"Guinea Pig 2:Flower of Flesh and Blood"(1985)d/Hideshi Hino

We're skipping right over the Satoru Ogura original 1985 short, Ginī Piggu: Akuma no Jikken, which is horrible enough in it's own right, tonight, crunching right through the humerus to the glenoid of the matter with a pair of hedge shears, a plastic samurai helmet, and some seriously cruddy-looking fronts.That's right, Hino's Gini piggu 2: Chinuku no hana, or Flower of Flesh and Blood, the notoriously nasty faux-snuff epic that fooled Charlie Sheen(like fucking with that guy's perception is any major accomplishment, huh) into thinking he was witnessing real murders, contacting the MPAA who, in turn, contacted the FBI who were already investigating the filmmakers with authorities in Japan, leading to a court decision that finally dismissed all criminal scrutiny.I've heard the tape was passed on to Sheen by either Chris Gore, of 'Film Threat' fame, or the late Chas Balun, of 'Deep Red' magazine, either way, a tip of my cabbie to the responsible party.Hino himself has claimed that the ultra-violent short is based on an actual 8mm snuff film sent to him by an unhinged fan of his horror manga and later turned over to authorities(how much later, you old dog), bypassing story and characters completely in serving up one of the goriest splatterfests to date, with UnEarthed Films releasing the definitive North American collector's dvd box of the series, the disc for tonight's entry containing a hidden easter egg that allows you to view the film in nth gen snuff-o-vision, cutting out the lead-in and getting right to the gruesome goodies for the sick fucks out there that break out the AstraGlide and aloe-laden tissues so they can crank a suzy right off during their fave dismemberments, Dahmer-style.Don't look at me, you dicks, I like my women intact(mostly) throughout our interludes, it's you creeps that worry me...

Where are your precious Sugarcubes to the rescue?We've got you now, Bjork, you odd bitch.
After a text disclaimer warns us that the tape we're about to bear witness to was sent anonymously to artist Hideshi Hino by an obsessed fan, who was paying tribute to Hino's own "The Flowers of Flesh and Blood" manga, we see a woman(Kirara Yûgao) being stalked and filmed from a car as she walks, then chased through a playground and finally subdued by a trusty ether-hanky.To her horror, she awakens in the personal abbatoir of a pasty-faced Japanese yukk-mouthed freak in a rubber apron and samurai helmet, eyeing her body, bound to a slab at the wrists and ankles, with bad intent, indeed.The freak taunts the girl with a live chicken, cutting off it's head, and remarking, "Look. This is your fate."He pumps his hostage fulla dope via syringe, commenting: "Now the woman is in a state of rapture.Due to the drug I injected into her, as can be seen, she is completely unable to feel pain.But, instead of feeling nothing, she feels only ecstacy."However you look at it, it's all downhill for this chick from here, as pale n' gruesome fixes to whittle her down like some sadistic carver with a women-for-wood whimsy.At least he's got the common decency to recite poetic Eastern verse that draws artistic parallel between blood-letting and botany both for his bound up n' banged out victim-to-be, and his soon-to-be repulsed audience following along at home...

There's something decidedly very Hemingway about this shot.
First, he allows the scarlet to billow forth by opening her wrists as she writhes about orgiastically, her naughty bits tastefully hidden behind a sheet that's about to need a good 'Shout'ing out, if you know what I'm sayin'.Naturally, he amputates her hands next, then her arms are chiseled out of her shoulder joints, and what the hell, after another poetic diatribe, why stop there?He chops off her feet and legs at the knee joint, before gutting her torso like a plump channel cat destined for the fry pan.Next, it's the girl's domepiece that's gotta go.If it wasn't bad enough to lose your head in such a way, her disembodied head gets smooched up by the serial killing-Samurai with questionable oral hygiene, an interlude it would have no doubt balked at were it still attached to shoulders and breathing, I'm willing to bet.In the boffo finale, we're forced to watch the fiend spoon one of the eyes out of the head, and swish it around in his mouth like a gross jawbreaker.The camera lovingly pans his crazy crib, which is adorned with multiple gruesome trophies of flesh and blood from his previous victims, before we see another girl being set up for a real bummer of an evening.Walking a little funny for awhile is the worst any girls come away from getting together with me, just sayin'...

