Notes on a Senseless Death

I didn’t know him aside from the adult videos he made. We weren’t friends, had no interactionoutside of meeting him at a  meet and greet at a local gay pride event. Hell, he wasn’t even one of my favorite porn models on the site. Yet I’d seen enough of his work to understand other people’s attraction to him. Here’s a photo of him from one of his recent shoots.

He’d been released from the site as he was getting a bit chunky and losing his hair. Not a crime per se, except when it comes to porn.

His real name was Andrew.

He die yesterday, from his own bad decisions.  According to news reports, there was an altercation at his home. Police came, he was being handcuffed and broke free. As he was running he stuffed a baggie of weed in his mouth and was trying to swallow it when he was tased.  He suffocated as the bag lodged in his throat, the tase paralyzing him, making him unable to swallow.

Here are the last seconds of his life as it was being filmed for COPS:

I’m not going to blame the police or call it police brutality. Did they have a hand in it? Possibly. Certainly Andrew was as responsible, by running and then trying to swallow a baggie of dope.

My point in trying to make sense out of this, is it was a needless death. Sometimes, we make bad decisions that affect our lives, and on rare occasions we make a decision that end our lives.

I hope Andrew has some type of peace that seemed to allude him in life.

 

Killer Weed

When I first started writing again, after not having done so for almost twenty years, this was the first story I completed.  It’s gone through a few variations based on some feedback when I sent it to some friends a year and a half ago. As I went through it today, I went back to the original and kept it  super short the way I had intended.  At 2700 or so words, it’s certainly the shortest thing I’ve written (my poem in DiC not withstanding).  As such,  there’s little room for a lot of explanation or detail. It’s very much a seat of your pants ride. While I don’t think it’s up to this level, it’s very much like an old EC comic, or Tales From the Crypt story. Leave reason and sense at the door. It’s also very safe to say, that since it deals with gay, stoner zombies it may be offensive to some, and too gory for others. Yet it is, what it is, which I think most of all, is a lot of fun. Enjoy. Apparently WordPress can’t be bothered keeping my formatting, so my apologies for that.

Killer Weed

by

Scott Colbert

When you kill your best friend, then he ought to stay dead.

If he had, I might have a better than snowball’s chance in hell of surviving. I didn’t pay much attention to him at first; after all he was never right in the head. I can say that, because, we’ve known each other since…well hell I don’t remember not ever knowing him. When I call him my best friend I don’t say it lightly. We’d both been through life’s grinder one too many times, and the shit storms we survived, brought us together. We were survivors, so it was a goddamn shame what I did but there was no choice. The bastard tore off my nut and ate it like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. I’m getting ahead of myself though, let me start at the beginning while I have time.

Like most summer days in Phoenix it was hot as fuck. Even my cat wasn’t demanding to be let out. Any other day, you would have found me at work around that time but I’d gotten suspended for excessive lateness. See, that still doesn’t make sense to me; not that it matters since there’s no job to go to anymore.

I was lying on my couch, half asleep and half listening to Montel kiss Sylvia Browne’s fraudulent ass. “It won’t be like anything else…” I heard her declare in that raspy smoker’s voice.

Looking back, I can say that’s the only thing she got right. Anyway, I’m in that twilight area of awake and sleep when the coffee table begins vibrating. I reach over, knocking the overflowing ashtray over as well as some empty packs of smokes and God knows what else onto a carpet that’d seen better days.

A blinking light. A text message. I mutter some random obscenity, flip open the phone and read the only two words on the screen.

U awake

One contemptuous sigh later I text back

NO.

I’d barely snapped the phone shut when an a familiar knocking came from the front door. Detta, my cat, hightailed it to the bedroom to cower in the corner. I yelled for him to come in while I sat up and pushed my erection back into my boxers.

The door opened slowly. Johnny boy peered in. “You awake?” he asked, stepping inside.

“I’m smoking’ ain’t I?” I said, lighting a Camel to prove my point. This earned me his patented eye roll. Shrugging off his backpack, Johnny boy coiled his too thin frame into the rickety rocking chair he’d built. Sweat trickled down his long face creating a glossy sheen.

