to kill everybody in town and lock their souls into a very imaginatively depicted hell-like limbo filled with endless horrific punishments.

After wreaking chaos and horror on the townsfolk, she realizes she's been acting rather badly and decides to create a good version of herself—pre-nastiness and all that, which she then sends away to live with total strangers until precisely nine years pass. Demon Alessa—or just a hell-spawned demon along for the ride—then summons pre-nastiness Alessa (now Sharon) back to town to…to...what?

And what’s that weird, confusing backstory about a witch burned by townsfolk and the town being on fire for years and years?

Oh, bugger! I thought I had it this time. I have to start over.

Dear Mr. Ebert,

I'm not surprised that you can't describe the plot for Silent Hill. It can be confusing to those not all that familiar with horror movies. Allow me to explain, with as much brevity as possible, so you can better appreciate the nuances of this visually stunning and creepy movie.

But first, I must give kudos to the art direction.

It's a wonderful creaturefest of makeup, CGI-enhanced sets and coloration, and icky-monster costuming that's quite a treat to watch. The creatures are nightmarish, in that nifty damned-to-hell kind of way, and the sounds and music when Alessa's mom goes deeper into that cursed town—especially when the siren blares a warning that the town is going ‘into the darkness’—is goosebumps inducing, evoking quite a horrific mood; and those embers glowing on the damned creatures’ bodies, and all that falling ash and pall over the town—again, Dante himself couldn't have done any better.

The script is another matter entirely.

The dialog, for instance, is atrocious. Many of the lines are eye-rollingly bad. The acting also needed better acting, especially during the climactic Barkeresque Hellraiser-styled confrontation in the church between Alessa’s mom and those evil cult members.

Mom does manage to walk through a congregation of crazed, kid-roasting individuals with amazing ease, doesn't she?

And the verbal showdown between them is so contextually dry; I wish I had Visine to squirt in my eyes each time they rolled around those groaners.

While I'm at it, what's with the black, skin-tight, leather uniform on the female motorcycle cop: I mean really, could you get it any tighter? How DOES she get on the motorcycle dressed in those tight pants? All she needs to complete her ludicrous ensemble is a pair of stiletto heels. Her weak acting during her own barbecue scene in the church is also very disappointing, especially when she’s the one being barbecued. A little more Ouch! or Ooh! would have provided more drama.

But before I go off on a tangent, let me explain the plot. Alessa, a poor kid born out of wed-lock and who winds up roasted like a turkey by an evil religious cult while HER mom puts up little resistance, takes revenge on the townspeople of Silent Hill.

Though I'm not sure if this occurred before the fires broke out in the mines or afterwards. I'm also not sure how the witch burning, thirty years beforehand, fits into the events with Alessa. There seem to be a few storylines going on here and little explanation to tie them together.

Anyway, from her hospital bed, the badly scarred and immobile Alessa, either through sheer malevolent will power, or by the assistance of a hellish demon (maybe the witch’s familiar?) destroys the town and its citizens, forcing their spirits to ‘live’ in a nightmare world that puts Dante’s Inferno to shame. They must endure not only the hellish Limbo they've been caught in, but also the Darkness that brings Pyramid Head (you need to have played the video game, but a guy with a pyramid on his head) and his agonies (give or take a few like in the video game) to torture them if they're unlucky enough to be caught outside their only sanctuary, the church.

Alessa, for some reason, sends off a good version of herself as a baby, now named Sharon, and then summons Sharon back to Silent Hill after nine years. Since Sharon sleepwalks and blurts out Silent Hill in her sleep a lot, her mom, casting caution to the wind, takes her to Silent Hill.

Not exactly sure why since Sharon’s scared sh+tless of the place. Perhaps her mom is just taking that confronting your fears thing a little too seriously?

Yes, Silent Hill! The one with all the well-known, evilly-cursed stuff attached to it. A place so notorious, Sharon’s father reads about it on the web at www.ghosttowns.com. This is the ABANDONED place that has had toxic fires burning beneath it for years, so much so that ash continually falls from the sky, and deadly fumes reek forth so badly not even a Glade Plug-in Air Freshener could cover it up.

