Saturday, March 29, 2014


I love GONE AND FORGOTTEN and you should too!

There’s probably no more iconic superhero costume in the history of the genre than Superman’s, but that didn't keep ‘em from tricking it out like a tile floor in the Shining hotel but wearing a red belt. Likewise, that didn't hinder the happenings of Action Comics No.236, January 1958, where Superman ditched his familiar red-and-blues for something that looked a little like a banana blowing a spit bubble. When Professor Xavier Carlton ask Superman to doff his familiar togs so the scientist can test an exploding robot (“Fantastische, he explodes exactly as I hoped! Muzzer vill be so pleased” I imagine him saying so that my use of quotation marks won’t be entirely misleading), the Man of Steel leaves the premises in an ersatz suit poorly engineered to handle the extremes of super-exertions common to everyday heroics. Turns out Xavier Carlton is actually evil scientist Lex Luthor, which is something I’m sure Superman would have noticed if only he’d had any kind of super-ability relating to seeing through disguises, hearing and recognizing individual heartbeats, or generally having any sort of super-senses which would make a rubber mask and fright wig and unacceptable effort to delude him.,,
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Back in Justice League of America (vol 1) #35, the League had the honor of getting to fight not only against their own recently worn leggings and panty liners, but also the recently worn and left-to-hang-around-without-getting-washed boxers of their greatest enemies (well, some of their enemies, anyway. “Greatest” is a particularly loaded term)...
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What fresh Hell is this? Oh, it's just BIKINI GIRLS VS DINOSAURS...


I have never heard of the film YETI, GIANT OF THE 20TH CENTURY but now I must see it.



Friday, March 28, 2014

Rest In Peace Dave A. Trampier

Another piece of my childhood is gone...


Dave Trampier's art helped to define the early years of the roleplaying hobby, the images above being some of the most iconic from Dungeons & Dragons' formative years...
















(Loved this one.)


Dave A. Trampier


Take 15 minutes to watch CHILD EATER, then take out your wallet and give them money to make a full-length version!

From i09

The trailer for CLINGER is still a better love story than TWILIGHT!


DARK NOIR is a short film made with audience suggestions. Check it out...


POSEIDON REX? How long before it fights the Sharknado?


The trailer for SON OF GHOSTMAN hits me right in the horror fan feels...


BROODHOLLOW misses all the signals!


Thursday, March 27, 2014

The trailer for PHANTASM: RAVAGER

Sure Slender Man is cool but THE TALL MAN RULES!

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

We are (kinda sorta) getting a new PHANTASM film!





Here are a few more details on the Phantasm: Ravager courtesy of Phantasm Archives and Shock Till You Drop, and it might not all be what you wanted to hear… Firstly, and most dishearteningly – Don Coscarelli is NOT the writer and director of this film. These duties have instead been taken by artist David Hartman. It seems the film is already in the can, having been filmed “little by little since 2008,” and was initially entitled Reggie’s Tales. All the series regulars will appear - including, this time, Kathy Lester (the original movie’s Lady in Lavender) - and it was all shot in Reggie Bannister’s hometown Crestline, CA. All this makes it sound to me less like a bona fide Phantasm movie than a spin-off/fan film (particularly given that, when I spoke to Coscarelli barely two months ago, he gave no indication that anything Phantasm-related was in the works at that point)… but hey, Phantasm: Oblivion was largely constructed around deleted scenes from the first film, so it wouldn’t be the first time the series built a movie on an unconventional foundation...

Begun the BIGFOOT WARS have...


Attention Marvel and DC, listen to SUPER-TEAM FAMILY! Beta-Ray Bill and Tomar-Re should have an ongoing series!


Gorilla's Twerkshop?


Monday, March 24, 2014

The Cold Inside (a serial novel) Chapter Thirty-Seven part one

The Cold Inside
Chapter Thirty-Seven
part one

Wednesday January 25, 1995

Phil was locked in a dark room with a man he’d feared all his life. The floor between them was littered with shredded paper and shattered mementos. Occasionally they would cut Phil as he tried to drag himself into a corner. He felt his nerve endings tingling with life. Was that a good sign? Zara would have known.

Zara… His breath caught in his throat.