“Didn’t wanna wake you up.”

When I caught him looking at my crotch, he glanced away.

“So what’s up?” I asked. Then just to be a prick I added “Besides me.”

Johnny boy smirked. He reached over the right side of the rocker and lifted his back pack as if it had nothing in it. I knew better and would have bet dollars to donuts there’d be some clothes, a day timer, books and whatever secrets he didn’t want anyone to find, including me.

Before he could play show and tell, I smelled the cloying earthy scent of pot. This wasn’t just any weed though; this was some primo shit.

All I could manage was a whispered “Holy fuck.” What he pulled out was not one but two Ziploc freezer bags filled with the greenest pot I’d ever seen. My first thought was luminescent emeralds.

“Stick your nose in that shit.” he said with a grin, tossing a bag over. Fact is, I didn’t need to stick my nose anywhere, the odor was so potent. “My brother Donald got these at work.” Already his fingers were poking and prodding in his bag, searching for the perfect bud.

“Lot of good this’ll do me,” I said, setting the bag aside, which caused Johnny boy to give me a weird look. “I have to go for a piss test tomorrow before I can go back to work…” The annoyance and frustration were getting stronger.

“What the hell? They suspended you for being late all the time, not for smoking a one hitter. Dude, that’s fucked up.”

All I could do was shrug. “I know-HR is full of douche bags, what can I say?” I picked the bag up again and kept turning it over and over. “Keep that one,” he said rolling and then licking the joint closed. “Donald said the shit’s growing like weeds.” He laughed. “Weed growing like weeds, that’s funny.” This was said more to himself than to me, so I didn’t bother correcting him. “You mind?” he asked lighting the joint anyway…

“Guess not.” I stood and stretched enough to pop my back. My hard on had subsided a bit, but still made a tent in my boxers. As I walked past Johnny boy I brushed it against his shoulder, just to watch him tense up. Despite all the years that had gone by, he never could forget the night we got drunk and he begged me to fuck him in the ass. We were barely 18 then and approaching 30 now; yet it still bothered him. Anytime I tried to bring it up he’d either change the subject or just walk away from me.

None of that means a handful of monkey shit now.

I went to the kitchen to make some coffee as Johnny boy created a cloud in my living room. “Want anything to drink?” I called out.

“No man, I’m cooo….” he trailed off before finishing.

“You baked already?”

“No man I ain’t no lightwei…” he trailed again. Detta came charging into the kitchen as soon as she heard me open a cabinet, meowing, and winding herself around my legs. While the Mr. Coffee came to the end of its brewing cycle, I poured some hazelnut creamer and a sweet n low in my favorite mug.

As I reached for the carafe, daggers of ice sliced their way down my back.

“My brother got these from work.” Johnny boy had said. I picked up the glass pot with a trembling hand and managed to pour a full cup despite the palsy shake.

Something wasn’t right. I made my way back to the couch where the zip loc stared up at me. I jerked back, splashing myself, not noticing the heat. Johnny boy’s eyes were a blazing red, barely more than slits. A small strand of drool hung from his upper lip. “Hey Johnny boy,” I said mostly to see if he could hear me.

“Yeah,” he said eyes opening up a bit.

I took a sip. My hands still shook and I couldn’t get them to stop. “Doesn’t your brother work at the graveyard?” I put the mug down as I began to put things together.

The quivering had strengthened.

On TV, Judge Judy replaced Montel..

Johnny boy perked up considerably. He liked nothing better than talking about the cemetery. “Hell yeah,” he said with a bit too much enthusiasm for my taste. He leaned forward, taking a hit then stubbed out the joint on a days emptied beer can. “Been there since he got out of prison.”

“That was like five years ago, he just now found it?” I asked. Sometimes talking with Johnny boy was like doing a puzzle made by a nitwit. When he got in this mode, it was better to listen, and then put things together and hope there were no missing pieces.

“No one ever goes there anymore, it’s closed, you know that,” he reminded me, though I honestly didn’t know it was closed. Being it was on the far west side of town, I very rarely went there outside of the keggers in college. “It’s gotten way overgrown so Donald got told to clean it up. “This,” he nodded in the direction of the baggie, “was growing wild all the way in the back where the crypts are.”

