Archive for September, 2006


The philosophical implications of death metal…

The following is an excerpt from a conversation about the movie, Cannbial Holocaust archived on the Bendis Board..

“I was just filled with disgust and rage, and I wanted those guys to fucking die. Fiction or not, I couldn’t watch that whole scene. It was the most unsettling rape I have ever seen filmed. I felt ashamed just watching the movie after that.”

Kind of did what it was supposed to then, didn’t it? I mean, say what you will about everything in the movie – it, as art, means something about humanity. I use it as an explanation of why someone would ever listen to gore metal.

It is the act of epiphany for alot of people – the moment where you realize that humanity is sick. This gives you a few options – end it, ignore it, or use it. A movie like Cannibal Holocaust is the realization that we’re not at all right, where as something like Death Metal is the further explanation of what we’re capable of. Nihilism, in that sense, is less than a lack of care for other people, and more an exclamation point used to demonstrate why we need to change.

Of course, we have to examine each on a case by case basis. That is, not every one of these bands, much like many of the Mondo films, is expresing these views. They then become charicatures, and do little more than to serve up the same – sadly proving the original point that humanity is indeed off. I don’t think that anyone quite feels comfortable with the thought that George Fischer is one of the world’s leading social commentater.


The Quiet Death of Doctor Meyer

“The Quiet Death of Doctor Meyer”

I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since we buried Molly. My sleep is
fitful and restless. Dancing imps crawl about me in my dreams, condemning me
for what I’ve done, a female figure in red the source of my macabre trial.
The repeating rhythm of “Long live Doctor Meyer, burned his wife in a
kitchen fire,” the only discourse the little demons will give me. It?s a
swirling hatred, my nightly tribunal, and it drives deep into my heart. I?ll always fear
the coming of the executioner because of this dream.

Her funeral was the picture of respectful in its opulence. It’s hard to
think of something like a funeral being a social event, but it turned
out to be the place for young socialites to gather. Morbidly curious about the
rich man’s wife, they paid faux respect never knowing the greatest affront
to her memory was that I was there with Sophia.

I refer to “we”, for it was a joint venture between Sophia and myself.
We had planned the death of my wife meticulously. It even was a point of
contention many times, not because I questioned murdering my wife, but because
Sophia’s schemes often drew heavily on Faulkner. I found this sort of
“accidental” death to be something that was easily traced, and had no intensions of
spending the last outdoor walk of my life sauntering between a cell and gallows.

She once told me that certain types of hypnosis, applied clandestinely
to a sleeping subject, would not allow that subject to breathe in such a way
that one would think they are dead. She reasoned that we could have my
lovely Molly carted off as dead long before she was, being done with her
without much worry. I vehemently stated that for all her faults, I would
always love Molly. If we were going to end her life, then we were going
to do it in a civilized manner.

Since the day I set fire to the kitchen, with Molly locked inside, I’ve
been quite satisfied with sticking to my stance. Not many questions were
asked, and it was assumed that it was a grease fire catching her dress.
“It’s the peril in having a kitchen with only two exits, sir.” The constable
said. I shook my head, and wiped a tear, and carried on in the expected
decorum of a gentlemen.

My sleep hasn’t had anything to do with guilt, mind you, but rather
with the fact that Sophia has a tendency to kick in her sleep. She whispers
things that I wish I couldn’t hear, and she moans in a ghastly breath of air when
we make love. She is, essentially, a fine lover but a terrifying
presence in the house. I find her hollow eyes cutting through me at
dinner occasionally, as if she’s staring straight into the soul of my being.
It’s only this afternoon, when she tried to alleviate one of the negro cooks
of her right index finger, did I realize that it was, perhaps, best she

Sophia, however, seems to have had similar plans in effect for a much
longer time. My dreams fight me again, the familiar children?s rhyme
flittering in the back of my head:

Long live Doctor Meyer,
Burned his wife in a kitchen fire.
His mistress and he sealed her in,
A horrid death for loving kin.
Let’s hang that doctor for forty days,
he set his dear, dear wife ablaze.

What roused my conciousness awake was nothing short of terrifying. My
body shook, and my eyes opened to pine above me. Pine all around me. I tried
to move when I realized what was happening, but Sophia prepared well. My
hands were bound behind me, my feet much the same. It mattered little,
though, as her hypnosis was much more effective than I was led to believe. I never
dreamt I would be awake when I was buried.

