#also on the one hand i'm truly obsessed with the idea of john just?? Always having a bunch of weird trivia available w/ his eidetic memory | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

grievedeeply · 1 year

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hello hello hello!! im so glad you're taking red dead reqs as I literally just got into the game and i'm obsessed!! <:0

may i have some soft Hosea moments? Like snuggling together to keep warm in colter? (gn reader please <3)

RAHHGGGGGG HOSEA MY DAD i love him so very much. absolutely a sweetheart. please enjoy <3 including platonic ones for my own enjoyment LOL but there are some romantic ideas too! i'm glad you're liking the game! i've been in love with these characters for so long... they are so special to me. especially john :")

gn!reader | no tws :)

soft hosea headcanons

this man. absolutely the best friend you could ever ask for. so understanding and so good at giving advice even if you didn't ask for it

he's the sweetest man in the entire world!! kind, protective, loving, understanding. he gets you when no one else does no matter what you might be going through

you swear he's lived 100 different lifetimes with how much he seems to know. it's nice, though. you always know who to go to whenever you're having trouble

if you have insomia or restless nights of any sort, hosea is by your side, no matter how tired he may be. invites you to a cup of tea and a story

he'll tell you about anything. his time before meeting dutch, the early days of the gang.. whatever you want to hear about

he insists he has a horrible singing voice but... definitely will sing you to sleep if he knows it'll help you

the warmest man alive. colter was a breeze with him by your side. with his arm constantly wrapped around your shoulders, you don't know how cold it truly is outside. he's good at keeping your focus on him

also really good at cuddling, just in general. paired with being warm, he knows how to make people feel comfortable. knows just where to put his hands to keep you feeling safe

he makes your chest feel all fuzzy. platonically or romantically, he has that effect on people :")

it's something about knowing you're safe with him around. he might not be the fastest gun, but his mind is more than capable of protecting the ones he loves. which includes you, of course

obviously... develops a major soft spot for you. he doesn't want the rest of the gang knowing about it but it's not like he's trying his best to hide it, either

he finds a lot of the things you ask for, saying he just ran into it while he was out or something, when it was clear he went looking for it to make you happy

if you develop romantic feelings for him.... he's so oblivious. he thinks he's too old for romance, and after bessie, he has trouble imagining a new relationship with anyone

he doesn't accept your feelings at first. not because he doesn't reciprocate, but because he's a bit afraid. he's a highly wanted man. he worries about the repercussions of that on you

you'll be the one doing the reassuring for once... for someone so smart he can be as dumb as a rock sometimes

he has such a kind and beautiful soul... the way he looks on the world is something entirely new to you. he sees people in a way no one else does, and it's helping you to open your eyes honestly

he sees the best in people, even despite the life he lives

if anyone says anything poorly about hosea (micah...) you will not hesitate to give them a piece of your mind

he tries to tell you to stop. it doesn't bother him, and it shouldn't bother you, either. but you can't let him go around talking about him in that way

he's one of the kindest people you've ever met. he gives everyone a second chance. even when they don't deserve one. it's more than what micah deserves, in your opinion

anyway, hosea shows his love through every single love language there is. he says he loves you so often, but it's really special whenever he expresses it physically too

he has touch a gentle touch, it's hard to picture him being an outlaw, someone as nice as he is. he has such soft hands, paired with a kind heart

he spends a lot of his spare time with you!! he indulges in your hobbies, expressing interest in everything you find yourself doing. he's genuine, too. he really cares <3

he's so good at reading you, you can't ever hide being upset from him

immediately by your side asking you what's wrong (or, if he thinks of you platonically, who broke your heart and who he has to get revenge on for it)....

he gives the best hugs... just picture it

he has so much love to give. it's a nice change of pace, honestly. he loves with all his heart, no matter what your relationship to him may be

he loves you with every bit of him there is :")

#red dead redemption 2 x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption 2

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night-unfurls-its-splendour · 1 year

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So I tried to do this poll with my original Top Ten Performances of Music of the Night post, but I think I set it for a day instead of a week, so let's try this again!

