COCO (2017): Movie Review

Coco is Pixar’s latest animation family-friendly extravaganza with a new twist on the hero’s journey story template with Miguel (voiced by Anthony Gonzalez), a twelve year old aspiring musician living in a small Mexican village with his family; a generation of shoemakers whose abnegated music entirely out of their lives ever since the family's matriarch, Mamá Imelda (Alanna Ubach), was abandoned by her musician of a husband. The film incorporates the highly celebrated Mexican holiday Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead) as the backdrop and setting for Miguel’s journey through the kaleidoscopic city of the dead as he uncovers the truths of his family's most mysterious secrets. As far as family-friendly adventure movies go, Coco plays it pretty safe with it’s general narrative structure, (which is to be expected of a big budget Disney movie released to the global market), but otherwise makes for a delightful, entertaining, and emotionally mature story that’s one of Pixar’s best in a long while.  

Directed by Pixar veterans Lee Unkrich (Toy Story 3, Monsters Inc) and Adrian Molina, Coco is a whimsically imaginative work of animation with a beautifully vibrant and fascinating display of Mexican-inspired art, music, and storytelling that will tantalize you watching it as much as it will inspire you to go out and experience Día de Muertos for yourself. Pixar often puts out fantastic productions (with exceptions to Cars and Cars 2) but Coco stands out as one of Pixar’s best, at least for the last decade. The characters are charming, the music’s wonderful, and the animation team deserves all the praise they're contractually allowed to receive. I was also surprised at the fearlessness of some of the film’s creative decisions especially with regards to the script as it delved into some pretty hardcore elements of tragedy and committed to them. I’m sure you’re all aware of Pixar’s predilections for tear-jerking moments (see: Inside Out,Toy Story 3, and Up) but Coco’s ability to switch back and forth between ebullience and tragic tones makes for an almost perfectly balanced piece of happy-sad cinema that older audiences will enjoy that (probably) won't traumatize younger audiences. That’s saying something for a kid’s movie where most onscreen characters are walking, talking skeletons. 

I do have a few pet peeves with Coco. For one, the plot’s major twists are pretty predictable for anyone paying just the slightest bit of attention; but seeing as the film’s target audience is children and exhausted parents I can understand the motivation to avoid a more "out there" narrative to accompany its already "out there" premise. I also found myself getting a little annoyed at how often “family” was mentioned in conversion. I get that the ancestral lineage of the main character serves as the main conflict and plays a role that's tantamount for the film’s overarching morel lesson but if there was a Coco drinking game then the only rule would be to drink every time someone mentions “family.” You’ll find yourself crossing the marigold pedal bridge to the afterlife before the end of act two. My complaints are minor (of course), and didn’t spoil my viewing experience for there were too many positives onscreen (or in the soundtrack) at any given time and I was thoroughly entertained. But, (and this is the "biggest" but), the animated “short” that played before the main film (as per Pixar tradition) was by far the most abhorrent theatrical experience I’ve had all year. On its own merit, Olaf’s Frozen Adventure, had “humorous” moments at times but was essentially just a 22 minute commercial for Frozen 2.  I’m sure some Disney executive had a convincing flowchart to back up his or her marketing strategy, but shoving it in the beginning of the film I've already paid to watch comes across as skeevy and annoyed me to the point where I'm now going to purposely avoid seeing Frozen 2. 

Moronic, pontificating snowmen aside, Coco’s songs, art direction, and emotional rich, gooey center makes for a revitalizing breath of cinematic fresh air for an age where theaters are jam-packed with emotionally constipated blockbusters week after week (I’m looking at YOU, Justice League). Coco possesses a prominent admiration for the musical and visual arts of Mexico with powerful morels relating to passion, acumen, death, and the importance of one’s ancestral, familial, and cultural heritage that audiences of all ages and cultures will enjoy. Don't miss this one on the big screen, but avoid the "short" if you can.  

CAMERA GIRL, Chapter 9: Eyes Wide

Chapter 9

Eyes Wide

Eyes wide, she steps towards the cop and simpleton, unblinking. A soft anodyne smile stretches across her face. Her was hopelessly focused elsewhere; fragmented across time, space, reality, and further. She’s terrified, relaxed, furtive and so she sets her body on autopilot and allows her mind to take hold of the neon-turquoise keratin scales of the tap-dancing pangolin of abstractive mind-wandering and let it take the wheel for awhile. 

