I received another gift from El Presidente today. While no one appears to have died this time, the circumstances surrounding its' arrival are troubling.
I still have not screened Mardi Gras Massacre. It's sitting on my bookshelf, gaining dread. At first, I had written off the odd package with its' ominous manifest as some kind of joke, or a trick to make me wary. But I've found myself scared of the tape, nonetheless.
Today's delivery was another videocassette, an old ex-rental copy of Frozen Scream, backing up a lead feature called Executioner II. As far as I have been able to determine, this is the only available version of Frozen Scream in the USA. (Executioner II is somewhat of a misnomer, as there was no Part I, much like Bill Cosby's ill-fated Leonard Part 6.) Both films feature the same lead actress, Renee Harmon, who also produced. In an article for a special Horror issue of SFX magazine, a chap like myself (only British) watched all the Nasties and rated them in a countdown. Frozen Scream came in at #73 out of 74 (this reviewer included the extraneous films Xtro and Shogun Assassin which were seized during the Nasty panic but never officially targeted for prosecution by the DPP. The film at #74 was Alain Deruelle's Terreur Cannibale, if you're wondering.), meaning that the writer in question (I don't remember his name, sorry) felt it was utterly worthless. I have seen few films I consider to be completely without merit (Sideways, Paul Haggis' Crash, Blow, the simply-awful Open Water), and as a fan of low- and no-budget filmmaking, I am confident there will be something good about it, but that remains to be seen, as I know next to nothing. The more obscure the Nasty, the harder it is to learn anything about them. I'm excited, though. I feel like those two freaks brought me a lost treasure.
Which brings me to the delivery. The doorbell rang and I opened up to find two burly, mustachioed men smoking cigars. While this is out of the ordinary, it was their attire that set off my internal alarms. One wore a powder-blue prom dress and tiara. His makeup looked to have been applied by a deranged Mary Kay rep. The other wore a curly blonde wig, lederhosen, and clutched an oversized lollipop in the hand not holding the cigar.
"Yoo heff peckidge," said the transvestite, holding out the brown-paper wrapped parcel.
"The Leader thanks you," said the boyman, flicking cigar ash on my shoes and biting a large piece from his lolly.
I took the delivery with trembling fingers and asked if I needed to sign.
"No signed. Yoo take. We go," said the man in drag. He and his partner turned around, clasped hands, and skipped away, singing a traveling song in a Teutonic dialect.
I watched them go, five hundred pounds of human singing and skipping to the corner. Once there, a black Volga limousine careened into view, screeched to a halt, and disappeared with the strange men as cargo.
Shivering, I went back inside and engaged the deadbolt. The package, and the videotape it contained, were thankfully free of bloodstains. The tape was in a clear rental case. The case was cracked, one spindle holder removed but included. I checked for a return address, and there was indeed writing there, but it appeared to be written in Enochian with green paint, rendering my questions as to the parcel's origins unanswerable.
So just who is this El Presidente? I don't know. He contacted me via email offering his help in acquiring rarer titles. Happy to have an ally, I didn't stop to consider what motives he may have...but I'm thinking about them now, that's for sure. And what the hell is he President of, anyway? Am I unknowingly aiding a coup? Providing information for a twisted cult? Unwittingly fueling a Tony Montana-style coke machine? Or something more sinister that my little mind couldn't possible fathom the true implications of...?
Whatever is really happening, I extend my thanks to El Presidente for his assistance in tracking down these rare finds...and please, I beg you, keep civilian casualties to a minimum. I can't be responsible for that. I'm a film geek, not a revolutionary. But maybe he's one of the good guys, so I'll keep in contact with him. Because my name's Justin. JustinCase.
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