
31 minute read
The Griggs House
Before even mentioning whether Eli Roth's latest Thanksgiving is a good movie, we must first admire the career decision at play here. The doomed video game adaptation Borderlands began production back in April 2021 with Roth on board set to make his first big blockbuster with a budget estimated around $100 million. After some seriously poor test screenings, the initial release date was rescheduled and 2 weeks worth of reshoots were planned back in January 2023 with Tim Miller stepping in to the director's chair to finish the movie.
In spite of the blatant chaos, Roth has continued to remain on good terms with Lionsgate and has shown no hostility towards anyone involved. Reshoots are not necessarily a bad sign but taking nearly 3 years to complete production is not a good one. There isn't much way of excusing that part and it's not like the trailer, which has finally seen the light of day, has done anything to convince us otherwise of this whole project being a shitstorm. Evidently, it wants to be James Gunn but unfortunately it looks more like David Ayer.
Borderlands has all the signs of an auteurs lost battle with a studio and its sad to see. It is all the more tragic in that the studio, Lionsgate, were the studio behind Saw and to see them not supporting one of torture porns main players, Eli Roth, is in Funeralopolis's eyes deeply disrespectful. Bringing in a loser like Tim Miller too is like cleaning your toilet bowl with shit. It only adds to the problem! Do Lionsgate not know how to play the game by now? Rule number one. When things go wrong, you just call the fixer. The Ray Donovan of the film industry. The Mike Ehrmantraut. I refer to Stuart Baird. There's not a problem that he can't fix and he can do it in the mix.
Cannot praise Lionsgate's thinking on this one but we can completely understand Eli Roth's logic. What do you as a director when you make it to the big time and it all goes wrong? What do you do when you lose all your power and identity? You go back to square one and you make something small and intimate where you can regain that sense of control.
After selling your soul to Hollywood, there's only one thing for it: personal filmmaking. You have to go back to your origins, which for Eli Roth is undoubtedly the horror genre. What better way to do that than to return to a mock trailer you made about 16 years ago and promised to make a feature for but never did? The fact he promised it for years and then went and did it in the short space of a few weeks is true exploitation filmmaking that we salute.
Originally, the mock trailer was sandwiched in between Planet Terror and Death Proof as part of Grindhouse Envisioned as a recreation of a night at one of the 42nd Street cinemas back in the late '70s and early '80s. Before, that prick Giuliani came and knocked them all down to build Disney shops, under this false guise of removing all the sleazy activities, but really just to bring in children because he is as Borat 2 proved, a god damn fucking nonce.
Therefore, it remains one of the saddest experiments in the history of cinema that Tarantino and Rodriguez aimed to bring back that kind of experience to a new generation of film goers but the whole concept of a double bill with scratched reels now is so forgotten about that it was completely lost on audiences and financially it proved to be a massive failure for The Weinstein Company. Not that we want to see old Harvey getting any more money but imagine a world where every year we got Grindhouse movies with two directors going back 2 back. Supposedly, the sequel was meant to be Edgar Wright and Eli Roth expanding on their shorts but it never came to fruition.
If Grindhouse's failure proves anything, it is that the whole history of exploitation filmmaking seems to have been erased from culture overnight. Now either you want exploitation back or you want to know more about it. Let me explain something real simple to you. Your father, he tells you to say your prayers. He tucks you in, warm within, keeps you from sin. Til The Funeralopolis comes! Welcome back for Volume 3!
Eli Roth's mock trailer of Thanksgiving is now considered a minor classic and is best known for nailing down the warped near psychedelic late night other worldly feeling of an exploitation film in both visual aesthetic and absurd tone. Who can forget the classic shot of the knife going through the trampoline and penetrating the vagina? The classic line where super cop Michael Biehn shows off his detective work by dipping his fingers in a red pool next to a dead body, licking his lips and confirms to us all, "it's blood"? The classic scene where the turkey comes out and yeah I don’t know what the fuck is going on there? Along with Astron 6s You're Dead, that infamous mock trailer is just about the only thing today you could mistake as being a once lost and rediscovered gem from the grindhouse era.