In times of great emotional stress, panic, or imminent catastrophe it’s not entirely uncommon for people to mentally regress into a more “pleasurable” memory or moment in their own personal history. Like a waking daydream that serves as a psychological coping mechanism built into out humanoid  brains. For some reason, Nora’s cerebrum has decided to play for her a series of moving images of comedy actor Bill Murray.

Murray’s wearing a black dinner jacket with a bow tie and a red, woolen beanie. He booty-trots up the starboard side of the long-range sub hunter, The Belafonte. His face is bearded, tired, an unmitigated mask of misery (as it is in every Wes Anderson movie). String lights, caterers, and party guests flood the background of the ship but Bill takes no interest in them, it's almost as if he doesn't see them at all. He reaches the tippy-top of the bow and with nowhere else to go, he removes an aristocratic joint and tokes up. Everything becomes blurry and slows down like in the chase scenes from Chungking Express. Murray sighs and with a single arm-motion he removes the knit cap; revealing the giant cone-shaped power drill jutting from the crown of his head. The drill spins, buzzing like a sharp, sadistic piece of dental equipment. Murray’s eyes roll to the whites and he flicks his joint overboard. Then he bullrushes the first caterer in his wake, charging headfirst into guts left and right. Blood and inhuman screams. All the while, David Bowie’s Life on Mars plays on the speaker system. Starting with the chorus.

Sailors fighting in the dance hall,

Oh man, look at those cavemen go,

It's the freakiest show…

Nora’s body steps past the threshold of repossessing room, her heels clicking atop the hallway floor tiles. Her face is calm and collected like a sentient sea cucumber. The Murray-murder fantasy ends with one final, obstreperous crescendo of what sounds like a choir of rabid zebras being sodomized with garden gnome as Bill Murray turns their innards into outtards. Nora returns to reality. 

Nora returns to reality and already the simpleton's got his mouth open, raising a sardonic finger in preparation for one hell of a diatribe. Nora’s pupils concomitantly contract-

“Franklin,” the undaunted officer introjects. “Funeral’s in what? 15–20 minutes? Why don’t you go finish up in there and we’ll talk later, hmm?” 

Frank’s mouth hangs open, his finger suspended in the air as if in a freeze frame. Without a word Nora takes her cue and sidesteps out of the way. Frank’s nostrils pitifully flair like a usurped silverback but off he goes; back into the aerosol Dungeon of his own design. The door closes behind him. 

“Now we can palaver in privacy. Hope you don’t mind.”

Nora shakes her head. "Not at all."

Up close Nora can see that the officer has a solid eleven-inches on her. He smells of Vicks VapoRub and talc. Nora reeks of shellac and ignominy and she knows it. She knows, he knows it too.  

The officer extends an open hand. “Camera.”

He’s not asking for the model number. 

“Um, yeah, sure.” Nora hands the Nikon over with shaky, imperceptible hands half expecting the officer to immediately smash it on the ground like a mafioso goon.

The officer grabs it by the lens, (which is almost worse). Nora’s eyelids and brow wrench in horror. The officer’s thumb locates the on-switch and the green light flashes on. 

“So you’re Mandy’s girl?” The officer asks, fiddling with Nora’s Nikon. 

“Yeah—I mean, I was. I guess I still am but, I’m also not anymore, as well? It’s confusing. I don’t really like labels. Semantics were never really my strong suit and there’s been a lot to process in the last few hours.” 

“Of course there is. It’s not everyday someone finds themselves completely out of parents. It's spooky at first but is a natural stage of human development. It's a shame nobody ever wants to talk about it. "

“I’ll get over it. How did you know my identity? I don't think we've been introduced."  

“You may address me as Dante. Or officer Dante. Either would work but I prefer you use the later. As for your identity, miss Honoria Voorhies, your mother kept a framed picture of you on her dest. One where you're two or three-years old and you’re ridding around in a little yellow fisher-price toy car. Ones where the bottom’s cut out so kids can drive like the Flintstones. You have a lovely pair of eyes, it’s nice to see them in person, though I'm not grateful for the circumstance.”

“Ditto.”

The officer releases an exasperated sigh and hands the camera back to its master. 

 

Hey, maybe you’re not completely boned. 

“Pull up the last picture for me, please?”

Nevermind. 

“Sure, why not.”

