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Zackula: This is some End Times shit right here.
Zackula: When there's no more room in hell the Trojans will walk the earth.
Dr. Thorpenstein: It's looking into my heart and seeing my sins, like Ghost Rider. Except it fuckin' loves them.
Zackula: I imagine its head swiveling a smooth 360 degrees. Maybe it can even unscrew its head and inside is just a quivering mass of meat bathed in foul-smelling juices.
Dr. Thorpenstein: I'm seeing the axe hand wiggling around in sped-up motion like Jacob's Ladder.
Zackula: Its neck probably rotates with a sound like a heavy stone turning on another stone with sand and grit caught beneath it.
Zackula: "ARRRRIBA TACOS HOMBRES! WHO WANTS SOME-" 15 Trojan heads grind in your direction and they stare at your sins with their unblinking dead eyes.
Dr. Thorpenstein: Then, all at once, they do a Predator-style playback of your own voice. "DRINK THE WORM BITCH!"
Zackula: DRINK THE WORM BITCH DRINK THE WORM BITCH DRRRINK THE WORM DRINK THE WORM DRINK THE WORM.
Zackula: *unearthly clicking sounds*
Dr. Thorpenstein: Then a Godzilla shriek and everything goes black and the next thing you see is a mass of your own entrails slipping through your fingers.
Dr. Thorpenstein: WELCOME TO THE NEW DEATH.
Zackula: At 1200 dollars a pop you won't be seeing this thing at a party until the End of Days anyway.
Dr. Thorpenstein: You know, you could be literally the richest person on Earth, and you still wouldn't be rich enough to justify that purchase.
Natural and supernatural horrors mount on an expedition to an island music festival for the wealthy.
With college finals approaching, it's time once again for Microsoft Word autosummaries of all the old, boring books you were supposed to read.
Fashion SWAT... the fashion industry is obsessed with impracticality. We know that what designers create was never meant to be worn by the grimy masses, but that doesn't somehow diminish how ridiculous many of these costumes are. Make no mistake, they are costumes, and like a Halloween prize pageant we will turn our discerning gaze on the grievous fashion misfires of Paris, Milan, and New York. We're not pulling any punches, and we're definitely not interested in making any friends. We're Joan Rivers without Melissa Rivers to temper our screeching. We're the Fashion Police in jack boots. We are Fashion SWAT.