I guess shot compositions (the trampoline sequence looks different) and the actors in feature length years later were always going to be different (No Biehns on toast but we do have the recently voted sexiest man on the planet, Dempsey) but has too much been lost in the conversion? What we have here is a real battle between old school and new school genre filmmaking. New additions include a bland glossy make over (which really takes away from the mock trailers charming dishevelled appearance with the intentional scratches) and the incorporation of millennial satire. The former is disappointing but to be expected and the latter is always going to raise some eyebrows in the potential for embarrassment.
Whilst the satire doesn't have anything to match the memorable haunting and cursed image from the underrated Knock, Knock of Keanu Reeves buried in the grass with his head is sticking out and accidentally liking his own Facebook sex tape post, it's easily better than anything Scream has offered this side of Wes Craven's untimely departure. Having said that, there was this one worrying moment in the film when I thought they were going to make the one guy taking a sabbatical from social media the killer but thankfully it was only a red herring. Punishing the guy for getting offline for five minutes would have been too cruel and a bad message for the kids.
As for the whole look and sound of the film, this side is very disappointing and lazy given how much effort was spent on that for the short. Give me the poor lighting, mismatched audio, the shoddy editing and scratches. Perhaps, I need to buy a copy of the DVD version then maybe drum Phil Collins's In the Air Tonight solo on the disc with a pair of scissors a few times. That ought to take care of that problem.
The infamous torture porn King does have a few tricks up his sleeve such as using the history of Plymouth, Massachusetts, as a means to comment on America's complicated colonising history and his home state of Boston. Exactly the kind of personal filmmaking required after that horrific blockbuster experience. Every horror movie needs a good villain with particular killing tools and identity concealers, so the use of the creepy John Carver mask is the work of a genre expert. That has all the makings of being iconic in the years to come.
Roth's best mate and secret weapon, Rick Hoffman, is as hilarious as you'd expect if a tad underused. Soon as I saw his face in the new trailer for feature as the final shot, I was trembling with fear. Roth knew what he was doing with that little jump scare. He needs to be in more films him. Big Hoffman fans round here. We rate a guy that can do a lot with a little. A cameo master. Me and the boys still talk about his Oscar deserving performance in Hostel, in which he plays an overly enthusiastic torturer contemplating which twisted methods to use on his victim.
Throughout the entire movie, I was itching to see what happens in the much hyped family dinner scene. Horror fans will know there's some real standards for that. Stern competition that has gone unmatched since 1974. The mock trailer suggested the potential for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre levels of manic and surreal. Brings me no joy to say that the actual scene in the feature version is kind of flat, tame and well...somewhat boring. It's missing the what the fuck factor of the mock trailer. Loses the humour for some half arsed social media satire that quite frankly isn't worth the change.
This decision summarises a lot of the flaws of the movie in that it sacrifices the throwback fun for stabs at modern relevancy. Not necessarily a bad decision to for something of substance but when it isn't particularly effective and occasionally comes at a cost of the classic appeal, I question the point. However, unlike most modern slashers the meaning, purpose and fresh weight doesn't completely tarnish the body of the film structurally. It's still very much a slasher that stays consistently intact and behaves for the most part as it should. The big question then: is Roth to be credited for playing the modern game and doing a respectable job or should we disappointed that the visual aesthetic is a lot lazier, the humour isn't quite as manic, depraved, surreal or even trippy? You tell me, buster.
Can we really praise a once brilliant artist (and I say that with no irony intended, if 9/11 and its violent aftermath of civil rights violations of middle eastern citizens was the most significant event of the 2000s and Hostel is where the public consciousness of the era is most reflected on the screen, then Eli Roth is one of the most important directors of that decade) for slipping in to being a bit of a routine craftsman? Then again, this is so clearly made with such refreshingly personal love towards his home state that it can't be ruled as not being the work of an auteur. Can we forgive Eli just for having a bit of fun (the opening riot scene is nothing if not that) after a no doubt calamitous production on Borderlands and just getting himself out of film jail with something quick and easy? You can never underestimate the importance of fighting for survival in the capitalist industry that doesn't even support its own artists. Even the greatest of directors like Scorsese and Peckinpah have had to pull out some mad mind games now and then to stay afloat. It's a tough business.