THESE ARE MY TOP TEN FAVORITE PERFORMANCES of Music of the Night

10. Paul Stanley

I mean of course I'm fascinated by Paul Stanley's whole Phantom saga, so of course he's in here. He's far from the most technically proficient, he struggles with the high notes, but he really does a good job otherwise, and I have to admire his moxy.

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09. Brent Barrett

Emphatic and sexy with compelling body language. So underrated.

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08. Howard McGillin

Spectral, resonant and controlled; a legend.

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07. Hugh Panaro

Hugh is one of those that I feel like is a pre-requisite in a top ten list. My favorite thing is how he plays heavily on the phantom's fascination with Christine, and not solely on making her fascinated by him

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06. Michael Crawford

Another prerequisite. He's ghostly, coaxing; the OG OG. The man who said, "No I want them to be able to see how lustfully he's touching her in the back row. I need to show more skin: make my sleeves shorter." This man understood the assignment and he set the tone and God bless him for it.

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05. Anthony Warlow

The original Sydney Phantom, another beautifully strong, clear vocal quality. He has a very old-fashioned style of singing, I think which has a particular charm. If I had to name a fault it would be that he is quite theatrical, which I don't mind, though I tend to prefer an understated phantom. He never undersells a single line. I think his phantom is one of the most "hopeless romantic" interpretations. A particular standout for me is how he conveys that Christine's reluctance tries his patience, but he holds it together and his "touch me, trust me" is beautifully reassuring, while many phantoms choose to portray lust or longing in this moment, his is an appeal for understanding which is very attractive in its own way.

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04. Ben Lewis

The power! The gravitas! Ben Lewis is truly one of the greatest blessings in PotO history and his high note? Off the charts. Also, since this is the whole first lair, I just want to say that this is one of my favorite versions of "Stranger than You Dreamt It" I've ever heard.

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03. Ted Keegan

Refreshingly sharp and clean. I just love how powerful he is without being overpowering. He's strong, sensual and smooth. *sigh* ~,~ If only he caught her...

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02. Earl Carpenter

So pleading, so gentle--holy hell I love Earl so much. Watch him show Erik's inner struggle with his desire for contact and his fear of his deformity throughout this entire scene! Watch him think to himself "Yes, let her touch you! Why shouldn't you?" And then lose his nerve at the last moment! I could go on for hours. Find me a sweeter Phantom. Go ahead.

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01. John Owen-Jones

Without a doubt in my mind THE strongest vocal performer in this role. I just love to hear him booming out in his great, Welsh way. He strikes an exquisite balance between his acting and his singing. His vibe in general is amazing, like he really leans into the idea that he's been Christine's teacher as much as her muse. He has guided her through music and he wishes to be her guide into romance as well, and that manifests in every aspect of his performance. Such as the fact that he doesn't walk away from Christine for the second verse, so he's leaning close when he sings "Let your spirit start to soar" and almost always gestures with his hand over her diaphragm. If I'm completely honest, he's the only Phantom (except perhaps Michael Crawford or Gerard Butler) that I can actually imagine giving Christine singing lessons. So few actually inhabit this music obsessed weirdo like JOJ does.

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#phantom of the opera #music of the night #poto #poto musical #howard mcgillin #brent barrett #michael crawford #paul stanley #hugh panaro #anthony warlow #ben lewis #ted keegan #earl carpenter #john owen jones #the phantom of the opera #Youtube

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bluegarners · 1 year

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i’m torn between “time time time” and “24 pound paper,” so whichever you’re more inclined to share about i’m all ears!

hellooooo kate!!! <3 and how about both??