I lit another cigarette with the blue bic Johnny boy had. “There’re crypts back there?” I asked, intrigued.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s the fuckin’ desert, Eddie. Back in the day before bulldozers and shit, they couldn’t dig graves. Ground was too fucking hard. “Johnny boy relit the joint, took a long hit, and let it settle in his lungs, before blowing twin plumes from flared nostrils.

I looked at the bag again. Where I saw emerald green earlier there was now mold ripped from corpses long forgotten about.

“Dude, ” I said, not even trying to hide my disgust, “this was growing around dead people!”

“Donald says they make the best fertilizer.” Johnny boy sucked down the last of the joint, then leaned back with his eyes closed. A stoned grin plastered his face. With a quick kick I knocked the plastic bag off the couch, where it made its new home under the coffee table, with some other garbage and stains. It could stay there until Johnny boy picked it up and took it home for all I cared. I shuddered one time and lay down on the couch. The second hand smoke made me a bit drowsy. Even thoughts of rotted gardeners with sharp pruning shears, dripping blood couldn’t keep unconsciousness at bay.

It was only when Johnny boy began tearing my nut sack with his teeth that the real nightmare began.

The first sensation was of an ice cube being run down my inner thigh, which stirred me a bit. The sound of ripping cloth stirred me even further. The rough clutching at my balls woke me completely. My eyes opened in time to see Johnny boy with my nut sac in his mouth. Then he began whipping his head back and forth like a dog playing tug of war. I kicked him in the face, and as his head jerked back, my scrotum went with it.

I realized I’d probably made a mistake. I saw the skin stretch, heard it rip, saw the blood. I screamed as I clutched and clawed between my legs. Blood flowed down my thighs, over my hands and drenched the couch. Johnny boy held my nut between his teeth as if he’d caught a bullet. With dismay and anguish I watched his teeth sink slowly into the white, pulpy flesh, prolonging my agony as long as possible.

“That’s for fucking me in the ass.” He smiled then, showing red gristle covered teeth. We held eye contact for only a split second; enough for me to see that Johnny boy was history. Sure his eyes were red, but not from the pot; this was a viscous crimson that seeped from ducts and pores. Blue veins pulsed beneath peeling translucent skin.

The stench of decayed flowers and fresh dug graves hit me. I had no time to gag as Johnny boy lunged at me, his fingers digging into my shoulder; deep enough and strong enough to begin shredding my flesh. At least it drew attention away from the pain in my crotch. He slammed me down on the coffee table hard enough to send pieces of it flying. Something in my back popped and I added a new pain to the growing list. The god-awful stench from his mouth filled my nostrils, as he leaned in for another bite. I was able to punch him in throat with my right hand; flesh came away on my knuckles as some of the fluid from his eyes flew onto my forehead. I used my left hand to find something to hit him with. Anything, just to get the stinking grease bag off me. Something rough and sharp, jabbed my palm. I grabbed whatever it was and aimed the sharpness at the base of his neck. The broken table leg sunk in with a sickly wet sound, as blood oozed from around the wood. Johnny let out a sound, not really a scream but enough to make me shit myself just the same. I could only get to my knees as the pain in my groin and shoulder was proving too much. Snot flew from my nose while trying to catch my breath.

Johnny boy lay still, with blood pooling around his neck.

In time I was able to get to my feet and leaned heavily on the TV for balance. “You stupid motherfucker.” I spit at him, still gasping for breath. “Assholes! You and your brother, just stupid fucking assholes!”

Anger can be the angel or devil on your shoulder. This time it was an angel. In spite of the aches, pains and punctures, the anger seemed to sedate my injuries. I took a few tentative steps forward not sure where I was going, only knowing I had to keep moving. The living room made me nauseous as I surveyed the damage. Blood soaked my sofa, carpet and walls.

The baggies.