Obviously, she hasn't been killed thoroughly enough, yet.
At one time, forty bucks would have gotten you the aforementioned box set, uncut, right off the shelves of Best freakin' Buy, ferchrissakes.Seriously.Think about that for a second.Just two aisles down from Grease(1978) and Xanadu(1980).Nothing compliments Olivia's wholesome, sweet charms like a mitt full o' pulsing, gory innards on movie night, huh.I used to groove a lot more heavily on stuff like this in years past, but as I've mentioned a few times before, I'm somewhat more indifferent towards it these days, unless there's a valid story around it, acted out by professionals, that's moved along by the violence, even centered around it for all I care, just don't try to shock me with gross-out tactics at this point in the game.Still, this is legendary stuff for it's disgusting ilk, with amazing splatter effects for the time period, especially considering the evaporating output of the West during that same time.I remember flinching once or twice the first time I bore witness to the damned thing, on a black bootlegged VHS sans labels back in the nineties, a rare occurence, believe me.The best/worst of its kind to this very day, an indelible black mark on the world of cult cinema that's required viewing for any and all self-respecting gorenophiles out there while the squeamish should steer well clear.On the scale, a well-deserved score of simple-yet-disturbing, visceral brilliance:

You are here, so am I. Maybe millions of people pass by, but they all disappear from vieeeeeeeeew...

"Philosophy of a Knife"(2008)d/Andrey Iskanov

Friends, I ask you: Why bother wasting your holiday exchanging petty, inane niceties with relatives you most likely hate three hundred plus days a year(and who never shrink from tirelessly airing every last one of your failures out to the whole family around the dinner table on an annual basis) when you can enjoy an unpalatably dry Russian turkey right here with your favorite Wop?The quicker woprophile wits who invest the nearly four and a half hours necessary to endure the whole of tonight's entry will be drawing infinite parallels between the rubbery chunks of white meat on their plate and the phony latex excess lying just as dead on the screen before them.Not that revisiting the war-driven atrocities that took place inside Japanese Unit 731 is a particularly bad idea, especially when you've got a treasure trove of rare archival footage and photographs to reinforce your own cine-vision and drive the gut-punched reality home, but of course, the hands of an amateur never once sculpted a masterpiece, superlative chisels notwithstanding.If you're somehow unfamiliar with the aforementioned Imperial Japanese experimental unit's horrendous crimes against humanity in keeping up with the Russians and Germans in the chemical and biological weapon race during the second world war, that's because the Russians went out of their way to forever erase that horrific location from the pages of history.Chinese director Tun Fei Mou tackled the controversial subject with his notoriously nasty Men Behind the Sun(1988), a far superior and more effective effort than Iskanov's in every way, if you're asking me.The Russian has produced a mostly cheap-looking, longwinded, self-indulgent fap-fest that could have been a powerful, moving film with at least three hours worth of edits, methinketh.

"...in Soviet Russia, movie edits you."
At the outset, we see Iskanov in black and white, as flanked by two fellow countrymen who blow several minutes worth of flowery smoke directly up the filmmaker's ass.Iskanov foresees an unreceptive audience for his cinematic vision, unsure of whether it is based on historic fact or his own interpretation of said truth, though he's fairly sure his film isn't a horror movie, and that the two most important ideas to take away from it are simply, 'death' and 'war'.Fair enough, Andrey, I'll keep that in mind.In between exhaustingly boring interview footage of one withered old geezer who figured prominently in the Khabarosk war crimes trials that would follow, actual film and photographs of the camp and its unfortunate human guinea pigs of all nations is slapped haphazardly together with unedited-esque amateur video recreations of the experiments themselves, as acted out by a mostly silent cast of what looks to be three Asians and a handful of male and female Russian fashion model-types, and treated to closely match the grainy black and white vintage clips(doesn't work very well, either) that they're wrapped around.The withered old geezer animatedly relates his ever-changing version of the events surrounding the construction and operations of Unit 731 from his modest apartment, where he keeps his personal copier(!) under his television set.First, he's stumbling upon the camp while picking mushrooms and conversing with the guard in Japanese(apparently, being a medical student in Harbin also somehow means you're fluent in Japanese), and threateningly told by the guard to never return if he knew what was good for him, yet he later relates having casually strolled into the courtyard where victims were tied to scattered poles with no promised retribution from the security force.How's that done, eh.Oh wait, nevermind, you're a liar, you liar, you.Back to overlong segments of cheap video snow effects and expressionless closeups.And lots of 'em, by God.