So her mom takes her there, AT NIGHT, hoping to find out why her daughter keeps sleepwalking and saying Silent Hill a lot and seems so frightened of the damned place.

Along the way they're almost stopped by a dominatrix-looking motorcycle cop who dresses in impossibly tight leather motorcycle garb (minus stiletto heels, though), but her mom is determined to bring Sharon (really Alessa) to that deserted, fires-still-burning, town (that nobody else wants to go near)—in the middle of the night no less—so she puts the pedal to the metal, promptly crashing her car in the process.

Mom wakes up, finds her daughter missing, and heads into town on foot. The motorcycle cop follows them, promptly crashes her motorcycle, and heads into town on foot, too.

Now, Mr. Ebert, here is where the subtlety begins. You see, Sharon (really Alessa), her mom, and the motorcycle cop are actually dead, but they don't realize it. They died in their respective vehicular crashes. This is why they can be affected by the creatures and hellish darkness of Silent Hill while her husband, and the others searching for her, walk through the town unaffected and unaware.

Now Alessa, as Sharon, has her mom and the cop go through quite a few trials and tribulations to find her so she can use them to get into the church to send those evil cult members to Hell—well, more Hell that is, seeing as they're already knee deep in it. Much gore ensues as Alessa gloats and tears them apart in a scene of ripping butchery that Pinhead would be proud of. Sharon as Alessa—or Alessa as Sharon—and mom then walk back to the car, buckle themselves in for safety—this time—and head home.

Of course, there's the confusing sequelization-antic ending (my term for forcing a sequel: clever, huh?), where the husband is home as they return home, but he can’t see them and they can’t see him. The scene shifts between husband in his nice sunlit home and them in their bleak, ominous-looking home. Sharon-now-Alessa, or the demon posing as Sharon-now-Alessa, gives us that sinister, look, so common in horror movies these days, to tip us off that it isn’t over until the franchise says it’s over.

With them being dead, though, how, exactly, does dead Alessa benefit from taking over now dead Sharon’s body? And they (the script writers, I mean) still haven't explained why the witch was burned or why the fires started in the mines in the first place. Oh bloody hell. I thought I finally had it right this time. Crap.

Dear Mr. Ebert,

Never mind. You were right as usual.

Yours Truly,

Zoc

Trading Card Monsters?

Neon Maniacs, 1986

We were sitting in Zombos' study. Outside, the Long Island winter winds blew the gray barren tree limbs to and fro. Paul Hollstenwall was visiting and brought along Neon Maniacs. The Hollstenwalls live at 0004 Gravestart Lane, a few minutes’ walk from the mansion. Not far enough, if you ask me.

It’s always a lively and interesting time when Paul visits us.

Wait, that’s a lie. It’s always a dreadful time.

His taste in lame, pointless, movie-making is boundless, and he always manages to find yet another awful movie that’s worse than the previous one he’s subjected us to watching.

I warned Zombos our time would be better spent elsewhere, but he insisted on seeing the movie. He’s always Mr. Insists. I don’t know why.

I poured the coffee and sambuca, and popped the DVD into the player.

When the world is ruled by violence, and the souls of mankind fades, the children’s path shall be darkened by the souls of the neon maniacs," intones the narrator as the movie starts.

What does that mean? asked Zombos.

Paul and I shrugged our shoulders. Perhaps that art-house blend of words was just too deep for us.

What are those, trading cards? asked Zombos leaning closer to get a better look.

Yeah, cool-looking, aren’t they? said Paul. Wouldn’t it be great if they had statistics on the back for each of the neon maniacs?

How do monsters from hell that no one knows about get printed trading cards? asked Zombos. He stared at Paul and took a big gulp of Sambuca.

The first scene is an odd one. A fisherman on the Golden Gate Bridge heads home for the night. He passes a big metal door beneath the bridge and finds a bunch of Tarot-like cards lying in a bleached-white cattle skull. Each card depicts a Neon Maniac. Yes, it’s all rather goofy. He stoops to look at them. The massive door behind him opens quietly. An axe wielding and deformed Neon Maniac sneaks up and stands over him while he looks at the axe wielding and deformed Neon Maniac’s trading card.