I stepped over Johnny boys’ body, grabbed the one on the rocker, and strained to reach the one trapped in the aftermath of the table. A nail had torn a hole in the plastic and a couple of small buds escaped. I left them where they were for the moment, and limped my way to the bathroom. As I hit the light switch by the vanity, Detta nearly knocked me over by racing through my feet, yowling all the way. More muttered curses. I grabbed the scissors I used to cut my hair off of the counter and stabbed one of the bags over the toilet. I could have opened the Ziploc, but slashing like that made me feel better. Bud after bud plopped into the bowl like grassy turds. After a few flushes both bags were empty, but my body was full of new and motivating pains. I dropped the bags in the tub, turned on my heel and saw Johnny boy standing in the doorway.

He was pulling out the table leg and I let out a scream out of surprise more than fear. I brandished the scissors and swung it in an overhand arc planting it in his left eye. It didn’t so much pop as deflate, releasing even more vile liquid that had the same smell as the dope. I pushed the blade in further. Not once did he try to stop me. I let go of the handles that were slick with god knew what and Johnny boy crumpled to the floor. What could have been an exhale, sounded more to me like he tried to say “love you…”

I stepped over him, said a silent prayer to an invisible god I had no belief in and stumbled into the vanity sink, with the mirror just daring me to look at my reflection.

I couldn’t. All I had to do was glance down at the blood drying on my legs, chest and stomach. My boxers were nothing more than an elastic band with a bit of fabric hiding the ruin. Everything hurt. I reached for the bottle of vicodin I had left over from an abscessed tooth, and dry swallowed the remaining four bitter pills. I slumped to the floor, in a haze of pain and exhaustion, with no idea how long I’d been leaning against the cabinet beneath the sink when I heard something that returned me to consciousness.

Music.

Loud and jarring.

I ignored Johnny boy for a moment, stood up and slowly made my way into the living room. One of the local anchors with a look of urgency broke into whatever had replaced Judge Judy. I missed the beginning but heard enough to know things were fucked.

“…reports of cannibalism in the metro center area…” I dropped into the rocker and it gave a warning creak.

Cannibalism,

Metro Center area.

Where I lived. My stomach churned. This was my doing. I had flushed the shit. Donald sold some, gave some away, of that I had no doubt. But I flushed that shit.

My big toe nudged one of the buds that’d jumped ship. I bent over to pick it up and noticed several small bites were taken from it.

Over the loud clatter of the a/c and the blaring TV came the sound of sirens. Underlying all this was the low predatory growl of an unearthed animal.

I don’t care who gets to me first.

(This story is the sole property of Scott Colbert and may not be reproduced in any form without prior consent.)

 

The End of the Journey

So, the first draft of Barbed Wire Kisses is complete. Started in July of this year, I put finish to it on 11/28 at 10:45 PM. It has a word count of a lean 38K words. Not quite a novel, yet almost to big too be a novella (though it does fit within that category). Still it’s finally completed.

I had a lot of problems with the second half of this one, mainly because it changed tone somewhat but I felt that some things I’d set up in the first few chapters needed some more explanation and exploration. As a result some of what I’d planned had to get cut yet I think the work as a whole is better for it.

BWK took me to places I didn’t want to, nor intended to go. It’s perhaps the most visceral work I’ve ever written, full of violence and mayhem that would make most shrink away in fear and disgust.  Yet in the midst of the carnage there is hope, and yes, love.  I’ve come to love these characters, much like a parent loves their children, and while I hated seeing some of them go, it was for the stories benefit. The greatest of all these characters is the “good guy” in the bunch, Eddie Mccarthy, Army Sargeant and former Indian tracker-you see he’s my Father.

Not exactly, as the fictional Eddie is a bit more of an archetype, but make no mistake from the moment he appears, I had my Father in mind.  He has the real Eddie’s strength, wisdom and intelligence. He has my flaws. And damn, if I didn’t have a hard time with how to write his ending. Whether to keep him alive or kill him was something I struggled with for many a day. What did I do? Well, you’ll have to read it when it comes out.

Now comes the editing. I’m fortunate enough to have the wonderful Louise Bohmer doing the line editing, consistency checking and fact checking for me. She’s been an invaluable source of inspiration, support and critic.  Everything that is good about BWK is due to her. Any flaws are mine.  Once the edits are done then it’s off to various publishers.

I hope one of them likes it enough, and think it’s a story worth investing in, as I do.