Next week on "So Two-thirds of You Thinks You Can Dance?"...
In between the tedium, as described above, for those of you into cheaply orchestrated, mostly fake-looking debased cruelty as applied by one or more actors, uninterested-looking, upon one or more Russian model-types, disrobed more often than not, and equally unconcerned by the rubbery goings on being inflicted upon them, is cinematic paydirt, indeed.Unmatched scream tracks are piped in over cutaways to embarrassingly phony prop mouths, where teeth are clumsily extricated one....by....one, over...and...over...and over.Hot nude eastern bloc blondes are strapped into a chair and giant hissing cockroaches are shoved into their open vadge.Metrosexual could-be Gap models are splashed with h2o while tied nude to a pole amidst the frostbite-inducing elements outside.A prisoner is zapped with x-rays until he's deformed by the radiation.Not entirely unwilling-looking dames are given the infectious in-out by waterheaded walking std's at gunpoint(the barrel ends up getting sucked on by the victim, mid-rape, as shots of bacteria under a microscope classily flash on by).You looking for abortions, chum?Knife has abortions, abortions, abortions.Voiceover narration for a 731 nurse is provided by Dutch-German actress Manoush, who, after minutes-long pro-Imperialist dialogue with an echo attached to it, starts to sound like the mincey bastard son of Joey Grey and Udo Kier.It should also be noted, that several members of the infamous unit went on to enjoy careers in Japanese medicine and health industry, heading U.S. funded schools, or in the case of notorious camp commander, Shirō Ishii, moving to Maryland to further research bio-weaponry.Moral of the story?In some cases, people are willing to let scientific progress trump humanity and the systematic raping of said ideal.Enjoy that Thanksgiving dinner, kiddies...

"You sleep with Wop, stupid girl, we stitch you up.How many times you are told this?"
There's some good cinematography in Knife, and Iskanov knows it, too.Why else would he repeat the same shots n' sequences over and over ad nauseum?I'm just not sure he knows where they are, so he chooses to draw them all out by leaving it all in there.Trying to hang a complex arthouse label on cheap exploitative H.G. Lewis-ish shenannigans is like calling said exploitation king a master of the modern horror film.Some creative editing(more of the powerful vintage imagery, less of everything else, though, I must admit the soundtrack is tits) might have warranted the film the pretentious airs it vainly tries to surround itself with.Four and a half hours is a long time, folks.And after watching an hour and a half's worth of goodies agonizingly stretched out to that blood-vessel bursting length for the sake of the website and you readers, I'm putting myself in for a Purple fucking Heart.You know how many cigarettes I could have smoked?Do you know how much sex I could have had?Do you know how many post-coital cigarettes I could have...okay, I'll stop there, but you get my point.Cut down to a reasonable running time, this could be thought-provoking four Wop territory, but as it stands, it's more boring than a Coldplay album.Or a Nickelback halftime performance.Whichever's funnier.One wop.

I was thinking about doing the same thing after the four hour mark.