Cut to the axe going up, coming down, and the fisherman will fish no more.

I reached for the liner notes hoping to find an explanation for the significance of using trading cards.

None.

Perhaps director Joseph Mangine was aiming for a marketing tie-in with Neon Maniac trading cards? See the movie then trade maniacs with your friends! Trading cards were big in the 1980s.

I read more of the sparse liner notes looking for answers.

...it’s the neon maniacs, a group of ruthless, outrageously attired and made-up killers who emerge from beneath the Golden Gate Bridge to wreak havoc on helpless teenagers [and fisherman too, apparently]. Where the Maniacs come from is never explained, nor why they live so close to San Francisco Bay, considering that water…is the only thing that can harm them.

So not only are they hideously deformed and fashion-phobic, they’re stupid. My favorite quote is and the producer now says, ‘It was a much better script than a movie…’

Great.I turned my attention, reluctantly, back to the movie. The incongruous lounge music didn’t raise my hopes of it getting better.

My god, they look like the Village People, said Zombos.

Yes, they do, don’t they, like in some twisted sense of horror-hell, replied Paul. Pretty imaginative, don’t you think?

I looked at my watch to see how much longer I would have to suffer through this pretty imaginative mess. I tried to excuse myself, but Zombos would have none of that. He likes to see me squirm.

Where did that midget dinosaur with one eye in the middle of its head come from? asked Zombos.

Paul and I shrugged our shoulders. Zombos finally stopped asking silly questions and quietly watched this silly movie.

After teenagers are slaughtered in a park, the cops of course do not believe the lone survivor, Natalie (a fairly comatose Leilani Sarelle). She goes home. After watching her friends get beheaded, hung, and mutilated by the village people from hell, she puts on a bathing suit—in the middle of the night and all alone—and goes for a relaxing dip in the backyard pool.

All near-victims in horror movies should have Olympic-sized pools in their backyard so they can relax after their near-death trauma.

Just so we are clear on this, she is alone and it is the middle of the night, and right after her friends having been horribly mutilated and killed by outrageously dressed and deformed monster-freaks appearing out of nowhere. Me, you, and any rational person would think along the lines of ‘if they could appear in the park, they could even appear for a pool party.’ Clearly Natalie is no smarter than these Neon Maniacs.

And why the hell are they called "neon’ anyway? They don’t glow. They don’t even disco down!

One of them, the hairy caveman (he reminded me of television's Land of the Lost) lurks in the bushes watching her. He almost busts a move, but it begins to rain so he runs away. End of suspense; a close shave with hairy death to be sure.

Wait, this is the best part, said Paul with enthusiasm.

It was the introduction of the stereotypical spoiled and precocious movie adolescent who was also a budding horror director, sticking her nose into the mystery of the missing teenagers because that is what precocious adolescents with cameras do in movies. After Spielberg and Lucas shook things up, rich kids with cinema-blood started popping up all over the screen.

This rich kid, Paula (Donna Locke), is fun to watch as she exudes that I-told-you-so and I- know –better -because-I am-rich-and-can-afford-all-this-camera-equipment style of cocky acting. With her baseball cap daringly tilted to one side and her starry-eyed determinism, I was hoping she would square off against the midget dinosaur and poke its eye out. Or get eaten. I’d settle for either way.

She is also way smarter than the police as precocious adolescents in movies must always be wiser and smarter than their years. She is smart enough to find the obvious green goop trail the maniacs leave behind. Only she is smart enough to follow this plain as daylight muck trail to the big metal doors under the bridge. No trading cards or cattle skull this time, just lots of dead white pigeons in front of the doors.

If any movie ever cried out for expository explanation, THIS is the one.

Mentally putting the green goop and dead white pigeons together, Paula comes back later that night with her really expensive video equipment to shoot night scenes without a light source. She’s that good. She hides behind bushes near the metal doors. Soon the Neon Maniacs leave their hiding place, only to be turned back by the oncoming rain. One of them trips into a puddle of water and starts bubbling, so now she knows their weakness!

