Many of you are probably too young to remember the good old days when new albums came out on cassettes, gasoline cost a little over a buck, and any teenager who heard an unexplained noise in the cellar would loudly say “Who is it?” and then walked directly towards that noise. Those were better days. But then these snide tweed-coat-wearing “film critics” came out of the woodwork, writing so-called “reviews” in loathsome publications like The Hollywood Reporter, The Boston Trombone, The Surreal Times, and US Almost-Weekly. In their critiques of flawless cinematic masterworks, such as “Sleepaway Camp II: Unhappy Campers”, they started bringing up dangerous notions like “reason”, and “logic”, and “Why would any person ever do that?” Heartless vultures. They have left me with nothing, and now my machete sits unused and rusting in the corner of my decrepit log cabin.

If you’re anything like me, you’re the vengeful spirit of a murderer who was brought back from the dead for vague, undefined reasons. And if you’re not like me, that’s okay too. I hope you’ll still be able to empathize with me. It all started back when I was a young (freshly undead). I was shambling through a mostly abandoned strip mall when I came across “Mort’s Sports: Sporting Goods & Eye Exams”. I realized my purpose in life. What some might have seen as a simple hockey mask advertising the upcoming 1992 Disney film Mighty Ducks, I saw as opportunity knocking at my door. From then on I would no longer be known as “Ahhhh! What is that thing?!” I would be known as Hockey Face, the masked maniac of Fleetwood Street, and children would write nursery rhymes about how I was like, really really scary. In my prime I would be hailed as one of the greats, right up there with Freddy K., Leatherface, Pinhead, Featherface, and that other guy who wore a hockey mask. I was riding high on life, but then I saw the first warning sign. Peter Nascapolotini of the Harvard Tribune wrote a scathing review of “Bloody Knife 2: Extra Blood”, a horror film inspired by events taken directly from my life, in which he wrote:

“The protagonist suspects an intruder is in the house and never once considers calling the police. Why? Our main characters continually make such poor decisions it seems that they’re actually trying to get stabbed by this second rate Jason knock-off.”

I found these comments quite disturbing, and the last line extremely hurtful. A horrible thought occurred to me: “What if people actually read film reviews?” Impossible, I assured myself, no one would actually do such a thing, but over the coming years it became increasingly clear that the opposite was true. This was in fact the beginning of the end

Much like skin magazines and Hooters, the masked maniac business has been devastated by changing cultural attitudes. Nowadays, when you ring someone’s doorbell they’ll often actually look through the peephole to see who it is. Horrifying I know. A couple years ago, when I was chasing a camp counselor with an axe, instead of locking himself in a room, behind a wooden door, with no means of escape, he actually ran outside – I was flummoxed. Now what was I supposed to do, full on sprint?! I shouldn’t be expected to do that, I don’t even have a gym membership. It doesn’t matter anymore, even just attempting to murder somebody is not worth the effort. I never thought I’d see the day that teenagers would exercise “sound thinking” and “rational safety precautions.” It's grotesque, vomit inducing. I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t been able to stab anybody in over ten years.I know, please don’t laugh. In fact, sadly, I’ve been reduced to switching careers entirely. Now I do remote data entry for a tech startup. I say this to you as a warning: you might not think it, but one day society might decide that your entire way off life operates on “poor logic” and “doesn’t even make any sense,” and then what do you do? How are you expected to make ends meet when the people you victimize start actually thinking for themselves?

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