"Aftermath"(1994)d/Nacho Cerdà

Leaving the music for zeros here during an all-horror Wop-tober, tonight we look for some answers to the eternal question, "When I finally pass over into eternity, what are the chances that a particularly horny morgue attendant will put the blocks to my eviscerated cadaver one night on the slab and bring my organs home to feed his dog afterwards?" Okay, maybe you aren't all that concerned with such a question, but Nacho Cerdà, Spanish genre director extraordinaire, obviously took just such a scenario to heart back in 1994 when he churned out this gruelling thirty minute exercise in ultra-realistic splatter and necrophilia, resulting in a controversial work of beautifully twisted art that's still whispered about to this very day.Opting to avoid dialogue altogether and complimenting his camera movement with pulchritudinous strains of Mozart's Lacrimosa, Cerdà serves up some unforgettably disgusting visuals with a vein of humor blacker than a shrimp's waste-packed colon.Unapologetically gross and wrong on nearly every level there could possibly be, Aftermath, lovingly released with Nacho's other two shorts(1990's Awakening and 1998's Genesis) in a comprehensive dvd package by the sick fucks over at Unearthed Films, is not mainstream horror that you might screen with the family on movie night.Hell, it's not even a Buttgereit-esque fetishistic take on the unsettling subject matter herein.Be forewarned:This is some of the nastiest shit you'll ever regret subjecting yourself to, if a trendy, milquetoast horror-Mary you be.If you're deranged, degenerate, and deviant, then you'll probably find yourself rewinding the hurl-worthy parts over and over in delight.While friends and lovers mourn your...silly grave, I have other uses for you, darling...

The brains of this outfit just found their way onto an autopsy scale.
After some gravelly Spanish voiceover and titles concerning death, the afterlife, tunnels, ghosts, Hell, and forgotten images(like my Detroit Lions undefeated and in first place, it's been a minute or two...), the sounds of a car accident jumpstart tonight's feature.The camera pans lovingly over the scene of a dead dog with entrails strewn and eyeballs a' poppin', followed by some establishing morgue imagery.An orderly in headphones gurneys a corpse through the halls to the morgue.Grieving loved ones are given a silver cross necklace as a parting memento.A male corpse with a bloody grill and nearly severed foot, hanging by a sinew, is stripped down to the nitty gritty.His dome is peeled back and skull is bonesawed while a second attendant(Pep Tosar) jabs a syringe into the eye of another male corpse that somewhat resembles Uncle Bob Martin during the Fangoria heyday.Señor Walkman peeks in to see the two men in the midst of their gruesome handiwork as the first corpse's skull is loudly cracked open with what looks like hedge trimmers and his brain is extricated.As the second attendant strips his cadaver down to the naked, he watches the first slit open his subject's torso with a scalpel and is visibly aroused by it(!).A disembodied heart is washed off in the sink and plopped into a plastic organ jar.While the second worker lets his bonesaw rip, the first haphazardly stuffs loose organs back into his corpse's chest cavity and squishily sews him back together, hosing down the bloodied body, zipping up the body bag, and throwing his report on top before wheeling it off.Meanwhile, number two is much more thorough and inclusive about his duties...

A little knifeplay can add excitement to your sex life.Just sayin'.
Enter Marta Arnau Marti, a young woman recently killed in a car accident while wearing a hot pink miniskirt and bra(she must have been on her way to my place).The second attendant caresses her lifeless face as he flops her onto his autopsy table.Breathing heavily, he scans the halls to make sure everyone else has gone home for the evening before cutting her clothes off with large scissors(note:she could have trimmed the lawn a bit before her fateful final trip...just sayin'.).He weighs her brain on a digital scale before repeatedly running a large knife down the length of her frame.He gruntingly slams the blade into her deceased vagina(!!), splitting her torso open, as blood flows into the drain.He rubs his gloved fingers together to feel the texture of her fluids and organs on display in her open cavity between them as he slips one hand into his slacks for an impromptu tug o' the skin, as a climax brings him to his knees.Excitedly, he takes pictures of the gore-splattered remains with his 35 mm camera, before setting the timer and propping it up on a countertop, as he drops his drawers and sexually mounts the dead body on the slab with the aid of a few fingertips full of patroleum jelly(!!!).He grunts and groans as he pumps his sex into the unresponsive corpse, with the flash snapping away in the background.After giving the dead woman the best two and a half minutes of her afterlife, we hear the film rewinding inside his camera over his orgiastic sighs.Well into a nearby bottle of hooch, he stuffs a heart into a small baggie while tidying up the cumbersome organs that splatted on the floor while he was giving the cadaver the high hard one.A personalized body bag envelops the violated body as he washes off instruments in the sink.At his pad, he grinds the heart into scarlet mush in his blender and serves it up in a silver doggie bowl to his hungry rottweiler over some newspaper on the floor that ironically contains the obituary of one Marta Arnau Marti.