Fifteen rapid-fire esoteric button-presses and switch-flippings later and Nora presents the officer with the latest photo file on the Nikon’s digital viewfinder: a snapshot taken at the hight of Nora’s spastic reaction to the officer’s sudden entrance: an out of focus wide-shot of a human shape standing in the ajar Dungeon doorway. Around his head appears to be a pair of dark malformed ibex horns made of solid shadow.

Sweet! I can add that to my portfolio- 

The officer’s face sours, as he purloins the Nikon, again.

        Rude.

“Unfortunately, like many long-arms of the law, I don’t appreciate my picture being taken, or even existing, without my consent.” 

“That was an accident, I promise. You kinda caught me with one foot out the Tilt-A-Whirl back there and I’m a notorious spaz by nature—”  

“How do I delete?” 

         RUDE!!!

“The button close to the bottom—no the other bottom. The one with the little white, trash icon.”

“I’m not seeing any-wait a second…okay, got it. Great. Now, would you like to tell me what THIS is all about?” He asks, turning the viewfinder to Nora’s face.

Officer Voorhies’ last closeup.

“Oh, right….” 

Okay, here we go:-->Ready to run like hell in: 3---2---1--

—Then, from the other side of the hall comes a shout: an adorable, high-pitched obstreperous shout. The kind you’d expect from a bloodthirsty Care Bear warlord. 

“NORA DONT YOU TELL HIM A GODDAMN THING!”

Nora’s entire face cringes. 

Always a day late and a dollar short. Why couldn't Slug have been imaginary, too? 

CAMERA GIRL, Chapter 8: ¡Thanks, Satan!

Chapter 8

¡Thanks, Satan!

Trepidation. 

In less than one shake of a lamb’s tail, Nora’s head flushes with something internal and burning like an electromagnetic bolt of radiation from Lucifer’s personal laser-pointer. She spins like a whirling Dervish on rollerblades in a banana peel factory towards the half-open doorway and sees a murderous shape-

-It’s a man! 

A gorgeous man, with two piercing opaque emerald eyes. A dark, burley mustache in the fashion of teamsters hangs below his aquiline nose. Hair black as oil and reflective like the gulf of Mexico after the BP oil disaster. His skin’s hot chocolate. 

I had no idea Tom Hiddleston had a swarthy, South American nephew. I shall call you, Enríque Hiddlestón. 

Enríque's wearing a tight pair of black slacks, a grey long sleeve button-up, a hip holster, an enameled shield-shaped badge over his-

-Oh. 

¡Thanks Satan!

Upon further reflection Nora sees that the officer’s debonair visage bares that old familiar, deny-me-and-be-doomed-expression worn exclusively by cops, and people who walk in on their dead coworker’s open-casket desecration at the hands of some dim, hoydenish goon. 

He’s going to kill you. 

“Miss…” speaks the officer, pushing the second half of the reposing room door open, revealing the beat-red face of the marionette-looking mortuary makeup artist standing behind him whose name Nora may or may not have already forgotten.

Correction, they’re going to kill you.

“…would you mind stepping out real quick for a chat?” 

Nora wants to run, flee! Head-first out the nearest window if the whole confrontation could be avoided. Once outside she could search for an an open grave to crawl inside and let the billowing crematorium chimney bury her with white, hot ash.

Officer hotpants mochaccino cocks his head and cracks a near microscopic smile. 

“It’ll be quick. I Promise.”

Best case scenario.  

“Of course!” Nora chirped as if nothing was wrong, all the while screaming in her brain as humans are known to do in this particular situation. 

THOR RAGNAROK (2017): Movie Review

On the poster there’s a space-viking jumping through the air to do battle with a grumpy, green giant decked out in gladiator armor, that should tell you everything you need to know about Marvel studio’s Thor, Ragnarok. This is the third and (presumably) final MCU solo-hero film to star Chris Hemsworth as the titular nordic god of thunder. This is also the fith feature-length film for New Zealand’s hottest new independent director, Taika Waititi (What We Do In The Shadows & Hunt for the Wilderpeople), who seems to be drawing from James Gunn’s Guardians of the Galaxy-style Marvel movie: a retro 80’s action-comedy with a puckering-red emphasis on the “comedy.” Ragnarok is by far the best cinematic notch under Thor’s belt and my personal favorite Marvel movie of the year. 