so 24 pound paper is more or less what it said on the tin- dick asks bruce to adopt him. with one exception!! i personally have my own gripes about this specific trope about these two- i tend to stay away from this kind of fic bc it always strays towards the angsty "bruce never adopted dick and dick thought that was because bruce never wanted him and so he's insecure and sad and and and". don't get me wrong- i love angst! just not on this particular topic... so!! this fic is entirely meant to be wholesome and all about how bruce has always loved dick and dick has always loved bruce, and how bruce respected dick's choice not to have bruce's name be attached to his legally in a way that bound them as a father-son pair because dick already had a father that he loved dearly but now dick feels like he's ready to open up the topic for discussion again bc he realizes that john grayson will always be his father but maybe bruce can also be his dad too

it's still entirely a wip and i really only have a paragraph or two for them, but these were the sentences that really got me started on it <3

“I know we talked about this a long time ago-” Bruce feels like his heart is about to rocket out of his chest, and Dick must be feeling the same because the papers in his hands are shaking, trembling like lost leaves in the wind, but he’s offering them, giving them over, and Bruce feels- he feels- “But I thought we could talk about it again.”

okay so "time time time" is also a wip that really doesn't... go anywhere? i wrote it sometime last year, in the height of my witcher fascination, and i had fallen down a rabbit hole of jaskier headcanons and delightful fics that added a bit of angst into his world. eventually, i came to my own headcanon that i thought jaskier might have obsessions but little to no compulsions. his thoughts are his obsession- like, i've always thought about how jaskier is always running around, occupying his time with people, with writing, with so many different things that i started to form some kind of idea that jaskier liked to keep busy in order to prevent the tendency for him to really and truly get lost in his thoughts. in this headcanon of mine, i liked to think of jaskier getting so wrapped up in his thoughts (mainly ones of the past) that he would dissociate and lose time here and there if he's not occupied with his hands or otherwise. so! that resulted in this wip (which i'm putting below the cut bc it's kind of long and i dont really have any intentions of finishing it)

See, it goes like this: suddenly, he has time. So much of it. Abundances. The most time he’s ever had, probably, in all of his many years of living. The castle walls are long and cold, and Jaskier has time like he’s never had it before. When a life is filled with composing and singing, wooing and bedding, traveling and yearning, bargaining and pleading, avoiding and skittering, and then suddenly it is not, emptied and spilled out over the edge, life becomes rather overflowing with time. His hands are ruined as they are, and his lute is far away in the likes of someone’s campfire or second-hand shop, so he has nothing to busy his fingers with. He has no notebook or quill to occupy his anxious thrumming, nothing to properly rid his ever circling thoughts and discard them somewhere that isn’t in his head. That means he’s left with not only ample time, far too much of it, but also too many thoughts. Jaskier now has thoughts and time and fuck-all to do with them except to let them invade through his eyes and stay trapped behind clenched teeth.

See, it went like this: Jaskier has done his best his entire life to keep himself busy, away from his thoughts. He studied and worked hard, buried himself to his elbows in texts and scrolls and sheet music. He learned and received criticism, in turn teaching others and doling his own critiques when the time came. He observed others, observed himself, dove head first into what carnal pleasures of the flesh appeased him, what delicate sweet fruits of life satisfied his appetite. He chased after muses, throwing himself into the masses in the hopes that someone might catch his eye, or even lay claim to himself. He sowed and fretted over wounds and blood, journaled the color of a griffin's wings and the exact viscous consistency of Swallow. Much of his life has been devoted to the precise realities of others, far from his own, so that he might indulge in lives that are more pleasant or fearsomely less so than his own, for Jaskier has never much liked thinking about his life. He has never much liked thinking in general, no matter what his ramblings and countless musing might say, because when he thinks, he thinks in false circles and misshapen lines, broken off segments that he pieces together with other loose lines and fragments that don’t quite fit.

