Fresh Meat: In honor of Hooper and Romero

The true masters of the craft know how to titilate the senses, to provoke the basest and most primal regions of our minds. In doing so they create legend, they establish cultural icons that will echo through the annals of time, long after they themselves have passed on to whatever lies past this world…

In sight they gave us a sun parched Southern hellscape, a lone house bedecked with the bleached bones of the unfortunates before and those yet to come.

They gave us a Pennsylvania killing field, where the grass and the graves run wet with the coagulated blood of the ghouls whose life has far been extinguished but still posses a hunger never sated.

The smell of gasoline, acidic and stringent. It dances about the olfactory palate with the tangy waft of rended flesh and fat, of fatted calves and sweet meat.

The scent of decay, wafting on a dead wind bringing with it the smell of Earth, of soil soured beyond that which should be possible.

The sound of a power tool roaring to unfettered life, chopping blades, sizzling meat, screaming livestock and the fresh, wet sound of hammer upon skull.

The sound of moans reverberating from vocal cords long surrendered to rot and ruin. Of gunshots, screams, shattered glass, the symphony of urban downfall and the rise of the primal cabal, unknowingly united.

The taste of meat-oh-so-sweet, fall off the bone and come-and-git-it-while-its-pipin-hot. It tastes a little odd but don’t you fret none, it’s fresh and goes great with barbecue sauce.

The taste of copper, of your own juices as you bite down upon your tongue, screaming in vain as the ancient dead yet freshly risen shatter every preconception of reality and safety.

The feel of hopelessness, of anger, samaritans wronged for their good deeds being punished. Of steel and spinning teeth, of hooks that clutch and refuse release even as you gaze helplessly at the carnage below. The feel of leather…

The feel of death and rot, cold and clammy of ghoulish wretch and sordid skin. The feel of elation, of joy for having survived the night. Only to be cruelly snatched away by the hands of our own kind, blinded with contempt and irrational, unequivocal fear.

They gave us flesh faced simpleton behemoths, angered spirits beset upon suburbia, disfigured man-beasts unleashed upon the sweet-and-sour midway utopia. They gave us the legions of undead, contemporary metaphors with teeth that gnash and nails that rend. Vampires, damnably thirsty and seeking to establish a new view for their kind. The works of literary masters brought to screaming, blood letting life.

To the lives and careers of Tobe Hooper and George Romero, we here at The Collective pay homage. They gifted the world with their talent and established a legacy of horror unlike any other. To them and to all the masters of horror that came before them and will come to be, we thank you for your contribution.

May you all find success in this world and peace in the next.

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