DAEMONICIUM (THROUGH TIME AND DEATH)

  Art and metal have become very synonymous, limited to the palette of symbolism and/or lyrical expanse—for art that was was realized with no intention to end up as an album cover. The Vanitas and Black Metal, as far as the Mad Mane Machine is aware of, heeds back to Anaal Nathrakh—whose version was a minimalist achromatic all-inclusive approach, considering Audrey Flack's Vanitas.

  Daemonicium's Through Time and Death is a cross between a Vanitas and The Three Ages of Woman and Death. The album's woman has fallen into a youthful stasis however, a reflection of Time's eternity—if it's immeasurable. The lyrics array an Old One who is constantly implored for penance.

  Displayed are riffs with proficiency, although more could have been achieved. Completely the symphonic eminence overshadows some of the instruments. Only minute bass breaks are syncopated, and even these are more of the exception—without much to write home about save for filler driller. It mostly comes out a snare and keyboard consecration when leads fortify their presence.

  The growls let-down at times on this record when paired against the spoken lyrics and shrieks. Without the keys, Through Time and Death would easily fall into the sphere of melodic Black Metal managing solos. It would not even gratify the void it is trying to fill. Falling and collapsing under its weight.

  Rusty may be a compliment to a metal band. Daemonicium may reciprocate the rusty, auburn crimsons of their cover inspirations but that is as far as it goes. The music pales a few hues in comparison. The woman's stature gives way to a slight male elucidation and that skewers the lyrical content for the Mad Mane Machine in accordance to the Vanitas. Proficiency and purpose is key. 

HANNIBAL BY THOMAS HARRIS

  From fictitious to existing and non fiction texts, books sum the lateral provision on which writers scour for luster. Iron sharpens iron—so must incandescence. Poe's French personas get baffled and impressed by how well read his characters are—expressed as before the tale. Fictitious incorporations have included such as Pilgrim without Progress. For Thomas Harris relegation is to voluminous research by characters—at least the serious ones. An actuality putting into consideration the bibliophile effort rendered for the creation of one cultured Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

  The procession of Hannibal proved hefty. Its satisfaction lay in the variegated inclinations. Whichever answers one would want assuaged in a crime thriller steeped in good old horror, then detection is an obligation than a necessity. At the hands of the Italian police and the F.B.I., mystery enshrouds Il Mostro's and Hannibal's who and whereabouts. It is not easy a task, shadowing a spectre and battering it at its own game. Dr. Lecter is the type of clean slate dust-up mastermind who understands forensic science is the modern criminal's first enemy and solid witness; yet failed by whimsical tendencies. It takes a person attuned to such nippy nuances to even notice them, before offsetting on their pursuit. Goddamn birds of a feather.

  Clarice Starling had managed to eke out of Dr. Lecter information on Buffalo Bill, earning his regards and concerns—once he notices she is charmed with taste, the element which successfully aids her on locating Dr. Lecter. Rionaldo Pazzi, head of Italian inspection, realizes this too late; and coupled with ambitious avarice, dies at Hannibal's hands, set to an image of the deposition—as the book pacefully illustrates pacts of viewing every painting of the once obscure Jan Vermeer.

  On her way to find Dr. Lecter, Starling was on her downfall from the F.B.I.. Contained by her gender, ambition, smart mouth, and beauty. She still gets her absolute worth. Hannibal had been bountied to Pazzi and a certain ignoramus F.B.I. agent. Typical of exertion to  ruinous motives and drive without any oversight. Relayed by the setter of the bounty prize, Mason Verger—Hannibal's only surviving victim and one with the willpower and financial flex to hunt him internationally.

I just want to see every Vermeer in the world

  After the final chapter, various considerations crossed the Mad Mane Machine, unsure of how to finally regard regard a book that starts growing in. The layering being full of character conclusions, heavy on the psychological side. Coming to Sardinia, art, and the bogus count after BloodFever was starting. Forth couldn't be brought a better present tensed omniscient narrator. The question trickled to—So, French or Italian?

DOPPELGANGERS XIV

  There is a variant to the extremely correctly arrayed similarity of little Robin's characters. The sleeve cover Robin has a nasolabial fold, shot from a slightly rightie angle. Screen Robin is expressionless faced.

  With a conveyance of Disco fashion assemblage, it's a wonder Prom Night made the little nailed-down portion to the reel. Or cover. Whichever.

—Prom Night

HITMAN: AGENT 47

  For films of a specific genre, it is easy to be compared to the originators when nothing spectacular is delivered—however an unfair discretion with which to strew one's predispositions. Like walking a musical path, and only the most striking essentials remain. But even tropes can fade amid time and other in-betweens.

  Then there are the homages, with basings around a given quest; take Kingsman:The Secret Service , topped with Samuel L. Jackson's acknowledgement of the world's most famous spy's work. And so his action heroes in —for sequels that spell ruin. Besides offering recommendations, acknowledging or drawing from does not always mean good. Only enlightening on the influence.

  Be that as it may, Hitman: Agent 47 is a cut from the spy cloth, harbouring every action and spy trodden ground. Tech is incorporated to the likeliest minimum, laudably for a realistic parallel to an actual spy. The plot point jags with some pregnant reticent idea espousal that turns only on narration. Culling all expectations of integrated and extended bio-warfare It is the results of the biological engineering and the scientific instigator, as persons, that the plot proceeds to encapsulate. Succintness allows unfoldings to explain themselves away, because not every narration ensconces itself satisfactorily—more so when adapting stories. Trifle make or break matters. Professional spies are the closest a mortal could get to a superhuman. An edge that makes them able to conquer the inhuman villains, or similar, if challenging agents. With the generic evil corporation—whose logo and name required the least effort—that wants a political overhaulment. Hook or crook. First. All else is left to the lead and supporting agents whose performances fail to be captivating. Not even a star cast saves the damn day. Here is where a joke or two could have lightened motions up a little. A Mission: Impossible complex plot is not what would make this hit either, although the romance that burdens many features as a setting for plot tensions has been done away with.