But now, Jaskier does nothing but think. He has not the strength nor fortitude to build up the walls of Kaer Morhen, and the Witchers have expressed ill gratitude to his unhelpful chatter and presence. Ciri is never not busy, countless lessons and more lessons dogging her every breathing moment, and were it not for the girl herself to declare she does not mind the schedule and actually enjoys it, Jaskier would have already stolen her away so that he might regale her with court stories and songs. But he dare not, knows her destiny is none forged in more than blood and the will of others, and every second that he might take from her, from her destiny, is one where he condemns her. And he has never wished to harm anyone in such a way.

Blessings. Godsdamn the blessings. His mother said that once, cursing her bastard son, and Geralt had also said something of the sort. He is not a blessing. He is not a curse. However, and this is where things get tricky, all have muttered that his ceasing might just lead to a blessing. Does that make him an omen, a propehcy? But, oh, those things are so fickle, so oft to lead to tragedy and misunderstandings, and nothing like a blessing. So it might very well be that he is actually nothing, not a curse or omen or prophecy, and that his being gone might also just be nothing. His mother damned him and the man that fathered him. Geralt damned him on the mountain, called forth the gods to give him at least one thing he might be granted in all of his miserable years. Godsdamn the blessings and all who ask for it.

But, really, he has no legs to stand on in the matter, for what has he ever asked for that has not led to the sufferings of someone else? Oh, how his mother loathed him and his father side-eyed the blueness in his son’s gaze. Oh, how his fellow students scorned and spurned his aptitude. Oh, how the barmaids and stable boys and all the beauties of the world spat at his feet when he could only love them for a night. Oh, how Geralt scowled and snarled and wished for a single blessing.

on and on and completely circular in jaskier’s self loathing and memory cycle

He finds himself losing time. Odd, since he has so much of it. It slips through his hands though, even as he bathes in it, and one day, as he lays in his bed and stares at the ceiling, he thinks about his mother and what he might’ve done to ensure he would not have been a bastard had he just known what to do to not be one, and suddenly, daylight is at his window and his eyes are dry and his head achy. Daylight is at his window, and it is strong daylight, yellow and peppered with the shadows of winter clouds rolling over the mountain. The fire in his room has long since died, embers and ash completely still in the grate, and Jaskier’s lips itch.

It happens again, when he goes to the sparse library and chooses a random book, sitting himself down in a chair and thinking about how the tale he’s chosen reminds him of the stable boy that spat at him come the morning after of their evening together, and he blinks and finds that his eyes are dry again and his head achy and his lips itchy and his right index finger scabbing over from a paper cut he doesn’t remember getting.

The days go by and Jaskier does not register them as days any longer. He lapses, often and without notice, and he suddenly realizes he does not know the date or time. There is no way to tell, and he finds himself unable to ask, unwilling to bother or burden any one of the six other people within Kaer Morhen’s walls. Not when the mere thought sends him spiraling down yet another warped memory, too faded to really recall but within his mind and trapped all the same.

He misses meals, sometimes. Most often breakfast. No one makes a move to confront him about this development. Jaskier does not know what to think of this, but he supposes it doesn’t matter too much seeing as he’s already so preoccupied in thinking of so many other things. The blisters on his hands heal slightly, hot red scars numbing the tips of his fingers and cramping his palm, and were he not already trying to not think about the pain and the fire and the heat, Jaskier would have surely thought about his imprisonment and his torture. As it is, however, he is simply much too busy thinking to really give much thought to it.

Enough time spills from his hands that he begins to smell. He takes note of it absently one evening, occupied as he is with his forehead against the rough stone wall and his ever evolving plan on how to prove to the Countess that he’s not a worthless harlot after all, and the smell of his own odor reaches his nose. It’s not quite rank, not enough to really give anyone reason to cover their face with their hands, but it is odd. At some point, Jaskier is sure he would have had the time to wash and take care of the odor, exchange his clothes for new ones and soap out the oil and grime from his hair, but, as it is, his plans are far too complicated and growing to stop thinking now. He’s too busy to take the time to wash.