She hurries home. A Neon Maniac goes after her while she is sleeping. Being precocious and clever, she’s prepared with a bucket of water and a water pistol.

How the maniac knew where she lived is not explained. The rain had driven them back inside, so none of them could have followed her.

I stared at my watch, willing the minute hand to move faster. It didn't work.

The next day, Paula, Natalie, and the requisite handsome but nerdy boyfriend realize everyone is in danger, especially all teenagers, of course, and they quickly devise a plan to arm all High Schoolers with water pistols at the Sock Hop versus Alice Cooper wannabees band contest taking place later that night. They give everyone a water pistol but forget to tell anyone when to use them. The Neon Maniacs show up on the dance floor to do the mashing-body hustle, panic ensues, and bodies are sliced, diced, and julienned in short order.

After much thought and dismemberment, Paula finally notices the big fire hose hanging on the wall and puts it to good use, dousing the maniacs until they scatter.

That should have ended the movie easily, but since some minutes were left, to fill with incongruous action, Natalie and her boyfriend run up a few flights of stairs to the locked Principal’s Office. Oops. Meanwhile, a graphic grue humor scene with the Neon Maniac surgeon operating on a chloroformed night guard suddenly stands out in this otherwise gore-light movie.

Now back to Natalie and her boyfriend and that locked office problem: no problem, they decide to make out instead.

Wonderful story logic there, commented Zombos.

This is a funny scene, said Paul. The kids convince the police to carry squirt guns and go after the monsters.

The police, in a 1950s Blob-styled these-kids-are-crazy-but-what-the-hell-we've-got-no other-choice frame of mind, along with the fire department, converge in front of the metal doors underneath Golden Gate Bridge. Water pistols and fire-hoses at the ready, they open the doors and search the surprisingly small storage garage the Neon Maniacs hang out in. Nothing is found and the kids are derisively told to get the hell out of there.

They do.

The chubby obtuse detective in charge (obnoxious and obtuse detectives are always overweight in movies and television) heads back into the garage after everyone leaves.

Without his water pistol.

Weird, colorful, lights and odd sounds coming from the derelict ambulance attract his attention.

He opens the ambulance’s doors and pokes his head in.

Bad move.

Neon Maniacs is so weirdly awful it's very enjoyable to watch with friends, a few beers, and low expectations. Sadly, there is no disco dancing or neon lights involved, and a trading card set was never issued.

What the Hell!

Tokyo Gore Police, 2008

I grabbed Glenor Glenda's elbow as her foot slipped on the ice water puddling across the Mongolian teak wood floor of Zombos' study. She composed herself, slid the steaming hot mug of Satan's Balls back to the center of her serving tray, and properly presented Chef Machiavelli's frothy and zesty spiced rum-cocoa concoction—splashed with peach-ginger--to our shivering and quite unexpected guest. Our housekeeper waited expectantly as he took a sip and neatified her uniform with much suspicious intent.

"May I get you a blanket…Mister…? Glenor asked.

Lucifer. Oh, hell, let's not stand on formality, just call me Luc, okay? You're a darling, but I doubt a blanket would help.

Lucifer's long red tail waved excitedly as he sipped his drink.

By Tartarus! This drink is wicked bad! And you say your Chef doesn't use any black arts? Amazing! My three-eyed cook couldn't find her way round a soufflé, even with her two heads. Damn creature burns everything. Ah, this sinful beverage is heating up my rump. In spite of all the fur in my nether region I was going numb down there, you know.

He winked at our usually flirtatious housekeeper. Glenor giggled.

I cleared my throat. She stopped giggling.

Oh, jealous are we? You needn't be. He winked at me and flicked his tongue in a devilish manner. Glenor clapped her hand to her mouth stifling another giggle. My withering glance at her helped keep it at bay.

I was desperate. Zombos! Any luck?

Zombos was standing behind his Carlton House desk, holding the phone in one hand and a thick legal document in the other. Every now and then a few more sheets of paper slipped from the document and fluttered to the floor. He shrugged. Sosumi is looking into it. He does not know how this could have happened.

Sosumi 'Jimmy' Jango was Zombos' crackerjack estate lawyer.

