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This one is a bit of an oddity as it’s a British slasher flick trying to feel American.

It kind of works.

Would I call it trash? Not really, it does have some decent moments, and the acting isn’t awful. I’ll just say that sometimes a non-trash film will pop up in this Trash F-Log series and this is one of those times.

There’s some added weight too, with the actor who played the killer [Simon Scuddamore] committing suicide shortly after production ended. I’m not sure why exactly, but from what I’ve read, he had continual struggles with depression, and the comedown after the creative high of filming a movie was just too steep for him. Slaughter High was his only film role.

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Never liked a single one of them, all must die, even the eccentric caretaker.

But first they should understand that they are going to die.

WE are going to die.

For what they did five years ago.

Don’t care that they look forty now, that they looked forty back then, five years ago, it just means that they should’ve done better, reacted better, being forty at that time.

And if they had done better, reacted better, they wouldn’t be about to die. Won’t be. Wouldn’t be. Won’t. Wouldn’t. Won’t have been? AGH. Don’t have time for this. Need to prep for revenge, sharpen the javelin, measure these acid drops. They deserve such a blue fate as this, a particularly blue one, bluer perhaps. Organised bluely by me. In blue season. That never gets past indigo. Well, at least it’s not green. Wouldn’t/won’t wish that on anyone.

God, I hate beginnings.

Rationalisations.

Nietzsche Jr.

The demiurge is elevated above the brute who doesn’t know the horror he is-

No to all that.

I’m gonna draw this thing out, the whole night if those bullies flee down certain wrong corridors.

Put Paper Marty on that isolated door.

Slide through the portal blurs.

Pop up and say AGH instead of ARGH.

Wrestle?

I’m stronger than I was at forty, supernaturally strong, but that strength works only periodically.

Against women and black guys.

I lift you, you lift you, producers lift you, edit in the harness later.

This is borderline oblique.

Whatever that means.

At least four of them could overpower me naked but I know chemicals and they don’t.

There was a scene of me and chemicals.

I do know it.

I knew it at some point.

This dark excess, this GOD of the real, this ruthless divine-

Not certain but I suspect Jack will drink this beer filled with nitro-chloride fizzy shit, it’s practically inevitable, if he’s already drunk enough, yeah, he will be, it’s Jack, guy’s a barfly psychopath

The mass will dissolve, Jack shall convulse, splatter, Susan will potentially hang back a bit

blood on her throat

feign fear

then run off and take a bath in the grotty changing room.

Meanwhile, the others will cower downstairs, refuse to go back for her cos Jack’s guts just exploded, argue a little, make dubious decisions as to how to evade my wrath, kick one single door then give up.

Ha, I barely need to lift an eyebrow, murder is easy when you have a workable plan. If the runtime were longer, they’d turn on each other, of course. Humanise via MTV sketch. Bully remorse after killing target meme. That would be entertaining. And also more rewarding when I kill them. But there’s only so long you can stare at a corpse. A collection of corpses. After that it’s back to the premonition of tomorrow. The day beyond when things go green again. I don’t want to be here tomorrow. These clothes are itchy. The jester mask looks shit. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here at all. Claim anxiety and go home, Marty, you cowardly slut, go home to Hell-Field, cut open a hole in the mattress and fucking stay there.

Is this punishment?

Please don’t let this film end, please don’t let this film end, please don’t let this film end, please don’t let this film end, please don’t let it end, please don’t let me-

Eight of them left now, irritating as fuck.

I know if I wait in the back seat of this car, the blonde type will appear eventually.

Because he wants to die.

Like the rest of them.

Why else would they be here?

Why else would they seek to be alone?

Hmm, this derelict school is the best, much more precise than mushrooms. So precise it almost feels fraudulent. Yet here she is, the latecomer, trembling cos it’s Surrey at midnight. I understand. I don’t want to be here either. Not like this. But here we are. Occupying the same temporal-void space horror realm.

I think I may spare her.

I shall spare her.

Show her my Solaris review, the comments on the Bruegel painting.

Show her my dick.

That she’s seen already.

Five years ago.

Showed nothing in return.

And now she’s wearing a cardigan.

Fuck the cold.

Death is mercy.

A subject without a body, without trauma or mourning, an excuse to not open my mouth and force out what I didn’t create, what I don’t want to create, what I don’t have control of, what follows me down the brightest of alleyways, not even trying to hide its-

AGH.

Where’s the mechanic at?

Been looking forward to this one all week cos I knew at some point they’d leave him alone to fix the tractor. Apparently he’s married to the bouncy one but I don’t believe that. Unless he was just there?

I don’t like this.

I don’t know about it.

I don’t know generally.

It’s brightly dark.

Am I glowing?

AGH.

The mechanic, the fixer of the unfixable tractor, he saw my dick too. Live and then again at the premiere afterwards. Which is fine cos it was quite big at the time, nothing to be ashamed of.

But he still saw it.

The director forced him to see it.