#wip tag game #thychesters #dick grayson #bruce wayne #the witcher #jaskier

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rosemary-is-in-pesterquest · 3 years

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HS2's themes are fuckin wack crap cuz like... idk it all starts with the epilogues, right? the thing that the epilogues are trying to say is that all conflict that the characters face within the narrative is there because the audience cast their gaze upon this story and demanded entertainment. something has to happen on the stage to keep us watching, thus, it is the audience's fault that the characters suffer. but that's bullshit for so many reasons. for one thing, it ignores the role of the author. audience demand doesn't force an author's hands to write... that's a decision that the author made. we could've lived with nothing at all.

and conflict comes in many flavors. some stories hardly have any conflict at all. the whole iyashikei genre exists, like, I think we're well past understanding that cynicism, tragedy, and destruction are not the only forces that can drive a narrative. "conflict" is not the only reason for a story to be told. once again, stories tell us as much about the author as their audience. the kind of story an author deems worthy of telling is just as relevant to consider as the kind of story an audience deems worthy of attention.

and even in conflict driven stories... it matters what the conflict is, who wins, how, and why. as a simple example, when the conflict is a battle between good and evil, good wins, it does so by way of the power of friendship, and the reason it is presented this way is to promote the idea that you should be kind and help others... that's a story with a purpose. obviously this is like, children's cartoon level simple, and a story can be written to say different or more complex things, but I should always be able to ask those questions and come up with an answer.

if, as an author, Hussie wanted to accuse his audience of being culpable in the suffering of his characters, he would at least have to present the reader with a meaningful choice. and at first glance, it would almost seem like he did. meat and candy, even by their naming convention, seem as though they are giving you the option to consume a light or dark tale. but even in the names, there is a seed of judgement. Hussie has described the concept of a narrative containing both "meat" and "candy" in terms of story content, wherein meat is anything heavy in terms of plot or drama, and candy is anything that provides levity as a counterbalance, such as jokes or feel good fluff. these categories are already identified as "substance" vs. "a lack of substance" which places value on the cynical, dark route as being more truthful... conflating cynicism with realism.

and already I can see making a case for the idea that neither route is legitimate, because no story should subsist on just one or the other... both need to be at play for the story to be balanced. and you could even argue that the lampooning of the epilogues' legitimacy was the point... that they were supposed to be outside of canon and regarded as illegitimate all along. but then not only does that negate the author's ability to let the audience choose the kind of story they're participating in, but the story itself doesn't play by its own rules.

does candy truly read like some fluffy pandering fanservice filler, the way one might expect it to? and is meat totally devoid of any levity, while focusing only on plot machinations and/or the characters' dramatic downward spiral? I would argue that, even though the consensus seems to be that both routes are equally dismal, neither even gets dark enough to live up to that end of the bargain either. the execution is messy... the concept doesn't hold up.

and what of the initial concept? that the audience's observation of a story forces the characters to enact a conflict for the sake of our entertainment? is that really what's going on here? from the initial pitch, you could already tell that the answer was no. nobody asked for this. and so we cast our apparently destructive audience gaze onto Homestuck 2.

but there, we find another curveball. the story is... almost becoming self aware? in that it casts a character in the role of the author, and also identifies him firmly as the villain. but see, this is still a blame shift. and maybe that would've been less obvious if Andrew Hussie had not introduced himself as a character inside of his own web comic throughout the original narrative. the true author is already here.

the villain of homestuck was never the audience, and it was never a fictional character. if we're really shattering the 4th wall... if we're really ceasing our suspension of disbelief, pulling back the curtain, and acknowledging that these characters are fabricated, manipulated entities with real people behind the wheel, then there is only one conclusion we can possibly come to. the author has control over the narrative... no one else. and the things the author chooses to say with the platform they've made for themselves? those things are on them. what are we to understand about the author, as his audience?