 

Bandersnatch Submission Guidelines For Weird Western

Dead West: 13 Tales of Murder and Mayhem is the working title for a new fiction anthology being published by Bandersnatch Books. Set in the Old West and its environs, I’m looking for tales of horror and suspense that uses the Western genre and gives it a dark twist.

Rather than tell you what I’m looking for, it might be easier to say what I don’t want.

Zombies. Not going to happen. I don’t care if you think it’s the best zombie story ever written, zombies hold little interest for us.

Vampires, werewolves, etc. While I won’t dismiss those out of hand, they’re going to be a very hard sell. If you feel the urge to write one, please make it unique and different.

Clichéd characters. No whores with a heart of gold, strangers with no name, troubled lawmen or drunk cooks need apply. It may be the old west, but it’s not necessary to bring the old stand by’s with it.

Extreme violence is okay, so long as it’s germane to the plot. Violence for the sake of shocking a reader is a fast way to a rejection. The same goes for gratuitous sex. We’re not prudes at Bandersnatch, but story will always come first (you should pardon the pun).

Okay, I will say, I’d like to see ghost stories, maybe something with a Lovecraft feel and maybe a mummy or two. Some Native American folklore would also be a great way to get accepted.

Setting and realism is every bit as important as story. Keep the dialogue in context with the time. For that matter, keep anything you describe in context. Not sure if something was around? Google it! For the purposes of this anthology, any technology in existence after 1850 is fair game.

Stories should be anywhere between 1000-5000 words firm. Payment will be a flat rate fee of 75.00 regardless of length and one copy of the book. Arrangements can be made to buy additional copies at cost if you want to bring some to a convention or signing. Payment will be made between a signed contract and publication of the anthology (with a tentative publication date of Halloween 2010).

IMPORTANT: Submissions will start being accepted on January 1^st 2010 and will remain open until all 13 slots are filled. Anything sent before then, including queries, will be deleted automatically. Once submissions are open, you will receive an acknowledgement that we have your work within 24-48 hours.

Submissions should be sent as a .doc or .rtf attachment only, in standard ms format and sent to colbert@bandersnatchbooks.com.

 

Where Everyone Knows Your Name

There are few universal truths that ring as loudly as this one: create a forum or messageboard and it will attract nitwits and douchebags in untold numbers. This idiom began as far back as the messageboards on Prodigy when I joined that back in 1990.  Create a thoughtful, well written post about something you find important, and within five minutes someone will post a reply calling you an idiot, communistic, faggot, shoe sniffer. Then IRC came into being, and the insults were flung in real time chat.

Sometimes it seemed the fun never stopped.  Between the flame wars on Prodigy, Compuserve, AOL, IRC, et al, it seemed a cottage industry of douche bags was born. Sadly, some things never change and it doesn’t seem to matter what the forum is about.

I frequent boards about horror, writing, ipod iTouch games and apps, prisoners rights,  and my World of Warcraft guild.  Each and every one of them has their trolls, lunatics and nitwits to varying degrees.  some are easy to ignore, and others require an act of God to keep me from barbecuing over an open pit of snark.

That was true until I joined Skullvines Press forum. From the moment I signed up, I felt at home there, more than most places. I can truly say there’s not a douchebag in the bunch over there. Sure S.D. keep pestering me for close up pics of my ass, but he does that to everyone. And while I don’t always want to hear about the frequency of Jerrod masturbating (mostly to thise pics S.D> asks for, I assume), he’s a great guy. I also say that as one of the only writers there without their own forum spot. That’s how much I love the place.

That’s how much I love these guys (in a non gay, gay way of course).  so do yourself a favor, if you’re looking for a nice little patch of filth and profanity, check out the Skullvines forums. Just don’t fuck it up, my barbecue pit is always at the ready.http://skullvines.com/forum/index.php

 

The Politics of Writing

Opinions. We all have them, and generally don’t think twice about expressing them. Some of us are more opinionated than others, and have an easier time speaking our mind than others.

I’m one of those who opens my mouth at the drop of a hat. I guess I can blame my Mother for lack of a filter in the brain to mouth department. The question is, should I be doing that?