When all is said and done, Thanksgiving is clearly an above average entry in the slasher genre. Not going to dispute it. Yet, it's no match for Ti West's X. That's the top of the class right now and despite being able to keep up with the majority of the slasher filmmakers, we have to admit Mr Roth is no longer a front runner like he was with his groundbreaking torture porn, body horror and hygienist films he burst on to the scene with. I'm trying my best not to be negative about Thanksgiving because in comparison with the low standards today, it's a real blessing and in its own right a good movie. Regardless, I can't hide my disappointment in the blatant lack of style.
Where's the guy that gave me Angelo Badalamenti whilst a bunch of hillbillies hunt down some teenagers, creating some of the finest Southern dread since Deliverance? What happened to him? I want the Eli Roth that pissed the critics off. Not the one who was praised by them. I want the Eli Roth that impressed Tarantino. I want the Eli Roth that blew Peter Jackson away so badly he stopped filming Lord of the Rings for a day to show the entire cast the next step for horror. If we can't find him in the present, then maybe we need to go back...
The world is recovering from the worst financial crash since the economic depression. My parents are still taking a hit on the loans needed to be paid back from the unexpectedly long time that was required to sell the old house in Manchester. An unstable economy is the last thing they would have wanted. These are times only John Steinbeck could have found the poetry in. The year is 2010.
Two young boys recently acquainted are discovering the music that would originally bring them together. The music of hip hop. Boom Bap is the bible. Rappening is what's happening. Uneducated but gifted teenagers are hoisted up on a pedestal and expected to behave like saints. Their violent and appalling but beautifully crafted lyricism is our gateway into another world far from our own. We are voyeurs seeking dangerous thrills our safe town cannot provide.
Homophobia is disturbingly ignored and the subject of rampant misogyny merely provides great amusement. These boys should know better but the truth is they do not. Naturally, it goes without saying they know little of the financial problems prevailing. To them it is summer and the only thing that matters is seeking that which should not be sought: Hip hop, horror films and Heineken.
This story does not start with some kids on bikes riding out to some '70s stoner anthem like Hawkwind's Orgone Accumulator. This story does not feature kids that build a tree house in the woods. This story is not set in Bangor, Maine. Although, West Kirby does have a few similarities in being a seaside town. This story does not have a plot about a bunch of kids seeking out a dead body. Yet, it does in its own way involve the search for the sick. No doo wop, just hip hop. Doggystyle and The Chronic are continuously pumping out. Eli Roth, Rob Zombie and James Wan are considered Kings to those who appreciate them. It goes without saying, every day is Dre Day out here.
We enter into this world via an outside garden. "You're back now at the jackoff hour, this is DJ EZ Dick. On WBalls, right now, somethin' new by Snoop Doggy Dogg. And this one goes out to the ladies, from all the guys. A big bow-wow-wow 'cause we gon' make it a little misty here tonight. This is DJ EZ Dick, on the station that slaps you across your fat ass, with a fat dick". Balthazar sits in a deck chair adjusting the speaker. Kelly is munching on a red hot burger only moments ago taken off the barbecue by Balthazar's father, Mr Marie. "So you got any more films for me?", asks Mr Marie. "Yeah. Man On Fire with Denzel", I say. "Denzel Washington? What a fine actor of the screen", states Mr Marie. I couldn't help but agree. "Well, apart from that God awful one Johnny D showed us last week at his", I add. "That's got the worst twist in I've ever seen. That one's beyond M. Night Shyamalan", retorts Balthazar. "Which ones this?", asks Mr Marie. "The Book of Eli. He goes on some epic quest and it turns out he's blind the whole time", I mention. "What a load of nonsense", throws in Balthazar. "Yeah, total nonsense", I agree.
