Leave it to me. I just finished watching Lucio Fulci’s New York Ripper for better than a third time, yet the film still tantalizes me; quacking, gutting, and all.
I left the homegrown theater that was showing it, and upon entering my car, I immediately recognized the scent of strawberries, plunging me into an evolution of paranoia. I fashioned myself into my personal driving position.
Instantly, my meandering wonderments struck an anonymous diatribe amongst personalities – “THIS IS IT? THIS is how I’m going to die? I couldn’t be butchered by some inbred, chainsaw wielding psychopath; NO – I’m getting killed by the Strawberry Slasher?! - A deranged serial killer that kills victims while distributing a strawberry scent.
I’ve spent half of my life trying to convince my mother I’m NOT gay, and the other half trying to convince my friends that I was too busy to hang out, hoping that they would think I WAS gay and leave me alone, but here comes the Strawberry Slasher. This slayer doesn’t care about sexuality or situations. This one’s an impromptu killer. He or She hates everything and everyone while indulging in the finer scents of life.
I was really hoping for the garden tooled maniac; instead I got the pleasantly smelling black sheep psycho.
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