  Despite all, this might make for a good runaway sequel, should the narrated idea be put into provoking, neat, expansive consideration. What would be wrong with an injection of new tropes?—because they always come from somewhere, even if mashed-up. However its sealed fate, Hitman: Agent 47 may elude its watery grave.

A COMMINGLE OF PROM NIGHT AND CARRIE

  Vengeance. Red at the heart, reeking of disgust and rabid disapproval—its forces never ebb away. A fucking will with mighty throbs to the wronged and offended. But when compulsion dispenses as a defect of passion—it is avenging no more. Becoming a simpler way to even affairs. Obfuscation strung off the picture—as a grainy opening unfoldd.

  Naivety may be deemed upon children, but personal traits may startle with curt ruthlessness should they be sound enough to excite quick judgement. Characteristics that unfailingly portray themselves from early on. There only need a headstrong in a group of conspirators, coupled with the said advantage to ensure way in the will. Dangling the carrot of retaliation—threat of punishment—and the others will take the bait. Herefore, Kim, Nick, Kelly, and Jude participated in the bullying event that caused the death of little Robin.

  Unfriendliness towards Robin was the main despise, since her sibling who did nothing about it was their playmate. Her mysterious death is wrongly placed on a local psycho, who endures burns on his run from cops. The psycho's escape coincides with Prom—with Kim and Nick to be crowned Queen and King. It is a knife and axe affair, as revenge is meted out. It would be insane to say a psycho burned to the Fizzle Bomber's proportions is the avenger. This is a fantastic twist. The escaped jailbird remains mystery to the end. Mask. Black glove. Knife. Fall-o'-the-ripper.

  Come where adults are involved, and the case is coupled with ulterior motives, making them all the more disgusting. Carrie is murky and different enough—thanks to an idiot mother—to elicit unwarranted and unpleasant attentions. In the adult world, her situation is much precarious from the existence of inescapable interactions and formal and informal communities. She discovers her underlying ppwers, day by day as she is pushed to the edge. Once lured into believing her break in life has come—partially true, the lure being benevolent—she is befallen by more humiliation. It is on the night of Prom, and her counter-action is unleashing psionic powers now under her well-versed control. It is about self-preservation once the knives find the target, and the past is cast to ashes. Flash forward to a dressed-up reworking.

  Prom Night and Carrie do work around mischief on the night of Prom. Apart from earlier incidents that are its precursors. The actual concocter happens to be the red drive damsel. Headstrong and contagious. Destined to die. To accentuate as a spectator; it is not who does it, it is how it's done—when things are evening themselves out on light's closure. Either can tip the scale of the created and gradually realized swift death machine.

TALES OF MYSTERY AND IMAGINATION: AN EDGAR ALLAN POE COMPILATION

There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me not.

  PROLOGUE — TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE


  THE BLACK CATALOGUE — TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE / MONOLOGUE

  EPILOGUE — TRY POE TRY POE TRY POE

TO OBSERVE ATTENTIVELY IS TO REMEMBER DISTIMCTLY

  TALES OF MYSTERY AND IMAGINATION

  MANY FIND SOLE AGITATION MYSTERY

  MAY FIND LONE AGITATIONS MYSTERY


  SAY IF A FAIN GOLD MINT TASTE MONEY
  (The Gold Bug)

  AGITATION MASTERY SO DAMNLY FINE
  (Auguste Dupin Trilogy)

  AGITATED FOE LAYS MINISTRY ON MAN
  (The Cask of Amontillado)

  SOD MY LAMINATION IF AGENT ARTSY
  (The Premature Burial)

  MYRIAD SEA EMANATIONS TING
  (MS. Found in a Bottle)
  (A Descent into the Maelstrom)

  MAY FIND SOLEMN AGITATIONS TEARY
  (Ligeia)

  NON LIFE STAYS ANIMATED OR MY GAIT
  OR TAMING ANIMATED LIFE YON
  (The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar)

  ARMY GOAD STAYS NON LIFE INTIMATE
  (The Masque of the Red Death)

  SAT SOME GAMY AORTA INFIDELITY
  (Some Words with a Mummy)



  AND FYI, SOLEMN AGITATION MASTERY ERY

BLOODFEVER BY CHARLIE HIGSON

 A story can load as much Chekhov's guns.These, to the extent of the thrill they help piece together, a la an amateur archaeologist on their first, yet indiscernible excavation. The challenge is not to overwhelm the reader with sub-plots that are to the story-line, while maintaining considerable length to avoid losing its punch.

 Similarly, the main theme/title is the stuff of sub-plot; although in accordance to the book's purpose, it is to raise temps—tampering with temperament. The world of the younger Bond. James Bond. Has taken a fastidious leap after SilverFin. More dangerous antagonists. Disposition to the world of art. Occasionally the placed bully that measures his mettle. And meeting the deadliest animal in the world before he realizes (argh) not everyone is to be trusted. Enamouring a shift from the most dangerous game, which he is perpetually hunting and on the run from. The proverbial if you were born to be hanged, you'll never be drowned. In the sea and in the dam where he pulls his feats. Settings of the latter coming from The Johnson Flood tale minus the deluge.

There comes a terrible fever, shivering, pain in your joints; your head aches like it will explode.

 Little thrills only give way to unexpected mystery solving and detection. It is the psyche which knows no sycophant. Pumping in the veins of Mr. Bond. The best advice a cousin could ever give him was learning how to drink—for to know how not to get drunk. Adventures are to the adventurous.