Kicking off where Thor, The Dark World (2013) left off…actually I’ve almost completely forgotten what happened in Thor 2. I remember something about space elves, a worry-faced Natalie Portman, and a floating red CGI amoeba but that’s it. Oh well, I guess it wasn’t that important anyway because Ragnarok doesn’t seem to remember the last movie. Ragnarok’s plot isn’t the most original out of the MCU repertoire, but then again I wasn’t expecting anything more. Thor 3 draws heavily from Disney’s The Lion King (1994) and Shane Black’s Iron Man 3 (2013) twist in that the hero must loose the thing that’s crucial for their hero-status (ex: Iron Man’s armor, Captain America’s Shield). In this case, Thor’s magical hammer Mjölnir gets destroyed forcing Thor to learn how to delegate his problems away with the help of his fists and lightening-powers that he hardly ever uses. The rest of the “story” involves the emasculated, space-wanderer getting cast down to an unfamiliar planet, meets a colorful cast of minor alien characters, and returns to Asgard to stop a villain with a spiky headdress before something evil blah-blah-you get the idea; but this time they’ve taken all the seriousness of the last two Thor movies and replaced it with self-aware silliness, and it works wonders to the film’s advantage. Unlike Thor’s last cinematic solo-features (which I still enjoyed but didn’t love) Waititi seems to “get” the inherent ridiculousness of the comics and character and has thus delivered a tremendously enjoyable macabre, yet goofy, live-action puppet-show with big monster battles, lasers, Kate Blanchett, and other freaky alien creatures. 

Chris Hemsworth as the blonde, bombastic bombshell: Thor.

Ragnarok’s aesthetically fantastic with the bulk of the film taking place on a garbage planet popping with color and personality that’s also ruled by Jeff Goldblum; who is whimsically twisted as the Grandmaster, presiding over his techno-slum metropolis as a petulant Willy Wonka-type with all the candy and chocolate switched for commercialized violence and futuristic hedonism. The script’s fast-paced and loaded with enough Kiwi witticism and awkward demureness that I half expected Bret McKenzie and Jemaine Clement from Flight of the Conchords to show up in the background. This is by far Chris Hemsworth’s strongest portrayal as the vainglorious Thor; he’s charming, charismatic, and wiser than past depictions while maintaining that playful Nordic demeanor that’s so pleasing to watch. Tessa Thompson was wonderfully hoydenish and formidable as Valkyrie, replacing Natalie Portman as the female lead without being reduced to another love interest with a stylist just off-screen. Cate Blanchett’s villainous portrayal of Hela, the goddess of death is far more interesting than the most Marvel movie villains but you’ll most likely remember her costume before her actual character. It’s not your fault Cate, that’s just how the MCU likes their villains. She does get to ride atop a gigantic undead wolf-beast so she’ll probably be among of the top-5 MCU baddies. Fun stuff aside, Ragnarok still suffers from most of the major problems all MCU films tend to suffer from; the action’s enjoyable but at times can be a nip too short and nothing’s really challenges the viewer in any way. I would’ve also liked to have seen more of Tom Hiddleston’s Loki (whose once again terrific as the god of mischief and trickery) but he barely does anything significant to the plot and comes across more as a missed opportunity.  Though, much like the film’s dashing blonde protagonist, Ragnarok is a fun, dumb, and hyper-energetic ride of giggles and intergalactic shenanigans.

Ragnarok delivers on everything you’d want and expect from another Marvel outer space adventure and maintains the MCU tradition of a superhero’s third solo-picture being their best cinematic debut; it’s visually captivating, brilliantly comical, and safely anodyne despite there being many macabre jabs of dark humor and dry wit. Director Taika Waititi has put on a grandiose, heavy-metal beat-em-up action comedy with a sparky emphasis on the “comedy.” Fans of the genre will have a devilishly fun and ephemeral PG-13 experience, where even though there’s not a single speck of blood to be seen theirs still loads of dead Asgardians, aliens, and Nordic zombie warriors but if I’m being totally honest, isn’t that what you WANT out of these fun-for-the-whole-family space viking films?     

CAMERA GIRL, Chapter 7: Click!

Chapter 7

Click!

In the casket lays a middle-aged woman not quite slim, not quite stocky, but robust like a former olympic, ribbon dancing coach. A shower-cap grips the crown of her scalp, containing a shoulder-length mop of wavy, brown hair. She wears a Merryhill Virginia P.D. uniform; black, grey, and decorated with an enameled badge. 

This is the body of Amanda Voorhies. She would’ve turned 40 in May. 