It was a bare silence. A gruff voice from above me broke in, lamenting
the back breaking work of grave digging. I tried to scream out, I tried to
make him aware, but my heart sank when I heard Sophia finalizing the
deal, I was being buried alive for a week’s pay. Her soft voice carried
sweetly on the air, echoing off of the wet dirt around me. “Leave his marker
without a name.” she says, “I understand that the Doctor has retired to the
Florida Keys.”

And so it began, the gentle wrap of dirt on wood. The slow muffled sound
of life being drowned out. I wept to myself in my last hours, the door
into hell closed behind me. All the while, played in my head, were the
voices of those vicious little imps. “Long live Doctor Meyer, burned his wife in a
kitchen fire.”

The air became thick, and developed an acrid smell. I am nearly postive
that my body is long dead. I can’t feel my heart beat, and there is a dullness to my faculties. The air is acrid and hot, and it no longer hurts to breath.

All that lives in me now is a regret for what I’ve done, and a burning hatred for
Sophia. These are the things that let me know I was once a person, because humanity
left my heart long ago.


The Reformers

(script action, politics)

“The Reformers”

Script – Mike Black


1 – Ext. suburban home. Backdoor of the house, a lone light sits lighting a small area of the backyard, the rest of the panel is pitch. Directly under the light is Richard, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. His arms are crossed , but in one hand he holds the leash for his dog, sniffing at the ground in front of him.

TV (From inside door)-
The newest rounds of cuts has set off a fire storm of controversy across the country.

In The Slate-Helders budget, federal grants for student housing in post-graduate programs has been cut by some thirty percent. When asked for comment, Representative Helders stated…

TV (Helders)-
“The success from those programs was marginal. We’ve seen very little of value come from it over the past ten years. This is a society of success, and we cannot tie ourselves to endeavors that fail year in, year out.”

Well, atleast I can still go home.


1 – These panels will all be widecreen. I want a real movie feel to them, maybe even light-boxed. The dog wanders out of the circle of light. Richard’s head leans back as his knees bend. He’s staring straight into the night sky. His cell phone rings.

2 – Richard straightens up, and the dog runs back into the light. The phone rings again.

3 – The phone is in his free hand, the other holding the leash out. He holds the cell to his ear and answers.


4 – Richard’s head sinks down as the dog jumps up and down at his leg playfully. The cigarette goes limp in his mouth.

When did you sell it?

Boca Raton. How nice.

Alright, ma. I’m kind of busy right now.

Alright, love you too.

5 – Same panel as last. The dog is clawing up at Richard’s knee. His head is now up, looking forward into the darkness as he plunges the cell phone into his pocket.

Home is out of the question, then.


The Public Fisting Of Sen. James

(prose action)
I first met Jennifer Belle after the trial of Senator Anthony James.

It’d been so widly reported exactly what went on in room 442 of the Ocean Side Motel (much to the dismay of Mrs. James,) that when I was sent to by my editor to cover the post trial I wasn’t in need of much prepatory work. I still, however, ended up in the lobby of the Hilton drowning myself with cheap coffee.

The clippings I had were a mass of conformity. I couldn’t read more than three lines before seeing the same words I had seen thousands of times earlier in the stack. Bondage. Sadomasochism. School girls. All of it was so heavy, and it wore on me that the good Senator didn’t have any imagination when it came to sexual depraivity. It was if the Marquis De Sade used up all the good ideas, and all we had left were the scraps the Japanese were tossing us in their never ending quest to come up with new ways of getting off. When did a good, old fashioned sex scandal become so boring?

I felt sick and tired. The adderall I had begun taking to keep me focused was wearing off, and I was 200 miles away from my supplier. My head drifted back to my father saying “Dex, being a writer seems so damned lazy.” I couldn’t help but laugh when I thought about the strain I was going through. It might be easy to write, but getting focused enough to actually work was like voting in American Idol. I mean, really, who gives a shit? Struggling with the notes was proving harder and hard by the moment, as my eyes glazed over and my skull began to pound. Then it struck me that I didn’t have any cigarettes left. This left a deep sense of urgency that, compounded with the lack of sleep and banality of my profession, caused me to “check out” completely.