"Just let me know if I'm hurting you, baby...via Ouija Board."
I'm not a big necrophila advocate, myself, maybe I've just slept with too many broads who may as well have been dead between the sheets the way it was.I dunno.This is clearly not one for the mainstream horror crowds, and it may just be too artistically handled for the back alley hardcore gorenography nuts out there.One cannot argue the mastery and flair that Cerdà wields in tackling such an awful subject and sculpting it into something palatable and rich in black humor.Plus it stars a guy named fucking Pep, ferchrissakes.You'll have to judge for yourselves if you're up to the task of seeing it all transpire for yourselves or not.On the scale, a perfectly nasty four wops for Ignacio.

Home is where her heart was.In the doggie bowl, if you fancy specificity.

"Murder Set Pieces"(2004)d/Nick Palumbo

Long before the advent of glittery teen vampires and cgi blood,there was a time where if you were lucky enough to carouse a halfway adequate horror section in a mom n' pop video store in the mid-eighties, the possibility of stumbling across an independently produced slasher shot on video that served up half naked brawds' boobs slapped in gallons of stage blood, screaming their fool heads off as they fell prey to a sinister misogynistic sadist and precious little else, was not only a real possibility, but one looked upon favorably by fans(male AND female, in some cases) of the brutal and extreme relative of the slasher movie, the splatter movie, as pioneered by gore's godfather, Herschell Gordon Lewis, back in 1963.Forty-one years later, a director named Nick Palumbo effectively took the subgenre in as radical a direction it could possibly go, with the production of a controversial film called Murder Set Pieces.Where Lewis' inept gore effects consisting of animal entrails and mannekins draped with red paint add to the camp factor in his dated fracturepieces, Palumbo instead enlists underground gorenographers extraordinaire,Toe Tag Pictures, to fill his frames with envelope-pushing, gut-wrenching, grue-soaked brilliance, as only they can, resulting in the uncut version of the film being an endurance test for even the most jaded viewers of such unsettling subject matter.Several genre cameos are in place, with Gunnar Hansen and Edwin Neal of TCM fame, Tony "Candyman" Todd, and even Vogel himself lending their presences to the production .Women of ages ranging from pre-teen adolescents to twenty-something erotic entertainers graphically snuff it before Palumbo's lens, which unapologetically documents the heinous crimes for all to see.A zealous pro-feminist like Alan Alda probably wouldn't endorse this movie very enthusiastically at all.Lucky for you ravenous readers, that pussy doesn't work here.

Frankly,I'm all set to murder some of that with my piece, myself.
See, there's this photographer(Sven Garrett),a teutonic aryan-esque German body builder with some sideburns boisterous enough to make even this guy a little jealous,who snaps erotic photos of scantily-clad she-Vegasites by day,but due to an abusive German Hausfrau of a mother and family ties to the notorious Schutzstaffel, nighttime is another story. The line distinguishing uber und untermenschen is clearly drawn on the wrong side of women, who he sees as playthings to be used with other playthings,like knives, saws, and even custom dental implants with protruding nails and screws for serving up that unpleasant hickey that takes more than a day to fade.Where the SS of yesteryear were satisfied mostly by goose-stepping up and down the square amidst flying party and battle standards to roars of approval from the parade-going volk, this psychopath grooves on torturing and murdering chicks, sometimes several at a clip. At first, thinning the herds of half-dressed hussies n' hookers seems to satiate the sadist, who offers final blood-drenched wisdom in native Deutsch tongue to his hysterical duct taped and hog tied prey before extinguishing their life-flame in the privacy of his secret basement workshop, which is littered with body parts, entrails, human skulls,and megalomaniacal grue-drenched murder photos scrapbooked haphazardly on the walls.It's when he begins dating Charlotte (Valerie Baber), whose nosy little sister's protective creepectomy skills drive him from prostitutes, strippers, and stroke shop patrons,and into the heart of the local populace of so-called morally upright citizens for his murderous mementos.