this is why people are looking past the story entirely and engaging with the creative team, for better or for worse. if you break your story enough, it won't work anymore. and when the audience finds it in shambles, completely unusable as a story... you know, the thing it was intended to be? they might actually look to the people who broke it and ask them why they did that. it was a nice story. it performed several functions that people actually enjoyed. was dismantling it like this really the most fulfilling thing they could've done with it?

and I'll tell you another thing. part of why people take it so personally is because, just like how Andrew Hussie, the homestuck character, was a stand-in for Andrew Hussie, the human being... many of the characters in homestuck were stand-ins for us. John Egbert was for people who had an obsessive nerdy interest in movies, Rose was for people who wrote fanfiction, Nepeta was for people who ship characters a lot, she and Terezi were for people who RP, and also... Dave was for people who were trying to act cooler than they felt, Jade was for people who were lonely, Kanaya was for people who wanted to help people and be accepted, Vriska was for people who were hard to love and felt judged for that.

who do these writers think they're messing with?

and I just want to make it clear that I'm not condoning any kind of harassment of them, or anything like that. ultimately, my point here is that we are not our effigies. and in the same way that an author can't blame shift onto a fictional character, a person cannot claim the direction of a fictional story as a reason to do real harm.

but homestuck was always unique in that it spoke very directly to its audience. when Hussie added real pieces of us to his fake people, he had a powerful vehicle for the messages that he wanted us to hear. lots of stories have characters that are written to be relatable, but you'd be hard pressed to find ones that feel quite so specific as the cast of homestuck. to our era. to our humor. to the values of people growing up in our online cultural circumstances.

if this specific author is going to choose to act like a villain, at least in the small-scale context of this comic, then what is that setting us up to be? maybe nothing so presumptuous as a hero... maybe just like, Dave of Guy, y'know? but Dave made normal a pretty heroic thing to be... I think it's up to us to just be normal and have normal fun, in spite of the shit show. regular old homestuck already said all the valuable stuff it was gonna. for my part, I'm just gonna take that and run off with it. ignoring HS2 doesn't make it go away, but paying attention to it doesn't make it good either... so I guess whatever.

that's the themes. the themes are just a big "so what" shrug. most complicated way to say "who cares" I've ever seen.

This is a really good analysis

#long post /#I should probably start using that tag just in case it clogs up people's feeds

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joeyvintage · 4 years

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https://www.videoreligion.net/2019/01/violent-shit-2-mother-hold-my-hand-1992.html?m=1

-rev terry

I think if I were a badass, I would need a metal mask or full covering helmet of some kind. Not for the armor aspect, although head protection is always good, I'm just a fan of the look. I would wear one in my daily life now, but they are probably expensive, and people would expect me to do something cool (as I too would expect of a dude with a metal head). All my favorite villains had one in my youth. Both Magneto and Dr. Doom from the comics commanded respect and fucked shit up while wearing some metal on their heads. They were probably my earliest examples, but honestly, that's enough to have secured my love for the style. Their helmets were both semi utilitarian but mostly just looked really awesome with their cape combo. In cartoons, GI Joe took the effects of mirrored sunglasses to the next level with Cobra Commander, as he sometimes just had a smooth piece of chrome covering his face. I can get down with that--the blank and shiny look. It’s stylish features even distracted from his shrill sounding voice. I would probably go with something a little more personalized myself, but would definitely want something metal. It just completes the whole look for me. Something about a good sturdy helmet just fits with murder and mayhem. Karl the Butcher gets it. That's why, when he died, along with his love for over-the-top murder, he passed his fancy medieval headwear down to his son, so he would be properly dressed for his own adventure in Violent Shit II (1992).