Removing her earbuds, Nora greets the corpse.

“Hi Ma.” She says with an awkward, Barney Gumble wave. 

Nora notices something off with the face of her ex-parental. Its a solid shade of sardonic-orange, like she's just spent the last 6 hours in Dracula’s tanning bed. 

Frank’s artistry, no doubt.

“By Lenny Kravitz’s cock-ring! What did they do to you?”

The corpse doesn’t respond. 

Nora hopes this will be a closed-casket funeral. Then she sees it-

A black leather bag. No larger than a ham-radio resting on what used to be officer Voorhies’ sternum; wrapped in an entanglement of dead, sardonic-fingers.

This is why I’m getting cremated. 

With both hands Nora jerks the casket, jiggling Amanda’s bodily remains for any psycho-spiritual sign or outcry for help. She once read a horror flash-fiction on the web about a man with total consciousness despite the fact that he was recently deceased. The story suggested that after death, humans still retained their sentience. All five senses; touch, taste, sight, sound, and smell were left perfectly intact except the man was still completely paralyzed. This made the autopsy and embalming procedures all the more horrifying. The tale ends with the man six-feet under. Enlightened to the banality of death but cursed to an perpetual existence of screaming in his skull while he rots for all eternity. No reason. No explanation. No cause. No solution. Pure nightmare fuel for the mind.

Nora sees not a single iota of life or consciousness in her ex-parental’s carcass. It’s empty, like the oyster shells behind the seafood buffet. Her cellular lights up in the balmacaan pocket with all the screws. She fails to notice. 

“I’m sorry you’re dead. I’m sorry they dolled you up like a Kardashian. You probably don’t care. Goodbye, I guess. Clutch the dark purple hairs of the galloping orangutan of the afterlife and ride on to wherever it takes you!”

Nora sighs. 

That was undoubtably the worst eulogy in all of human history, and it probably doesn’t help that I’m going to need that back…”

Nora reaches into the casket and one-by-one pries her mother’s cold, dead cheeto-fingers off the little black bag. Pulling, twisting, bending each digit, snapping like a baby carrots. 10 crunches later: the treasure’s liberated. 

Rigor mortis is a BITCH!

Nora slings the treasure across her neck as she’d done many times before. It possesses a shoulder strap, clips, and zippers. She opens it with one paraffin hand, fishing inside with the other and withdraws the boon of her existence. The totem of her destiny: a Nikon D3400 DSLR camera with a AF-P DX NIKKOR 18-55mm f/3.5-5.6G VR-lens. And with a flicker of her thumb, an itty bitty green light flashes on. The camera awakens. Fully charged. 

At last, my hand’s complete again! 

Nora peers into the digital viewfinder of the Nikon and with her hands she sets up the shot: Amanda’s last closeup. The shower cap’s ruining the shot so off it goes, onto the floor.

“Better.” 

She lines up the shot, her index creeps up the grip to the shutter release button.

Click-goes the camera.

CLUNCH-goes the door.

CAMERA GIRL, Chapter 6: A Girl's First Corpse

Chapter 6

A Girl's First Corpse

The reposing room was, (at one point in time) the most secure and furtive spot for hide-n-seek. Nora never considered herself “brave,” but other children were certainly more cowardly. Not even Slug, who practically grew up in the morgue ever went inside, referring to it as only as the, “Dungeon.” It might’ve had something to do with the foreboding brass knob or the unwholesome effluvia of formaldehyde, spray-paint, and necrotic flesh. 

Smells more like a nursing home worker scented candle. Or bootleg Zima. 

Nora couldn’t hear Alice Cooper’s cadaverous concerto, or rather, she chose not to register it any longer. She examined the interior: various medical apparatuses for post-mortem operations hang upside-down on hooks and magnets screwed into the urine-yellow tiles of the wall, like the setup for an amusement park’s hospital-themed house-of-horrors. Framed, antique medical illustrations of flayed, human anatomy, (the kind you’d see in a cabinet of curiosity shop on Haight street in S.F.) lay strewn about from years of neglect. A dusty cymbal-banging monkey toy sits precariously on a workbench amid a plantation of multicolored aerosol cans. 

Nora’s seen these features many times over but that doesn't stop the unreal tingling she feels riding the hairs on the back of her neck hairs neck. Either it’s the work of a lazy, immature poltergeist, or pure, unadulterated dread. Might have something to do with the bedford-grey, half-couch casket resting atop a gurney in the the far back corner of the room.

