Let us savor another double whim wham from Tales From The Tomb Vol. 1 No. 7, September 1969. Both of these dillies are Iger Shop stuff from the 1950s, done up with the lusterous blacks of the time.Our theme today has to do with the slippery, quicksilver nature of reality; or rather, the shifting shadow play we call "the real world." We long to see the truth but at day's end we do little more than scratch like fur-bare rats at the slick surface of possibilies; our dim, red eyes barely making out more than the movement of gray shapes. Our noses twitch and our ears swivel at any sound. What do we think we see, out there in the hard glintings of sunshine? In the cool ground fog smelling of the night and wet leaves? In the face of the one we love? We strain our tiny, mortal eyes until they burn and shed tears. We pray for vision, but all we are given is sight.Our first offering, "Fangs of Fear," is such a tale of false perception. Once you devour this morsel, ask yourself this question: wouldn't this premise make a great television series? One way better than the current, revolting glut of bullshit, teenage vampires with pretty profiles - glowering behind their mascera? - Download THIS POST!
Our second story charts and records the various, grim steps by which a healthy citizen becomes a buried corpse - including all the accompanying slabs and scalpels. There is, however, one small problem in this grisly tutorial. Now, I believe in hearty recompense probably more than the next man - eye for an eye and all - but even by the harshest of standards our protaganist in "Cry From The Coffin" pays a heavy price for looking up a girl's skirt.
Out! Out! Oh, gutter candle and sizzle. Darkness suits our kin better than thy feeble, yellow light. Let us say goodbye until the orb of moon floods the windows of our streets three times three; and the cats howl and wail like angry babies in their horrid privacy. Then, and only then, we shall read "The Corpse Comes Home" and "Fatal Scalpel." Until then, remember - I. Love. You.