After the barbecue we are left to listen to what we've been waiting to hear. Ice Cube's latest album, 'I Am The West'. Something of a late career nothing event to pretty much everyone else with any sense but to these two budding hip hop heads, it's the sound of the summer. "I've got more bars than the penitentiary, I wrote this shit without a rhyme dictionary", Ice Cube informs us. He is the west. We hang on his every word. Once, we've taken in this fine masterpiece of an album for the third time, we agree to go our separate ways and meet up tomorrow.
I slip my headphones in on my blue Ipod Nano and am greeted by the welcoming voice of Eric Wright, popularly known as Eazy E, who sings, "Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh. Cruisin' down the street in my 64". I put one foot in front of the other, showcasing the Kelly wheels, which continue to be a firm and reliable method of transport even after all these years: his legs. "It's like that and it's like this. I took her to the pad and we started to kiss. Now my dick's on hard, you know what I'm thinkin'". I smiled along as though I knew exactly what he was thinking. Eric, you're a genius. "Took the panties off and this pussy wasn't stinkin'. Pulled off the drawers and we started to begin. Now the pussys wet so my dick slides in" Tell me more, Eric!
Women didn't really exist at this age for us. They were more like a distant creature yet to be understood. A wild beast yet to be tamed. But there were rumours you could get yourself one of these things. Walk around with them in parks, take them shopping, that kind of thing. Yet, we were too distracted by Denzel Washington movies, Nirvana, pizza, minute quantities of alcohol and wrestling. Just the good shit. You could call us late bloomers. But we would make up for that... eventually.
When I turned up that evening to Balthazar's house, we were joined by the other members of our gang, Big G, Obie Trice, Johnny D, December '63, Shoeless Shawcross, SeeSaw, and Norman. Barely through the door and ODB's Shimmy Shimmy Ya is blaring and Big G is showing off his skills, downing a beer bong in one. He makes it look easy. He refills it and hands it to me. I forget how gravity works. I pour the damn thing too vertically and the weight of the bottom tips everything down my shirt. An action that is met with several jeers that are only interrupted when Big G gets Obie Trice in a headlock and RKO's him off the sofa. I pass the beer bong on and pretend it never happened.
The first movie on the cards is Shogun Assassin "Look at that boob there, guys. That's the best boob we're going to see all night", says Norman. He is not wrong. Each passing boob is weirder than the last as we reel in disgust at hairy breasts and mockingly yell at the screen but know full well we'd suck on all of them given half the chance. There's a carefully selected run of films, all handpicked based on IMDb parents' guide notoriety. Tokyo Gore Police shows us horrors we have never seen before and will never see again. Tartan Asian Extreme has us covered, showing us some sick twisted perverse thrills and perhaps not the best representation of the continent. But what the fuck did we care? We wanted the extreme, we wanted what our parents told us we couldn't have and we wanted it now.
It only takes a few more beers for us to make our way to the tent outside and to pass out. I barely even make it in to the sleeping bag. I'd already made a fool of myself by trying to eat a cactus and speaking utter gibberish about Denzel Washington being the mightiest thespian to walk the land. This is all I remember before the blackness comes in and my face plants the floor. My night is over.
When I awake the next morning, everyone is set up with a full English and all prepared for a double bill of REC 2 and The Descent. Horror round the clock, no breaks. "There has to be something that is the heaviest thing known to man. Too heavy for public consumption, right?", I ask. "We'll find it", answers Balthazar. Afterwards, Johnny D lends me a copy of a much loved video game Portal 2 and I spend the last of my money on a 2 litre bottle of Dr Pepper before heading back to my own house. The next day I go to work, controller in one hand, Dr Pepper in the other, I have the game pretty much completed in no time.