Should you be doing that?

Yes, I know it’s a free country, etc, but that’s not what I mean. Can you or I afford to express our opinions on forums and possibly risk alienating a potential customer? Is the need to point out how someone we disagree with wrong, so strong, we’ll let it effect our career? Prior to my first pro paying sale, I didn’t think twice about getting involved in the flame wars on various message boards. I had nothing to lose, and felt it my duty to point out people’s flaws in thinking. Now, however, I’m not so sure.

With a still struggling economy, the publishing industry floundering, is the risk of losing even one sale for the sake of ego gratification worth it? I’ve been thinking about this for some time now, and have decided that for me, it probably isn’t. Sure, sometimes I still stick my nose in the fray, as I did today, because, well, I’m not perfect, but I know I shouldn’t. First of all, I’m never going to change someone’s mind. I can utilize every piece of information available to establish my position, and it’ll still be like trying to teach a pig to sing. It wastes my time and annoys the pig. I know, if a writer or publisher gives an opinion I disagree with, I’m less likely to support them with my business, and I would assume others think the same way. As a writer and co-publisher, I can’t afford to be right, and run the risk of losing sales, simply because someone disagrees with me.

Were I making the money that Steve King makes, and also in a position to put my money where my mouth is, that would be one thing; but I’m not.

What about you? Do you care whether or not someone agrees with you even if means loss of income? Or am I totally off base?

 

Into the Cruel Sea – A Review

One of the reasons I decided to join Rich Ristow in his venture known as Bandersnatch Books, was his novella “Into the Cruel Sea”. Known for his stunning poetry, and excellence as an editor, Rich’s fiction is certainly nothing to sneeze at either.

When a novellette  opens with someone having just sawed their parents heads off, you want to read more. No, you’re compelled to read more. In doing so you meet a cast of characters, that in lesser hands could be nothing more than caricatures, yet in Ristow’s hands, they all seem vibrant, alive and all too real. You have your maladjusted teen; the abusive alcoholic father; co-dependent mother; adoring younger brother; party girl best friend; and of course sea creatures with sharp teeth.

ItCS is relatively simple in its plot. That’s by no means a criticism, as there’s not much you can fit in 54 pages or so; yet what’s there resonates with you, and leaves you thinking about it long after you finish the tale. In fact, if I had a criticism for it, it would simply be it’s too damn short. I wanted to know more about the sea creatures, what they are, where they live and how they survive.  Yet that weakness, is in certain aspects a strength. Too often writers overly explain things, and in this case, I think Rich hit the amount of monster appearances given the shortness of the tale.

Here’s hoping the creatures make an appearance in a future work by the talented Mr. Ristow.

 

Quick Post on Bandersnatch Books

Rich wrote a great blog on Bandersnatch Books, our new publishing venture, so please take the time to read it as I write my own post.

http://richristow.wordpress.com/bandersnatch-books/

 

Getting Freaky with Karnival

In celebration of Halloween, I thought I’d talk a little bit about a new app for your iDevices called Karnival. Similar to sim games like Rollercoaster Tycoon, Sim City, etc, Karnival lets you build a carnival of your own complete with a freak show. With each town you visit, you have the opportunity to unlock different freaks, whether it’s the fire eater, the bearded lady or a generous assortment of other walking (or crawling oddities). Raise you fame and fortune enough and you’ll gain access to other rides as well.

You start out with a ferris wheel, and from there build up your small carnival and start traveling the country. As you progress and gain other attractions you also unlock mini games; whack a mole, ring toss, and a fortune teller are what I’ve gotten thus far. By swiping your your fingers across the screen you can zoom in and zoom out and watch as the customers ride the rides. You can also place food and drink stands, souvenir stands to make more money; beware though, placement is critical. Put something too far away and you’ll get nothing for your investment.  Rides and stands can and do break down, necessitating repairs. Fortunately you can pay the expenses and they’re back up and running as fast as you touch the button.

Running your carnival is as simple or complex as you want to make it. you have the ability to set ticket prices, how many tickets each ride costs, or you can keep it on the default-though you’ll mostly just break even doing it that way.

