Flesh and Blood: The Director’s Cut

 

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There’s nothing a devoted horror buff like myself enjoys more than a good thick spurt of deep red. Whether trickling, spraying or glugging forth from a hefty abrasion, it’s a sight for our sore eyes. Nowadays it flows in coarse rivulets and gory content which would’ve seen you burned at the stake in the eighties would now likely pass for an R-rating. We’ve seen it all now, the download generation has long since been desensitized to the once horrifying sight of yet another co-ed getting sliced from stomach to gullet. The internet paved the way by being nigh-on impossible to police and nowadays pretty much anything is fair game, within reason of course.

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Nudity too is commonplace and no amount of parental control can stop an adolescent getting their grubby paws on smut. Social media sites are slackening the noose somewhat also. There was a time when the slightest hint of areola peeking over the top of a low-cut blouse would see you banished faster than a leper on a nudist beach. Nowadays, it’s very different and virtually anything is deemed acceptable. Maybe it’s just the circles I roam in but nothing I’ve posted has ever been challenged in the slightest by the powers that be so either I’m the golden boy or the sentinels have been lowered somewhat.

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The combination of bare flesh and generously spattered crimson is a delectable mesh indeed. So what exactly is it about the human tampon that folk find so desperately alluring anyhoots? I don’t have the exact scientific answer but I can hazard a guess. We’re primal creatures, evolved inhabitants of a race which historically desired only two things: to lick bones and copulate, often in unison. It’s in our nature to desire. We all attempt to drag our quarries back to our caves, only now we line up like randy cattle outside neon-lit meat markets, wearing carbon copy loafers and clutching a pocketful of breath mints in case any surplus has had a skinful come the curtain call and passes out on the cab ride home. Back then, a club would be something more likely brandished than danced in although the end result was invariably the same.

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It is bona fide scientific fact that a woman in at the height of her sexual prowess during those few wretched days of ovulation. Forget the crippling stomach cramps for a moment and focus on the bleed. I, for one, would have no qualms with quenching from that particular font, as long as both parties were open to it. Moreover, sex during menstruation can be a hugely desirable carnal pursuit. Hundreds of years ago nobody would have batted a solitary eyelid before plundering the blood bank and they do say life moves in circles so my guess is that blood sport is making a comeback. Van Damme will be simply thrilled.

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It’s also in our nature to harbor a sick fascination with the morbid. Many of us slow at road accidents to survey the damage and anyone telling me different clearly doesn’t have their license. In addition, we peek through our strategically placed fingers at gory horror movies even though we have no intention of missing a single shot. In the correct company we use freeze-frame, rewind, and slow play functions to watch some guy’s head explode gradually and snort with belly laughter as we spot the precise moment that a prosthetic dummy is spliced in for the effect. Some may regard us as sick little puppies but, the truth is, we appreciate the hard work that goes into getting these films made.

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I think filmmakers would be disappointed with us if we didn’t slam on the brakes on occasion and marvel at the SFX on exhibit. They put themselves out there, struggle tooth and nail obtaining funding, before being forced to suffer the indignity of sniffing around for distribution, at which juncture any profit is wrestled away from their weary grasps by the unscrupulous executives holding every last one of the cards. It’s no small wonder they want us to see where all their blood, sweat, tears and cents went. God help them if they push the envelope with regards to splatter as the MPAA love nothing more than to knock you back and request their 77 seconds of cuts before letting your film pass. I guess we should be thankful as, back in the eighties, it wasn’t uncommon for over twenty minutes of cuts to be enforced.

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The unsheathed human form is a resplendent retinal banquet and the kicker for coitus. Whether doused in perspiration, baby oil, or gushing blood, this highlights the sexual allure of naked beauty then glosses it with deep red emulsion. Once you paint the town red it becomes hard to go back as it’s such a delicious color. The sight of a fine trickle running down the navel before collecting in the haunch like rouge nectar would send most men into rapture, right fellas? Come on any fellas reading, I can see the crook of shame sneaking out from behind the stage curtain here, so back me up! Yet, should we receive a paper cut on our finger we whimper and clamor for the band aids like wusses. Let it be known, the Keeper of the Crimson Quill snarls in the face of pain and flicks away any trace of fear as though it were a spent prophylactic.

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Actually, that’s not strictly kosher as I have an issue with watching real-life operations and don’t much relish agony either. Having said that, I am known for being particularly cool in a crisis so, should you accidentally remove one of your digits whilst chopping onions, chances are I would swallow any rising vomit and follow the protocol with minimum fuss. But I still don’t care for extreme gore when it is authentic and would never have made it as a cardio surgeon. However, the moment I am made aware that what I’m watching is phony, I’m the first one lapping up the intestinal fluids and skipping rope with giblets. Go figure!

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For me, Hostel Part II ticked all the bloody boxes. I sat with my eyes on the seat in front, unraveled tongue picking up popcorn from the carpet below, and mouth opened wider than Monica Lewinsky at a two-way presidential debate. I was in seventh heaven as I watched that naked siren squirming around in a fast-filling blood bath with scythe on-hand to speed up the flow some. This wonderfully protracted denouement manages to tread the fine line between erotica and horror exquisitely. I remember quizzing why some of the patrons were getting up from their seats to leave the auditorium in disgust at that point as there have been few occasions where I have felt quite as aroused or, indeed, desperate for my loafer.

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Filming that scene must have been so much bloody fun although I would imagine poor Heather Matarazzo wasn’t quite as enthused as she hung upside down butt naked waiting for the sickle to carve its cruel insignia on her soft pelt. None of this would have happened had Disney pulled their fingers out and rushed Princess Diaries III into production and perhaps Matarazzo would still have her dignity. In my opinion, she deserves oceans of respect for going all in. The result of her courageous endeavor is perhaps my all-time favorite movie demise, definitely the most sexually provocative. I’m not sure whether Dario Argento has ever given Hostel Part II his precious time but can envisage the master applauding Eli Roth’s end result. How could you not?

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Does that make me one of life’s wrong-uns? Fuck no. Throughout my entire life, the most bloodthirsty action I’ve partaken in is ramming the nib of a ballpoint pen in my own throat. Even then it was only out of intense frustration and a need to release before my head started to inflate Big Trouble in Little China-style and burst like an over-ripened melon. Oh and I’ve trod on about a hundred and seventy-two snails, so shoot me. If you ask me they’ve got it coming; you don’t run across the state freeway with a chest of drawers on your shoulders do you? If I was a snail I’d go commando and accept that I’m really little more than a slug. Fuck sake Keeper focus! I’ve actually forgot my point now, maybe we should just leave it there? Think I may have just bled out.

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Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)

Run Red Rivers Run

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By now I would imagine you’re primed for anything as censorship is something I simply won’t have a bar of and, here, the blood runs freely. In addition, I happen to believe that the naked female form provides a source of unparalleled gratification so it only stands to reason that I’ll mesh the two right? Of course, there is no way I could exclude the delectable Diane Foster from the following gallery as few women weep deep red quite so majestically as she. To anyone easily offended I only have a single question. Why are you still reading? Have I not been clear enough already? Sorry, that’s two posers but I can’t help it, I get like this when my blood flow begins to quicken.

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