Lucifer finished his drink and smacked his lips. I motioned to Glenor to bring another one for our frisky guest. It looked like evening vespers would be well over by the time Zombos found the document we needed.

What is that Jimmy? said Zombos into the phone. It is in Attachment 66? Okay. Okay, I will look for it. Zombos hung up the phone. He is almost here. He said to look for—

Attachment 66, yes, I heard, I said.

Ouch! Oh, you devil! gasped Glenor with delight.

I looked at Glenor.

He pinched me, she said giggling as she hastily left the room.

I looked at Lucifer; he shrugged, smiled, and winked again. I looked back at Zombos imploringly. Let's find that attachment pronto, shall we? Did you check the Wooten? You tend to bury things in there pretty well.

Of course! Zombos turned around and quickly opened the doors of his Wooten desk. The two places Zombos relies on to hide, store, or forget things are his closet and his cherished Wooten desk. Since the Wooten desk is smaller than his closet, I figured it would be easier to search first.

Well, I'll be, said Zombos.

You found Attachment 66? I asked.

What? Oh that, no. I found my set of Brasher Doubloons. I was wondering what happened to them.

Great, I'll let Philip Marlowe know. What about the legal document? My spirits were sinking fast.

No, I do not see--wait a minute.

Yes?

I found it! Zombos said triumphantly.

Thank god, I sighed. Lucifer cleared his throat. Sorry, I said, shooting a glance his way.

When I looked back to Zombos he was doing the walk the dog move with his gold-trimmed Duncan YoYo. That’s what he had found. I sighed again. There but for the grace of God I thought. Lucifer cleared his throat more loudly and gave me a smoldering stare.

We really need that legal document...now!

Oh, yes, yes. Let me see. He put the YoYo back and opened another draw. Here it is. He held up Attachment 66. Let me see, now. Jimmy said to check the waiver at the bottom of page 13. Hmm…hmm…not good. Here, you better read it.

I walked over to Zombos and he handed the document to me. I mentally translated the waiver's legalese as I read it. Hidden in all the mumbo-jumbo was the stipulation that if the New York Times ever printed a movie review that was favorable toward a movie that I, acting as Zombos' agent, reviewed negatively, hell would most certainly freeze over. I glanced over at Lucifer sitting uncomfortably on the large block of ice. So that’s why both of them suddenly popped up around midnight.

But this is impossible, I said. The New York Times has never given a favorable review to any horror movie I disliked. It's always the opposite. They never give favorable reviews to horror movies I like, either."

Glenor Glenda ushered an excited Sosumi Jango into the room. He furiously waved a copy of the New York Times.

I found it! he declared. "It's Jeannette Catsoulis's review of Tokyo Gore Police. He unfolded the paper and read the review out loud. Propelled by geysers of blood and tidal waves of neuroses, Tokyo Gore Police plumbs wounds both cultural and physical to deliver splatterific social satire."

I was dumbfounded. Had she seen the same movie I had?

Ouch! He pinched me, said Jimmy, pointing at Lucifer.

What? shrugged Lucifer. I can't help it. I like lawyers.

It just doesn't make any sense. This movie is simply not worth all this bother, I was bewildered.

Let me see your review for the movie, suggested Jimmy, rubbing his behind as he stepped to a safer distance. I can't give you any reasonable council until I see it.

Lucifer laughed. I've not had this much nuisance since Daniel Webster stirred up a dickens' worth of trouble and kicked me out of New Hampshire. Thank the fallen there are forty-nine more states, I can tell you that. And the lord knows I love congress. Wouldn’t be any fun without them.

Hold that thought, I said and ran up to my attic office to retrieve my laptop. Still huffing and puffing after running back down, I showed Jimmy my review. As he read it out loud, Lucifer was enjoying another mug of warm comfort while Glenor made sure to stay within pinching distance. The woman is incorrigible.