Stalking in a stocking, a porn store robber(Fred Vogel)interrupts folks stroking, before abruptly croaking.
While Charlotte's sister, Jade(Jade Risser), begins to act on her gut feelings about her sister's aloof and uptight new beau, he's chewing limbless trunks, scoring fellatio from disembodied heads in his car, and cutting a woman's(his own mother's?) throat in front of her screaming infant, who waddles hysterically over to her lifeless body, covered in blood.The photographer even impales Jade's schoolmate in a public restroom on a lengthy butcher's blade while her unsuspecting father swings his other child feet away.He inquires about a snuff movie called "The Nutbag"(Palumbo's earlier effort)to a porn store clerk(Tony Todd) just as masked hold up men burst in and begin plugging porn-pandering patrons with hot lead before getting shot the fuck up by our Aryan antagonist,who ignores the clerk's sudden words of praise and puts rounds in him as well, before casually strolling out.When Charlotte finally inevitably goes missing herself, Jade turns into a sort of amateur teen sleuth, uncovering levels of homicidal viscera that would have Nancy Drew running screaming for the nearest needlepoint class or sock hop.She pays him a visit as he entertains female company, this time,repeatedly running a buzzing chainsaw over what used to be a chick's domepiece,and a life/death struggle between the massive sadist and the tiny detective unfolds,with a brutally slashed Jade wandering through the desert in a state of shock in the finale, and the photographer upon a bus headed towards new climates, new models, new victims...

My Little Evisceration, twelve inch butcher knife sold separately.
I've glanced over a number of so-called "horror fans" voicing their sour grapes over this movie(the R version, methinks...What kind of real horror fan would settle for the truncated version of anything if the uncut were available to them?Just saying.), most of which have entirely missed the point in my estimation.Palumbo certainly displays the skill-set necessary to be a top provider in the horror sweepstakes for years to come, and his update on hateful,misogynist stalk n' slash eighties fare like Maniac(1980), Don't Answer the Phone(1980), or Don't Go In The House(1980) was exactly what it needed to be, as your humble N sees it.Plenty of attractive nakey vics(the brunette stripper at the club was off the chain, Nicky!), plenty of impressive spurty red stuff, well-framed 35 mm shots, and engaging soundtrack provided by Notorious death metal shredlegends,Necrophagia, Zombi, and Giallos Flame as well.You'll recognize Risser all grown up in Fred Vogel's last effort,Sella Turcica,and spot Vogel,his wife Shelby,Cristy Whiles,and Jerami Cruise all in cameos within.Palumbo follows this up with the upcoming The Last Gas Station, currently in pre-production (track it here).I, for one, look forward to seeing what this transgressive and talented artist offers us next.Three Big ones upon the scale for a job well-done.

A little off the top, sides, front, and back, as performed by a graduate of Sweeney Todd's Barber Institute.