"Who's turn is it for camping anyway?", I ask Balthazar with the phone tightly pressed against my ear. "I believe it's yours", he answers. Turns out it's my week to host and so I get the garden all set up and ready. I wire up an extension cable so we can get a television rigged up outside. Tonight's double bill: Boogie Nights and Evil Dead 2. Beverages are limited and will not come out until after midnight when the parents are asleep. Late night conversation turns to an old abandoned house. One side road from China Farm Lane, a minor walk and you're there. What she looks like now I couldn't tell you, I've not been down that dirt path in many years but I still remember our visit one afternoon. Everybody has an abandoned house story and this is ours.
Some rumours. Some bullshit. We each tell the story of what we know about the abandoned house just off China Farm Lane. "It's registered to a guy named Jack Griggs". "How can it be registered to anybody if it's abandoned, you thick cunt?". "It is registered to him, my Dad works for an estate agents, he's seen the papers, dickhead" "That wouldn't be Old Man Griggs, right?" "Who's Old Man Griggs?". "You don't know Old Man Griggs?"
An old radio sits on a low lying tree stump. Aretha Franklin can be heard pumping out. "This was the land that he worked by hand. It was the dream of an upright man. There was the room that was filled with love. It was a love that I was proud of. This was a life of a love that he planned. On the love, the same old love". A few yards away Jack Griggs is chopping up logs and smoking on a Chesterfield. Just an ordinary man, if anything too ordinary. Too quiet. Too cold. Too disengaged. He hears all conversations and he never contributes. This is how he blends in.
He worked down at the Albert Docks. He did not love his job but he didn't have much of an opinion on anything. It simply paid and he simply existed. Once considered a steady job but with the unwanted shift from casualism to containerisation people were starting to be laid off in serious numbers. Essentially, between 1947 to 1989, the jobs of the registered workers were protected by National Dock Labour Scheme but once the new handling methods and equipment were phased in, this went out the window being replaced by standardisation. For poor folks without training in the changing world it was bye-bye. Competition substituted in for collectivism. And so went the spirit of solidarity. Replaced by cold isolation. The year is 1983.
Grigg's job had been used to support a family of four. When that went so did his little grip on sanity. He started by preying on the drunks that stray from the beaten path. Many evenings were spent in the legendary Liverpool nightclub, The State, listening to endless hours of cheesy synthpop and eyeing out potential new targets. "The grabbing hands grab all they can. Everything counts in large amounts. The grabbing hands grab all they can. Everything counts in large amounts", sung Martin Gore and a bevy of drunken women with atrocious voices that should never have made it passed the shower stage.
Waking up one morning, he realised he was caught in clubland and murder. He scanned his bedroom, gazing at the evidence of last night's mysteries. "Clothes and records on the floor. The memories of the night before. Out in club land having fun. And now I'm hiding from the sun. Waiting for a visitor. Though no-one knows I'm here for sure". Conversation with his wife had been reduced the occasional grunt and nod. His relationship with kids was non-existent. He preferred talking to his young women he repeatedly kidnapped and killed.
Down in the kitchen he sees an untouched ready meal his wife must have left for him. He picks it up and puts it in to the trusted rusty microwave. As he does, he thinks to himself, "I think it's time to cook a meal. To fill the emptiness I feel. Spend my money going out. I've nothing in I'm left without. Clean my teeth and comb my hair. And look for something new to wear. And start the night life over again. And kid myself I'm having fun"
Eventually, his wife began to suspect something and that's when he really snapped. One night he crawled in to bed with her whilst she was asleep and strangled her way beyond her final breath. His expression remained completely neutral as he maintained his grip. His heartbeat never went above 70. Straight after, he casually slipped in to his children's shared bedrooms and took care of them too.
When the police finally came to investigate the obnoxious smells reported by locals as they passed by, Jack Griggs was found sat on his bed in his room just to the left of the stairs. According to the first officers on the scene, he was singing to himself, "Give me time to realise my crime. Let me love and steal. I have danced inside your eyes. How can I be real?". The Grigg's House had been abandoned ever since, nobody wanted anything to do with the place after all the stories came out.