She knows nothing of the prearrangements. If insurance paid for the elmwood coffin (plus the earthen-interment), or if local taxation’s footing the bill. Nora’s sole understanding is that the contents of this varnished sarcophagus and the reason for her committing felonies this morning are one in the same.

Nora checks her cellular. Still no word from Slug. 

Push the attack. 

Nora approaches the reflective bedford box, triggering a not-too-distant memory of watching Peter Jackson’s 1992 satirical zombie B-movie, Braindead; rebranded as “Dead Alive” for American distribution because reasons. With her mind’s eye she plays back a scene where Timothy Balme, has to breaks into the casket of his zombified mother to sedate her with tranquilizers purchased from a veterinarian nazi so she won't devour the funeral attendees. It’s a complicated work of cinema but it still lead Mr. Jackson to directing Lord of the Rings. 

She glosses over the slick side-panels searching for screws, loosening them one-by-one with pale, nimble fingers. Pulling each bolt free like a botfly larva incubating inside a lonely entomologist’s forearm. One-by-one she plops them in her balmacaan as her hands work their way up to the casket’s front-half cover. 

Nora stops. 

Closes her eyes, counts to ten. 

She flips the lid, flying-off without a hitch. 

Guess it was locked by literally nothing. 

Nora examines the body. It’s the first human carcass to ever share her presence. The first cadaver within arm’s reach, the first stiff she’ll have a physical connection with. For now, anyway. 

CAMERA GIRL, Chapter 5: You Said It, Alice!

Chapter 5

You Said It, Alice!

Like a master of ceremony with a greased up microphone, Nora drops the concrete doorstop on the alabaster tile floor of the Merryhill Morgue. The interior’s spotless as a modern Nordic household. The walls are a series of sheeny bricks the color of strawberry-chocolate milk, or regular milk with a lot of bovine nipple-blood and feces mixed in. The ceiling’s florescent-light fixtures emit an obstreperous buzz of electricity; a sound that drills into the epicenter of your cranial fibers that makes you grind your teeth into soggy, purple stumps. 

A small smile runs across Nora’s face (her first of the day), unsure of how long it’s been since she was last here, behind-scenes. Nostalgia has smacked her in the face like the peel of a banana eaten by someone with Parkinson’s.

The lights are starting to get annoying. Nora plugs her external acoustic meatus with a pair of agent-orange ear buds, connected to a device in her pocket. She activates it with her thumb, music starts, and what luck, Alice Cooper! She recognizes the bass strings and creepy piano keying of one of Vincent Damon Furnier’s best original numbers:

I love the dead before they’re cold,

Their bluing flesh for me to hold,

Cadaver eyes upon me see,

Nothing…

The irony of this being the first track on shuffle is not beyond her, but Nora had to focus on more pressing matters right now. She’s just bamboozled a representative of the very place she’s technically not supposed to be in. Her (now) humiliated, sleep-deprived, and probably vexed, nemesis will be inside in a matter of minutes. Thankfully the only other entrance was the mortuary’s main entrance located at the exact other end of the building. She has 13-minutes (give or take), to get her shot. 

Nora removes the device, a phone (duh), and dispatches a text to a contact labeled “SLUG.” The message reads: “I’m inside-where u at?” Her throat’s beginning to burn and Nora wonders if the water fountain’s still around the corner, it is! She takes a quick sip of lukewarm “drinking” water, still tasting like nickel-juice. Down the hall she sees a wood frame door with a frosted-glass panel and an oxidized, brass knob resembling a human skull the size of a crabapple. The reposing room, her destination. The prince of darkness’s song echoes in her ears as she trots down the glossy-tiled corridor lined with gurneys and caskets:

I love the dead before they rise,

No farewells—no goodbyes,

I never even knew your (now) rotting-FACE!

Nora checks her cellular. Still no word from Slug. She grabs the cool, familiar handle and with a twist, pushes the door open. It’s unlocked, just as Slug said it would be. Nora takes a breath, sensing the cool sweat of jittery anticipation running up her spine and sliding back down her legs. Nora steps inside, closing the door behind herself as her earbuds continue blasting Cooper’s necrophiliac-love song.  

While friends and lovers mourn your (hehe) silly grave,

I have other uses for you, darling...

I love the dead,

I love the dead,

I love the dead!