Long after the events of the first film, two makeshift drug distributing gangs meet up in an open field to engage in something nefarious with a briefcase. For whatever reason, the deal sours, and the two groups go at eliminating each other in various gusher inducing ways. The battle whittles the congregation of assorted backyard wrestles down to a one on one duel between the leaders who both happen to practice kung fu and enjoy white button-up t-shirts. After some fancy moves, one of them slays the other in combat and begins to leave the scene (sans all his dead homies, I guess) but is stopped in his tracks by the sight of a large masked man yelling at him on the horizon. Turns out Karl Butcher Jr, son of the legendary mass murderer, was out for a stroll, spotted the dealers killing each other, and, not to be left out, had rushed to join. Very quickly, Karl (Andreas Schnaas) is on top of the would-be lone brawl survivor and promptly fucks him up with a machete just before the screen goes black. Following its intro and sparse opening credits, the film takes the form of a true crime documentary in development by reporter Paul Glas. Paul believes a string of recent murders can be linked back to The Butcher massacre from twenty years before (and also, the whole thing has something to do with real-life serial killer Fritz Honka...I think?). After divulging the history of Karl senior for a bit over panning random footage of Germany, the reporter follows a tip leading to an interview with some dude in a bar who confirms his suspicions. The Deepthroat-esque “DR. X” then tells him a few stories about the original culprit’s son who, mad about a face rash or something (honestly between the bad subs and silly plot I'm still dim on some details, but it doesn't really matter), had also already done some minor rampaging of his own in the last few years . Switching formats once again, we catch up with Karl II and his (adoptive?) mother (Anke Prothmann in a lot of make-up). Turns out, Momma Butcher has been priming her young progeny to follow in her late husband's footsteps, and now that he has grown to be the spitting image of his father (complete with the heirloom medieval helmet), he is ready to do some eccentric butchery of his own. In fact, this time will be extra special, because mom is coming along too. As one could probably guess, Karl's old lady has some very peculiar parenting ideas, specifically cannibalism and incest. Also at some point, a naturally occurring body hole gets closed up with a stapler, and I think someone eats poop, so watch out for that.

The title is about as far from the old-fashioned B-movie bait and switch as you can get. Like the first film, Violent Shit is wall to wall grotesque violence, only now (in true sequel fashion), it's been turned up a few ridiculous levels. There is an increased story to it compared to the first film, that is to say, there is more than nothing tieing the insane moments of torture and dismemberment together. For the first few acts, a disjointed, random, and confusing series of events form some semblance of a point, but the film forgets about the majority of this as it moves on into plasma soaked sadism. Mostly, the additional fluff just makes room for things the series was truly missing-- like a training montage, cliche fauxumentary tropes, and Kung Fu. Karl Jr's maternal relationship adds fucked up frosting to an already disturbing cake of sinister shit. The weird sexual thing that's going on there, combined with mom's encouraging cheers, was enough to make me glad the subtitles are wonky and that I don't speak German. At around the same runtime, it might be a little lighter on the fake entrails than the first to make room for the added story, but it wouldn't be considered lacking in most circles. The Butcher-minor is more creative than his father but also seemingly obsessed with genitals (of all genders), which is weird and takes a lot of screen time. There are a few classic machete whacks to the face for some victims. However, as the body count grows, most of the slaughter comes with long, drawn out, silly torture and bloodletting. A bare-bones opposite to the Saw-style mouse trap, instead of providing intricate setups for the deaths, the act of execution itself is long, complicated, and involves several steps. It's all sure to offend anyone who watches but is too extreme to take seriously. Even if you are of the squeamish type, by the fifteenth minute of growling testicle torture and six similar acts, the action loses any real shock and becomes either just gross or hilarious (and gross). It goes for broke, eventually just dissolving into increasing levels of carnage, capturing the essence of a drunken night between friends trying to top each other's morbid imagination. Along with its spastic rampage, the film makes several references to classic American horror films and even borrows a few plot points from the Friday the 13th series unambiguously. To its credit, it's moved forward quite a bit from the first writing-wise, although it’s not like it is casting a bigger net for an audience. It's still just random gore because that's fun sometimes, and hopefully, no one who pops in a film titled Violent Shit 2 will be worried about the level of drama involved.