Here’s what Jimmy read:

"Within the first half-hour of watching Tokyo Gore Police I realized it was going to be a transgressive tour through the cineburbia of outrageous gore and absurd social commentary, far away from movie Main Street. Surprisingly, it works for about the first half-hour, but begins to take questionable—albeit scenic—detours through RoboCop-styled commercials lampooning Japanese consumerism, Japunk-technorumble filled with bed wetting-inducing Rob Bottin-styled monstrosities comprised of squishy-gooey latex body parts glistening with stringy mucus highlights; and hacked limbs spouting endless geysers of blood saturating everything, including the camera lens. A chewed limp penis, one monstrous erect penis, chip and dip ankle drilling, a golden showering chair with vagina, and pretty women turned into grotesque objects of perverse desire, meld non-stop into art-house incoherence. This Pachinko parlor's worth of bright colors and frenzy left me wondering when exactly director Yoshihiro Nishimura let the special effects department direct his movie."

Jimmy stopped reading and looked at me. What's this mean in English?

Just read on, I said. He continued:

"The Scooby-Doo-simple story centers on Ruka (Eihi Shiina), a grown up, silent, and self-mutilating daughter traumatized after she sees her police officer father assassinated. She now works for the police as a special agent. She has issues. Ruka repeatedly slices into her wrists with a razor before going after a cannibalistic Engineer who is dining on his latest victim like a heaping serving of human sushi. Engineers are serial-killing criminals who can morph their wounds into weapons. Using a bazooka, Ruka blasts herself into action as her fellow officers, questionable members of the privatized Tokyo Police Force, are cut to pieces by the Engineer's newly acquired chainsaw appendage. These opening moments are fun to watch because everything is so seriously over the top and Ruka wields a mean cleavage—with her Samurai sword.

"After Ruka does some ice-sculpting with the Engineer's own chainsaw—using him instead of ice—the remains are brought back to the dirty and dreary police morgue. The hunchbacked, one-eyed coroner with a spring in his step and clothing like one of Hostel's housekeeping staff"—

"I love Hostel, said Lucifer. I almost died laughing it was so funny."

—"searches for and finds the key-shaped growth found in every Engineer, which gives them their ability to mold tissue into lethal weapons. Someone known as the Key Man is responsible for mutating people into maniacal killing machines.

"That is as much story as you will get jammed between the dolled-up, blond-haired police dispatcher with her bubble-gum explanations and lively commercials extolling stylish self-mutilating box cutters, in assorted colors, and remote torture family fun for society's deviants. Prolonged blood-fountain fanboy-favorite gore shocks provide the sticky action and, apparently, the main appeal this movie has for many reviewers and horror fans.

"The piece de resistance is the fetish club an off-duty police officer visits. It defies conventional or even tasteful description (not that many real fetish clubs could be described conventionally or tastefully). Women, grotesquely mutilated, are displayed as sexual objects to satisfy the appetites of the club's vinyl-clad patrons. The officer loses his head over one woman (guess which head, I dare you), but winds up with a much bigger one. Under the control of the Key Man, he returns to the precinct to show it off to his fellow officers with lethally envious results."

Jimmy stopped reading. Does this get any better? he asked.

No, the movie doesn't, I said.

I meant your review.

Just keep reading, I said.

"Ruka eventually confronts the Key Man, who tells her the truth about her father's murder, and reveals those responsible. As she goes after her father's killers, the Tokyo Police Force goes crazy and begins attacking citizens.

"Not sure why. Not sure the director knew why, either.

"One person is drawn and quartered while others are shot, stabbed, hacked, and (insert your own favorite gore gag or body disassembly gimmick here).

"With little said and much mayhem done, Tokyo Gore Police will undoubtedly become a favored cult classic for some and a Pepto-Bizmol moment for others mostly due to its zeal for incomprehensible distastefulness."

Jimmy closed the laptop's cover, tapping it again and again while he weighed his thoughts, then stopped. I got nothing.

I slumped into the Regency sofa. Zombos practiced his Double Gerbil move on his Duncan YoYo, and Glenor Glenda busied herself by doing nothing.

Wait, I have it! announced Jimmy after a few moments reviewing the documents on Zombos’ desk. "It's here on page 777, under Rider to Attachment 66, 'herein to be known as Clause 3, otherwise referred to as the Two-Thirds Clause. If both