The True ABCs of Death: L is for Lacerate

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Suggested Audio Candy:

 

[1] Cutting Crew “(I Just) Died in Your Arms”

[2] Chet Baker “My Funny Valentine”

[3]Boy Sets Fire “Release The Dogs”

 

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There are countless opportunities to cherry pick from the annals of horror with regards to laceration. While ordinarily this denotes a deep cut or gash, I’m sure we can dig up plenty of instances whereby a simple band-aid wouldn’t suffice. No paper cuts here, all wounds inflicted must be severe, and the odds of any victims enduring their pain, woefully protracted. Anything else wouldn’t be Keeper with such a smorgasbord of memories stewing away in my mental casserole.

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Right then, down to bee’s wax, and what better place than a gnarled laceration capable of immobilizing its quarry instantaneously and ending any hopes of becoming an olympian. The Achilles heel is called such for a reason and this double entendre from Mary Lambert’s Pet Sematary also denotes a particular chink in one’s armor. For poor kindly old Jud Crandall it proved his kryptonite as the 6″5 munster on hiatus took two faint nicks across his tendons and fell far and hard as a direct result. Have you ever heard the term “got out the wrong side of bed this morning”? Well that was applicable as Crandall performed his wake-up stretch and slid his feet to the cold bedroom floor and the comfort of his cozy carpet slippers.

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One opportunistic slice was all it took to open his Achilles wider than a ho’s legs and it just got worse for Herman, I mean Jud, from thereon in. Once any height advantage had been obliterated, it became child’s play as the impertinent infant slid the same switch blade gleefully across his gaping jaw and left him for dead. The cantankerous kid missed a trick here as one final kick in the spud sack would have been sufficient to put most wide-mouthed frogs to shame.

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The same spot was used in Eli Roth’s Hostel as one of the hapless backpackers was released from the grimy throne he’d been bound to and offered his short walk to freedom. He must have felt like one of life’s lotto rollover winners but within seconds probably regretted buying that Croatian scratch card as a unique condition for release was supplied. Again his ankle tendons above were lacerated leaving him like little sturdy than an inebriated stilt walker. Teeth in a basket came next as horizontal bed rest was the only option left available.

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A second True ABCs of Death run-out for Simon Boyes and Adam Mason’s 2006 extreme exploitation flick, Broken, and an ingenious piece of forward planning that would have made Jigsaw beam with pride. No sooner had the opening credits phased out, than our heroine, ironically named Hope, came to tied to a burly oak with only one means of escape. A lengthy aperture had been fashioned across her lower abdomen and a solitary razor-blade donated and stored somewhere amongst her overspilling intestinal gunk hamper. What followed was best described as one helluva fucked up white elephant as she searched within herself for her lifeline. Houdini would have been proud as she endured her first stern test although, after 110 minutes of progressively excruciating torture minus the porn, she probably wished she’d stayed there and soaked up the sap.

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Renny Harlin’s enigmatic chiller, Prison, featured a particularly prickly denouement as spiteful prison guard Wallace was subjected to an overall grommeting courtesy of a possessed length of barbwire. He got what he fucking deserved if you ask me and perhaps a dash more as the thorny net closed in and pinned him to his office chair before flinging his fastened cadaver northward and straight through the ceiling, where his death grimace was saved for crooked governor Sharpe. No wonder Clint Eastwood was so desperate to Escape From Alcatraz. Truly shawshanked.

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Ti West literally disowned Cabin Fever 2: Spring Break and, while I understand his intense frustration at the studio meddling he had to endure, I can’t help thinking that one day he’ll sit down with his corn dog and take the end result for exactly what it is: an almost criminally enjoyable hotchpotch of shameless sickness. One of numerous stand-out moments involved a buzz saw and a wristwatch and only one of them made it through the procedure in tact. With absolutely no cut-aways, this ranks amongst the most gratifying lacerations ever committed to celluloid. Moreover, the film would effortlessly snag a spot in my all-time ten goriest movies, pound for bloody pound. You have to look at the silver lining Ti.

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It’s not that Texas Chainsaw 3D was an insipid affair, more woefully uninspired, and lacking any of the raw edge that made Tobe Hooper’s original so darned moreish. Ironically, for all the chainsaw brutality going down, it was a hand-held hatchet which landed the most telling blows. The whole pointless exercise was lacking any real build-up or reason to clench those peaches but the moment when Leatherface carved some fresh wood for the fire, from his insincere house guest’s spleen and surrounding fleshy areas, was marvelously mean-spirited and the highlight of one long lowlight.

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Not all remakes are doomed to fail as attested by Patrick Lussier’s 2009 3D reboot of My Bloody Valentine. Betsy Rue showed off a pair of cojones Danny Trejo would place dibs on as she performed an entire five-minute scene minus a stitch of clothing. When you consider the crisp HD transfer, it showed just how committed she was, as Lussier fixed her in his crosshairs, presumably while his first assistant fleeced his prostate gland like a milk maid.

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Alas, her naked mile amounted to precious little as she received a vertical clefting for her insolence and was discarded faster than a tampon at capacity. Just to be sure that he hadn’t missed any big close-ups, Lussier requested that she remained bare for the duration of the shoot and even suggested she arrive at the film’s premiere in the same invisible mini skirt. Actually, that’s a bare-faced lie but I’m fairly sure he smacked the simian that night.