Shot on tape and seemingly dumping the entirety of its finite resources into gore, Violent Shit 2 is, again, what it says on the tin. The whole thing looks like it was shot in different sections of the same public park, which it refers to as a “forest” at one point. The John Woo tribute, in the beginning, is the film’s most developed moment as far as framing and choreography go, displaying some above average movie brawling for its budget. For the film’s meat and potatoes (Karl the second, killing people), it's a lot more of the same backyard style camera work that kind of hangs around watching the action from any accessible angle. Shots seem almost placed at random, and it jumps between them with meaningless cuts. The film’s biggest draw is an overabundance of practical gore, which comes out as a step above the rest of the film quality- wise. For the lack of resources, the film utilizes some pretty gnarly effects when it comes to flesh mangling, and it doesn't skimp or pull away. I think I counted four different consistencies of blood, and each horrible scenario is trying to top the last. Without spoiling anything, there is a range of squirtastic stabbings and stringy limb removals that, despite their amateur surrounding conditions, would give a lot of larger budget splatter flicks a run for their money. Some of the more ambitious (for lack of a better word) moments spend a little too much time on screen and give themselves away, but all together it should more than slate any grimy blood-seekers thirst or send anyone else running. When it isn't mumbling at random volumes, the dubbing is just screaming, grunting and giggle-worthy squishing sounds with no attachment to what's on screen. Music-wise, the film is laced with an out of place, unbalanced soundtrack that sounds straight out of an RPG fantasy video game. Besides the Dungeons & Dragons mood tunes, it does have a German death metal/butt rock theme song (Violent Shit by Vice Versa) bookending it that captures the spirit nicely and almost feels critically necessary. Stick around afterward for some bonus scenes and marquee of credits that look like they are trying to sell you knock off sunglasses.

German director Andreas Schnaas has made an international name for himself with a torrent of ultra-low budget, ultra-violent gross-out splatter flicks that continues today. In 1989, he and some homies secured a tiny bit of funding to form the company Reel Gore Productions and produce their first full-length picture titled Violent Shit. Filmed over four weekends and with a rented tape recorder, the project amounted to a series of violent acts committed by a large masked man named Karl the Butcher, crafted with homemade practical effects (and little else). By the grace of the trash-gods, it saw a single midnight theater showing but received mostly negative reviews on its initial video release due to its lack of production values. However, with a little help from a to-the-point naming strategy and its unrefined grimy gusto, it found an audience worldwide over the following years in less discerning gore hounds who don't mind the homemade feel (a bunch of fucking weirdos probably). Succeeding their second feature Zombie '90: Extreme Pestilence in 1991, Andreas & Co would return to the world of Violent Shit and brewing cult following. To date, the character Karl the Butcher has appeared in six flicks, that I know of, including a reboot of sorts (Violent Shit: The Movie 2015) by Italian director Luigi Pastore, without Andreas Schnaas involvement. Schnaas himself would play the role in most outings, taking over for Karl Inger (allegedly) after the first film.

Violent Shit II: Mother Hold My Hand (aka Violent Shit 2) is a composition sketchbook of demented cartoon executions forged during an in-school suspension and realized in full-color low fidelity magnetic tape. For the right crowd, it's an awesomely inelegant, generously proportioned helping of sloppy sleaze, possibly best devoured while intoxicated. It advances from the first movie to some degree in almost every way, but it's still one for the same exclusive and fucked-up crowd. If you want tasteless acts of dismemberment, childish boundary-pushing, and obscene special effects, it's got you covered. Those seeking damn near anything outside of that, better look for their kicks elsewhere. In a way, it has the same MO as a Gallagher show, in that there are small bits of gibberish in between gags, but ultimately everyone watching is just waiting for red shit to spray, and a majority of possible viewers are not going to get the joke. I enjoy the fuck out of the unseemly mess, although I don't know what that says about me. I also really dig Karl the Butcher’s fashion sense. If only I too had been lucky enough to have inherited some cool metal headgear along with the destructive predispositions.

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