"Bullshit", calls out Balthazar. She Watches Channel Zero by Public Enemy roars on in the background. "Na, na. I heard he stabbed the kids 42 times and then sliced his own cock with a rusty tin opener", countered Obie Trice. "Now, come on, why would he do that?", followed up Balthazar. "What did he do with the bodies?", asked Shoeless Shawcross. "Basement", Big G quickly responded. "I don't buy that. That house is surrounded by a bit of land. They'll be in the fields. That's what I would do", I suggested.
It was agreed that just Balthazar and I would do a reconnaissance mission. We would go down and check the place out from the outside. Look for structural weak points that could allow us to enter the abandoned property. As we walked down the dirt path that led to the house, I thought of the murders that could have taken place round here and as I did Mudhoney's Touch Me I'm Sick blasted over all the images that came to my mind. To test the noise but mainly for a bit of fun we threw some rocks through the top windows. The front door was completely locked and the bottom windows boarded up but after about 20 minutes we found our way in. One of the wooden panels was slightly loose, given a few tools it could be pulled apart. Following a successful mission, we were ready to return to the boys with our findings but I got a bit carried away and decided to throw one more stone through a window for good measure. When this was returned with a scream of "Oi!" somewhere in the distance, we grinned at each other and decided to get out of there sharp.
"Callin' from the fun house, yeah Yeah, I came to play and I mean to play around. Yeah, I came to play and I mean to play real good. Yeah, I came to play Oh. Alright, hey, lemme in!", rambled an irate Iggy on the speakers. We were all gathered at Balthazar's place to discuss with the rest of the gang when we would be exploring the abandoned house to reveal its secrets. It was to be next Saturday evening. SeeSaw would bring a torch. Balthazar a screwdriver and pliers. And December '63 would provide all the beers he could get hold of (which turned out to be disappointing 3 cans between us all).
"Higher worlds that you uncover. Light the path you want to roam. You compare there and discover. You won't need a shell of foam. Twice born gypsies care and keep. The nowhere of their former home. They slip inside this house as they pass by. Slip inside this house as you pass by", blasted out 13th Floor Elevators on my portable speaker as we waltzed on down the path to the abandoned house. We cracked open the cans and passed them round. When we were close enough, I turned off the speaker to minimise the noise until we were inside.
Balthazar pulled the screwdriver and pliers out his pockets and set about working us an entrance in the house. As he did so, we waited eagerly. Norman kept watch on the path for any passersby. "In every dream home a heartache. And every step I take Takes me further from heaven". It would be years before the housing and cost of living crisis would really impact us but it seems interesting that here we were as kids trying to break in to a home even before we were dubbed the rent generation. Did we know on some level the struggles we'd have down the line trying to secure one? Was this surreal escapade just a trial run at what life would be like for the future?
Once the wooden panel had been carefully removed, the window still had to be smashed. I did the honours. Big G, who as you may tell was no small man, was notoriously clumsy and nearly guillotined himself on a shard of glass still lodged in at the top of the window frame. He must have left with a slice on him somewhere or other. "Is there a heaven? I'd like to think so. Standards of living. They're rising daily. But home oh sweet home. It's only a saying...".
Having saved Big G from narrow decapitation, I get my first real look at the place. We appeared to be in what was once the living room. Needles scatter the floors. Nearly as many as Amanda had to crawl through to find a key in Saw 2. Blood stains are smeared across the wall. This was a real kind of horror and one that made even less sense to us than the paranormal we'd seen in the movies. It began to settle in that maybe we weren't alone in the house. "From bell push to faucet. In smart town apartment. The cottage is pretty. The main house a palace. Penthouse perfection. But what goes on. What to do there. Better pray there".
To us any squatters could well have been zombies. At that age what was the difference? Our minds filled in the blanks of whatever we didn't know. Who would be brave enough to open the first door? Since SeeSaw had the flashlight, we all agreed it had to be him. The regret was all over his face. We all stood behind him an edged towards the living room door, sliding through to the main hall one by one. "Open plan living. Bungalow ranch style. All of its comforts. Seem so essential. I bought you mail order. My plain wrapper baby. Your skin is like vinyl. The perfect companion. You float my new pool. Deluxe and delightful".