I remember, afterwards, he came over, the mechanic, whispered in my ear that I was a brave cunt for showing it on screen that way. And I said it’s nothing, horror is art, dragged down to MY real and that dick shot will shock the prudes the voyeurs my mother myself when I see it again later, shock them more than this acid bath will, more than the axe to Adrien Brody’s sniffer, and you could get your dick out too, mechanic, when you’re fixing the car, and he said yeah, maybe I should

but he still saw it

they all did

and that’s why they have to die.

That’s why they want to die.

That’s why they want me to die them.

That’s why I want to have to watch them die.

If we all do it, close to the same time, maybe it’s not that-

Star Crash Whore.

Oblivious.

20% of tit slope while I showed everything.

Doesn’t she know I might have kids too one day? If my sperm isn’t already fossilised. Depressed from sitting in a done man’s ball sack, too bleak to splutter out anywhere. Aware that Solaris is not good for them yet what else is there? Airplane? Possession?

I’ll never have kids.

They’ll infect me, I’ll infect them.

Won’t even get that far.

I’ll end this after the revenge is complete.

I don’t want to do it but-

Sex on the death bed.

Not as much smoke as I expected but still electrocution.

Is this art?

I think it’s the best night shoot ever.

I’m part of everything.

A main part.

Mostly unseen.

In silhouette, in a mask.

A speck on a tinier speck of greenish nothingness, contributing to a meaningless fil-

Adrien Brody.

Funny until not.

Hanging’s too good for a mutt like that but I haven’t done hanging yet so hanging it’ll have to be. I’m not completely confident though. The knot may have been wrong, the table too high. Or was it a stool?

Doesn’t matter, he’ll die at some point.

It’s that kind of place.

Place of the dying act, acting of death.

Why struggle?

Just like this whiny blonde, she’s practically drowning herself, all I did was tap her head with the sole of my shoe.

Is this satisfying?

Real?

It’s definitely not poetic. My thoughts are schematic. Schizophrenic. Old history teachers are talking to me, encouraging armistice with the bullies. I hate my arms. Almost as much as my brain. Which I have no control over. Which is alive and burrowing under me, into my-

Is IT real?

Final girl bot is glitching, as is the shower where they cornered my dick, the toilet that flushed my head, but it’s fine, she’s screaming now, begging in victim tongue for me to put down the sharpened javelin and let her out.

Ha, do you like it hot or something?

Whatever.

To be honest I never even locked the doors of this place. Put one board up against one solitary window.

This is recovery vibe.

Witch feel.

Shower of no tits.

Character with zero-

The javelin goes in, apologetic.

Like stabbing a surprisingly stacked voodoo doll.

She dies as she should’ve died in Star Crash [which I’ve never seen]. In the shower five years ago. After praising my dick. But she didn’t say a word back then and isn’t saying much now, even with the javelin out.

You know you’re supposed to be a ghost?

Come on, fraud.

Haunt me cos I did something about your shit. Murdered to stop the green patch drifting back in, to keep homestead in the coffin laughing

Don’t glitch, it’s patronising.

No.

I said don’t.

Stop glitching.

Stop it.

Stabili-

The lights switch on, barely. Dim amber like the nightmare set that won’t detach, ME, three feet tall, chased by the dick-man in the samurai suit. Stoic-looking helmet face. Drooling out the greyest cum.

‘How was the session today, good kills?’ asks a blur that could be the doctor shape.

‘Where did the ghosts go?’

‘No questions, please. We’re pushed for time.’

‘They’re not here, they weren’t-…’

‘Focus on your performance.’

‘I need the ghosts.’

‘Which kill gave you the most prolonged sensation of pleasure?’

‘Please.’

‘The computer says the acid bath. Interesting. Is it because she’s naked? Does that excite you?’

‘I need them. I need the-…’

‘Hmm. Perhaps you should dilute the acid a touch. Give your brain more of a chance to indulge itself.’

‘Ohk wam boona kom kom bah.’

Please, Marty, put down the syringe. You know it’s not real.’

‘Ka ka wokka ban…’

The doctor shape does nothing, says nothing as I sink the needle tip into the vitreous of their right eye.

‘…yabba ka ma wah bah!’

Background humming noise, deeply mechanical.

No wails.

‘Same time tomorrow then, Marty.’

The needle, the eye, the doctor shape, the hospital ward all glitch in various spots and buffer for around five, six seconds before being swallowed up by the holo-grid.

‘No,’ I mutter, staring down at the same thing that’s always there.

Bloodless.

More or less.

The caretaker did spurt a bit when I put him up on the hook, possibly alarm that I wasn’t wearing any-

I hope he spurts next time too.

I miss him.

All of them.

Even if they are underwritten.

The school as well.

Beautiful dilapidation suit.

I feel much better now.

This is a ledge on the way down to Hell.

An apraxic Yama Trip.

AGH.

If I can keep killing them indefinitely, on loop, in this gorgeous grubby locat-