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Don Taylor and uncredited Mike Hodges upped the ante for Damien: Omen II by reminding us why taking the stairs isn’t just exceptional exercise. One poor lab rat came a cropper the very moment the elevator doors slammed shut and any myth about slow-moving shafts was wiped out as he plummeted to ground floor at breakneck speed. Once he heard ding, and counted the cost of two shattered knee caps, things swiftly escalated from bad to CRAWL!!! Those runaway electrical cables made short work of the doctor and all the king’s men couldn’t put this Humpty numpty back together.

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Have you ever lanced a primed pimple? Satisfying ain’t it? Should you catch one of these crafty pustules at the point of no return, then many a mirror turns murky in a flash. Parapsychologist Marty from that man Hooper’s 1982 epic, Poltergeist, bolted the gate a tad as, what started out as a few insignificant squeezes turned into an out-and-out secretion bonanza. I’m fully aware of self harming and that’s one thing, but you have to question a man’s mental well-being when he peels off his entire face like the stickers on a Rubix Cube. If I lodged with the Freelings there are several self-imposed stipulations I would enforce. No clowns, no trees outside my bedroom window, no TV dinners, and thanks to facepeeler Marty, no fucking mirrors. Indeed I would have spent the entire time holding an oscillating fan beneath JoBeth Williams’ baseball shirt but that’s another letter of the alphabet entirely.

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Sneak preview time Grueheads as my next entry is actually still in post-production and one would imagine it will see the light of day in 2016. In Matt Farnsworth’s The Orphan Killer: Bound X Blood, I received one helluva schooling from a certain Marcus Miller and his petulant baby sister, Audrey. My character Robert represents the dark side of my soul which I keep under maximum security at all times. Not on this occasion, I deserved every last punishment for my crimes against human decency after single-handedly sending Audrey over her tipping point after a spot of stock room molestation. Foolish me.

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After hanging in a meat-locker for a few days and eventually bolting the paddock, I fell victim of the old pincer movement and found myself way up shit creek without a paddle. Had I mentioned the tide was out? I counted 150 hits to the face, all of which were delivered authentically, before being hoiked away with Miller’s digits up my nostrils and placed somewhat unlovingly in the firing line of an active steam valve. A few hours in a make-up chair and having my eyelids glued open proved the very least of my concerns as the siblings weren’t finished with me yet by a long chalk.

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Having your face liquefied is one thing but what occurred afterwards was anything but hospitable. After laying me down on a work bench, stabbing my gut with a filthy blade, and tenderizing my face with a mallet, Marcus demonstrated his new-fangled predilection for cannibalistic endeavor. Then, while he chowed down on a little well done overhanging neck fat, Baby Sister planted a soft bloody kiss on my groin like Zorro with a labia. Come to think of it, that part wasn’t so agonizing although I was frustrated that this act didn’t take as many shots to capture as the one where I got my face pummelled.

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I really could keep on as horror and lacerations tend to go together like Ike and Tina. For now however, I trust you have enjoyed any examples which reached my final cut. One last note is this: self harming is a distinct no-no and my deepest condolences to those who make habit of self-desecration. However, place me in a loving relationship with sterilized equipment and a steady hand, and a little cutting really ain’t the end of the world. Trust would be key and I would advise Wendy Torrance never to suggest this to Jack, but in the correct environment, there are few considerations more tantalizing than the prospect of a cold blade sliding across my naked back. No pressure, any light flesh wounds furnished are occupational hazards no less. I’m not convinced that I’m a wrong ‘un for that particular fantasy. The fact that you’re still reading suggests you may well be a secret slice party fanatic too. Good for you.

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Click here to read L is for LOL

 

Cuts With Paste

 

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I just can’t get rid of you can I? Well, I suppose that now you’re here, we may as well keep this party going just a few slides further right? I have ten pints of blood in reserve and, as a tribute to Saw V, shall attempt to tally up the equivalent in deep red coulis with the following cuts and grazes as my parting donation. It just so happens I’m feeling generous. I think those 150 facial smites back at TOK boot camp may have dislodged something fairly substantial within my cerebrum. There’s only one way to know for sure.

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I’d like to attain if I’d class as insane?
Has there been a malfunction inside Keeper’s brain?
Is the sun shining bright or each cloud bursting rain?
Will I ever be quite compo mentis again?

 

I was gifted some wallops but nothing obscene
just a hundred and fifty which I took for the team
advise me your e-mail and I’ll send you a meme
or a forward address and I’ll post you my spleen

 

No sun block could hide the crude burns on my face
my escape was denied as he pulled out that mace
once well tenderized and soundly debased
my sorry demise was spared further disgrace

 

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I paid many dues for my terrorization
with every last bruise and severe laceration
I can’t sing the blues for such cruel valuation
but they loosened the screws with their bad education

 

I’m still none the wiser is the cart on the track?
I need an adviser to help trace things back
It was quite some geyser as my last nut was cracked
But next time a steel visor would be my first thing packed

 

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