So, when I let my head wander, and my eyes go their own way, it’s no surprise that I was staring at the lady of the hour herself without realizing it. Talking about how gorgeous she was has no point – the world already knows. But the first time I first truely saw her charcoal hair, or the curves that most sculptors can’t duplicate, I was taken aback. I remember the first time I ever looked at her in person was right after the public fisting of Sen. James.

I also remember that it hurt to look at her.



Except from correspondence with a good friend Dewey. Shared based solely so you can understand why I always look like I’m staring off into space. This might shed insight into why I have a tendency to pick up projects and drop them immediately (much to Geen’s chagrin in terms of my writing output.)


…Man – what the fuck is my deal lately? I’m in another one of my creative gluts right now. Yesterday it’s t-shirt design, and today it’s political activism. I swear to god, all I wanted to do all day is create an activist website dedicated to Futurethink and the concept of [I]Raison d’Humanite[/I].

It’s like all I want to do is infest minds with my political theory of “Shut the fuck up.” I mean, I have shit to work on – no artist in sight for the forseable future – but, I have so much crap flying around my head. I want to push ideas, and kick start brains, and break faces. It’s driving me nuts. Mostly this means you can ignore the random PM’s I might send you in the next month or so. They will be varied and crazed, and half baked and completely random. Just remember that the shit I would send you (if I do,) is only about a quarter of whatever comes up in my head at any given time.

Did I ever tell you about [Nebula], the mature (in thought process, not content,) comics magazine? I was ranting about it for about a year. I kept spewing out “It’s easy to imagine! Just think of Playboy – but replace the tits with serialized comics!” I swore up and down that it would be a great way to get comics to the masses.

The website – fuck. I was kicking around “”, where it was dedicated to finding, ferreting out, and polishing the ideas of the future. An online thinktank housing forward thinking educators, science majors, philosophers, and the like for designing and implementing Post Humanity (I suppose taking Morrison’s X-Men and making the ideas a reality.)

I also had big plans for bringing in architects to do city planning [on the website] – not just for urban sprawls here on Earth (to help aleviate population stress on the enviroment as well as to better control population growth,) but to try and plan what cities on Lunar colonies might look like. I swear to god, there is something wrong with the way I think.

Bler. My head hurts. I need to read. (Sometimes I need to vent before my brain bursts.)




Graft onto me the futurprocessor, gimme wetworks that reroute what I want. Give me backups and firewire hubs. Give me hackerproof firewall. Give me stereo surround sound with a sound card to push people back. Give me internal liquid cooling and turn me into a living computer. Give me humanity 3.0 Upgrade, upgrade, upgrade.

Fuck genetic engineering. I don’t want my parents wiring who I am. I want full Windows customability, and OSX security.


Angry makes me look like a 15 year old.

Utterly pissed. Very drunk. If I see another advert for Gay Superboy Clones in Next-To-Nothing on Digital Webbing, I’m going to pop and fucking drop a bomb on god. I can’t fucking stand the shit that comes out of these asshat’s mouths.

Fuck you. It’s not a fangasm. It’s a fucking lifestyle. Am I the only one who sees it? I don’t want your dollars, I want your fucking soul you cunts.

I seriously can’t stand your bullshit. Everything you put in my face – the Byrne obsessors, the cheap Alan Moore deconstructionist pig fuckers, and those god damned whiney Thompson horn-rimmers. Fuck you all.

Where’s the soul? Where’s the “I Don’t Wanna Hear It” ‘s and the “Rise Above” ‘s? Where’s the fucking balls? Where’s the experimenting? Where are the people gasping “That’s just retarded enough to work. Let’s put it out in a cheap mini-comic and give it to James Sime to sell?” Because he would. He still loves comics. Why don’t you?

I feel like I’m ready to pop. The world’s going to pop. THERE IS SO MUCH OUT THERE AND YOU ARE ALL SPINNING YOUR WHEELS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT THE SAME SHIT FOR THE PAST TWENTY YEARS. Fuck your jobs, fuck your 9 to 5’s. Give me something to live for, or to measure up to. Because until you do, I’m done with you. All of you.

I hope your happy, your $50-a-page-rates have made me hate comics.

Mike Black is…

A writer, reader, commentator, music lover, art lover, futurist, tech lover, pragmatist, romantic, DepDecoist, and a bastard. Hopefully you enjoy.

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