“Still mourning her are you?” The boy said. Victor Kovach’s mannerisms and speech patterns riddled Tristam’s body like an ambitious cancer. He was kneeling beside an old suitcase, pawing through the silk Italian suits. Before tossing each one aside he made sure to rip it along the seams. “She never loved you, not in the way a man should be loved.”

“Fuck you.”

“Cerebrate upon this.” The boy grinned, “Her final thought was not of you, it was of me. She loved me to the last. You were trustworthy and harmless. Her only fidelity was to the protection you offered her, a protection that came to naught in the end.”

Nothing left to lose, Phil spat an incantation of the most vile and deadly sorcery he knew. It erupted from his gut as a wet cloud, howling with a dozen different voices that were all his. The air around it crackled and hissed. It was hate given form, it was unlife personified.

The boy caught it in the palm if his hand and marveled at it like a child’s drawing. “Sumerian death magic? What a pathetic squandering of the time and energy you have left.”

With an offhand gesture he sent a fragment of the incantation arcing back to Phil. The boy watched the old man squirm and wail. Once Phil’s agonies had run their course he spoke again. “I assume you are speculating upon how it is I came to conceal myself from you so adroitly for so prolonged a period?”

“…can’t… can’t…”

“It was elementary enough really. I postulated accurately that you would search only the most obvious of places to find where I had anchored my soul. After all you could never be certain you were rid of me unless you could be certain I was soul-dead.” The boy got up and went back to rummaging through  suitcases. “Especially when you knew that the Monarchs were being held at bay by the stalemate my physical confinement created.”

“… traitor…”

“No, merely a pragmatist. The Monarchs, no matter what we do, will have this world.” The boy shook his head in bemusement, “None of you fathomed that, you were all to busy playing at being heroes. Perhaps in your final moments Phillip you will come to appreciate that the world has never needed heroes. They are an anathema to an ordered society.”

With a grunt of satisfaction the boy retrieved the familiar old winebottle from the suitcase. Phil felt something catch in his throat.

“So, where did I ensconce myself? The explanation is simplicity itself if you only pause to consider. I anchored myself to an animal, to a cat.”


“To the cat you discovered in Sig’s house when you went there to try and find some suggestion of what had happened to him. The cat you brought home to guard against the solitude you had always dreaded.” The boy stood over Phil, hefting the winebottle from one hand to another, “How could you not have seen? Did you disregard my teachings so easily?”

“What…” Phil coughed, “What are you going to do with that?”

“And this is why you floundered as a disciple my dear Philip, an inability to focus.” The boy ran his fingers along the length of the tinted glass, pausing to idly pick at the melted wax holding the stopper in place. An indistinct form shifted inside. “And we all know who this is don’t we? Poor, pitiable Reginald, I have made contact with him several times over the last few years.”

“Victor… please…”

“He vowed to serve me, serve me forever so long as he is revenged on you first.” The boy’s razor thin smile filled Tristam’s face, “Have I not always been the very paragon of generosity Philip?”

He threw the bottle against the far wall, it shattered into a spray of broken glass. A thick miasmic form slithered from the remains, no bigger than a man’s fist and coiling in and upon itself. A fluttering, whisper of a voice filled the air with rants, curses and nonsense. It flowed across the floor of the storage room, dragging slivers and chips of glass after itself.

“No!” Phil tried to raise himself up, he almost found the strength but the boy held him in place, grinding his sneakered foot into the old man’s chest, “No!”

Scraps of paper, swatches of cloth and old ties, splinters of wood and bits of plastic; the wrathful spirit added them all to itself as it crossed the room. It evolved a shape as it moved, raising itself up, becoming bipedal; a man made of refuse, a face of contorted paper, sinew of moth-eaten cloth and fingertips made from broken glass and rusted metal. When it spoke its lips moved out of synch with the murmuring nonsense of its voice.

“What do you think Phillip?” The boy beamed, “Impressive, but not quite the Reginald of old anymore is it? I think I shall call it Chimera for lack of a better appellation.”

“Please!” Phil was shouting as loud as he could. Someone would hear him, someone had to hear him.

The boy stepped aside, allowing the nightmare shape to draw closer.

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