The stairs lay ahead of us and we each whispered to the person behind us that's where we going. Everyone tried their best not to bump in to the man in front of them but in the pitch black it was near impossible and so we all ended up looking like we were on the front cover of Madness's One Step Beyond. The minute beam of the flashlight was our only guide. I feel a slight scratch on my fingers, so I pull back off the stairs handrail, there is a small marking carved in it that looks like a circle maze. "Inflatable doll. My role is to serve you. Disposable darling. Can't throw you away now. Immortal and life size. My breath is inside you". We were all thinking the same thing, don't let my foot go through a hole in the stairs.
Everybody suddenly freezes. My eyes drift from the graffiti on the walls reading, "Hail Glasdou" and over to where the group's eyes are locked in on. The door at the top of the stairs, was it beginning to slowly open? Was it a figment of our imagination? I don't remember who first made the decision to turn and run but soon enough we were all darting back out the way we came. "I'll dress you up daily. And keep you till death sighs"
Back out the broken window, careful not to guilotine Big G again. We'd barely got the troop out before we had to run again. A car pulls up outside the front of the house. The back garden was the only option. We sprinted in to the fields. Can farmers shoot you in the UK? "Inflatable doll. Lover ungrateful. I blew up your body. But you blew my mind!". I ran until my muscles began to loosen and my strides widened with hope, I ran until I exhaled fire and my arms soared through the air like roaring blades, then I ran some more.
As I turned round, I saw the notoriously clumsy Big G, stuck on the barbed wire fence I had only moments ago leaped over. Behind him were two cops. They rugby tackled him to the ground. Those damn dirty pigs. We had a man down. And where I come from, you don't leave your man behind. I decide to stop and call back the others. The pursuit came to its end. We were done. It was all over.
Cue The House of the Rising Sun by The Animals. "See, when something like this happens, You know how things are gonna work out. As much as we liked him, the yank Shoeless Shawcross, he wasn't one of us. He wasn't a Wirral head. As far as we knew, he could have talked. Otherwise, Shoeless might still be alive. The first one to skip was Obie Trice. He found a nice, warm, secluded place in Costa Rica. He thought nobody would find him there". Gunshots ring out. "But then his kid got nabbed by the Feds for drugs. So, naturally, the bosses were afraid he'd come out of hiding just to save his kid and give them all up. So..." More gunshots. "But, anyway, they all had to follow. Everybody went down. Before you knew it, anybody who knew anything wound up gettin' whacked". Trigger a cacophony of gunshots and groaning.
In actuality, nothing really happened. The cops just asked us a few questions of how we got in and we mentioned how the wooden board was loose when we arrived. Thankfully, Balthazar had ditched his tools in the field when he had the chance so there was no possibility of that coming back on us. My mind drifts back to those weekends spent watching nasty horror movies, listening to hip hop and first discovering the lifelong obsession with beer. The search for the sick. Sometimes, I try to recreate those times with late night movies, pizza and beers. Nothing fully comes close to the feeling but many years later when I discovered Joe Bob Briggs and The Last Drive In that came pretty close. Come Monday morning after the brushing up close with the long dick of the law, we didn't see the inside of the cells but somewhere far worse, school. Summer was officially over...
"This is the final boarding call for flight 1259. Departing from Los Angeles final destination to St. Louis. Thank you". Finally, when the bell rings and I get out the school yard at half 3, Balthazar is standing there proudly brandishing a copy of Cannibal Holocaust saying he's found it. The heaviest of the heaviest. Too heavy for public consumption. The uncut kick that opens out instead of narrowing down like junk. Kick is seeing things from a different angle. Kick is momentary freedom from the claims of aging, cautious, nagging, frightened flesh. Maybe I would find in Cannibal Holocaust what I was looking for in my trash experimentations. Cannibal Holocaust may be the final fix...
Thanksgiving Overall Rating: 3.5/5