August Underground's Mordum(2003)d/Fred Vogel

If you throw the name Fred Vogel into any conversation about horror films,you're liable to hear a lot of varying opinions.Fans and supporters will have nothing but praise for the former instructor at Tom Savini's FX school-turned-director,and rightfully so,the guy's damned good at what he does.So good in fact,that it has brought him notoriety on occasion,getting his ass arrested for "smuggling obscene materials" and detained for ten hours on the way to a 2005 Rue Morgue convention in Canada,and getting the contents of his van seized,which included the entry we're discussing here and its predecessor.Conservative Kiwis in New Zealand have effectively banned all three of his AU films to date.So what's the big deal,query several wopophiles from the peanut gallery.Well let me tell you,kiddies.Other directors have tried to pinpoint the pulse of the realistic slasher film,pick the brain of the violent sociopath,but Vogel's gone a lot farther than that.He's opened the veins of the slasher flick and blocked the arterial spurt with his grinning face,he's bashed the serial killer's mind in with his trademark claw hammer,shouting obscenities and mugging for the video camera throughout the whole ordeal.And in the end you'll be disturbed,disgusted,shocked,violated,and feel as though you've been privvy to multiple real crimes against humanity.I think that's what Vogel set out to do with these films,and in your humble N's opinion,he's accomplished all that and more.

Hang out with Fred,you're bound to get hammered.Really.
Fred barges in on Maggot fucking Crusty.Fred's pissed off because Crusty is his girlfriend.He's even more pissed off because Maggot and Crusty are brother and sister.Eh,no matter.What's important is that the trio doesn't run out of victims.You see,they're serial killers who videotape their murderous spree of kidnapping,torture,murder,necrophilia,paedophilia...hell,even necrophilic paedophilia.These kids have a LOT of problems.Wanna hear about them?Too bad,I'm gonna tell you anyway.Crusty,when not cutting herself open to the delight of her bellicose beau, forces herself to upchuck on two bound,hysterical kidnapped female victims while Maggot tapes and Fred jostles himself and screams a lot.Everybody screams a lot.Later they force another roped and gagged gent in a wooden box to cut his own cazzo off with cuticle scissors.Crusty sucks the disembodied dick before forcing the dickless dude's girlfriend to masturbate herself with it.Had enough yet?After disemboweling another poor girl,Maggot mounts her gaping abdominal wound and rides the grue to glory.Oh,those crazy kids!

You're gonna give yourself hemmorhoids,Maggot.
When the trio pay a visit to a guy that looks an awful lot like Necrophagia leadman Killjoy(I knew he had to be a sick fuck!),they're treated to an entirely new cocophany of corpses and vivisected victims that includes a plastic drum with a headless,rotting infant in it.Not one to be outdone,Maggot pulls a handful of the garbage worms from the putrefying neck wound and eats them.Ready for that bucket yet?It seems that somewhere along the line,Maggot is rapidly losing the fingertip grip he has on reality,competing for the alpha male status that Fred has cemented for himself with hammer in tow,and also the amorous advances of his own sister,Crusty.In the outrageously vile finale,Maggot finds himself nailing the body of a pre-teen girl in the bathtub,punching her corpse in the ribs in between pelvic thrusts.Fred's busy cutting the throat of another girl he's stripped,hung upside down and fingerpainted in feces in the living room.He manages to drink a bit of the spurting blood from the slit before another fight ensues between he and Maggot.In the struggle,Maggot manages to wrestle the knife from Fred's hand and cuts his own throat with it before the screen cuts abruptly to snow.I'll get that bucket for you now.You might wanna run the bathwater as well,but trust me,it's not gonna wash off.

...Speaking of maggots,here's one baby that probably won't be colicky ever again.
Between the startlingly realistic effects and the convincing performances given here,you will believe you've just been an accomplice to several of the most atrocious murders ever committed.The whole trilogy depends on those two factors entirely.If the effects fail,or one of the actors steps out of horrendous character even for an instant,the production takes a dump.As it stands,I might have happily reported that this occurs somewhere in the film,giving the knowing wink to its viewers,letting them rest easily.It doesn't.Once you've sit down to view for yourself,the images will follow you around for a good while afterwards.Vogel has created his own personal subgenre of horror film,and I can't honestly say it's at all an enjoyable one in any realm of good taste.He has since moved on to higher ground with "The Redsin Tower",which I'll inspect for you at a later date.As for this,it's totally awful.And brilliant at the same time.It merits:

What do you call THIS game,kids?