The graphics and attention to detail are second to none-and given the small download-35 megs, it’s all the more astonishing. Music works well, and you can also use music from your own library if you choose.

At 5.99, Karnival may be one of the more pricier apps in a sea of 99 cent play and throw away, but you’ll be traveling the circuit long after everyone else has gone through a dozen games.

 

 

Silence Has A Loud Voice: A Review of The Savage Sinema

I want to make clear a couple of things before I get into the meat of this review. I first became aware of Mark Savage through a blog post he did on T.M. Wright’s work back in June of this year http://phantomofpulp.blogspot.com/2009/06/wrights-precious-children.html; since then, he and I have exchanged emails about our love for Wright’s work, as well as our own projects. I’ve also been aware of the box set since T.M. mentioned it to me a couple of months ago, but procrastination and money kept me from taking the plunge. I finally bit the bullet and ordered the set a couple of weeks ago, and finally received it this week. The 4 disc box set contains 3 of Mark’s movies and a fourth disc containing a stunning short film as well as a generous handful of super 8 movies he made as a teenager.

Marauders is the earliest film of the three, made in 1986 with a frayed shoe string of a budget, MARAUDERS is equal parts LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT, and an old John Ford western where the posse tracks down the evil doers. Even with a direct to video look, MARAUDERS delivers some good performances (as well as some awful), and Savage’s writing is brutal, profane and still a level or two over most mainstream work. What I liked in particular is that no one here is a good guy-certainly not the two, killing, raping machines of JD and Emilio, nor those who cross their path. Certainly two wrongs don’t make a right, but when the townsfolk show as much orgiastic glee in their tracking and killing as the doomed duo, you are left wondering about the thin membrane that separates us from them. Also included on the disc is a great, indepth retrospective about 35 minutes long that gives a lot of detail from the players on the making of MARAUDERS. The commentary track is equally as interesting, and very entertaining.

Sensitive New Age Killer is, in spite of one of the worst titles in memory (a change forced upon Savage, so it’s not his fault), proves to be a sometimes funny, sometimes thrilling cops and robbers caper flick.  Centered around a hit man who grew up to become the man he idolized as a child, he quickly finds himself blackmailed to perform sex acts by a female policeman who never takes no for an answer. While the film at its core is somewhat of a dark comedy, the humor doesn’t always work, but that is made up for by some excellent performances-in particular Frank Bren as the man known as “The Snake”.  Savage does a great job with the gun fights, and like so many films in this genre, bullets are endless and no one can seem to hot the side of a barn 3 feet in front of them. The ending however is absolutely one of the best things about SNAK, and while it’s obvious, doesn’t detract from seeing it played out.  Released in 2000, SNAK also has its own 40 minute behind the scenes documentary, as well as another commentary track.

Defenceless in my opinion is nothing short of a masterpiece, though I may be the only one to think so. I watched this about 3 days ago and still can’t get it, or some of its images out of my head. DEFENCELESS tells the story of a woman who refuses to sign a contract that would allow a resort style hotel to be built in a gorgeous piece of seas side real estate. In spite of harm done to friends and family, she refuses to sign. When her inevitable demise comes, her rebirth and vengance on the three men who killed her is nothing short of shocking and brilliant. DEFENCELESS is a silent movie, no dialogue (other than some convenient text messages that act for the title cards of old) merely music and sound effects. I think if there were dialogue, it wouldn’t be as powerful and affecting. You’re forced to pay attention to everything going on.  With the longest running time of the three, there’s not a moment wasted. No scene unnecessary.

Make no mistake, DEFENCELESS is brutal beyond belief. Its depictions of rape and torture are so vivid, chilling and disturbing,  Eli Roth should takes notes. THIS is how you make a movie with rape and torture.  You create characters that have personality, who are real, who could be living next door to you.  Mark Savage was able to create distress and horror with no dialogue, and an unflinching eye. This isn’t so much a film, as it is a poem written in blood. I can’t recommend this enough. As with the other films, there’s an outstanding behind the scenes doc, and a great director’s commentary.

That Mark Savage isn’t as well known as he should be is probably one of the greatest crimes in genre work. His is a vital voice, and whether you like his work or not, his voice demands to be heard.