Thanksgiving Day is always an interesting time for us. The Zombos and Zimba families, including those above and below ground, crawl, hop, fly (usually by plane), and drive to the mansion for the eagerly anticipated holiday festivities.
Each year, Chef Machiavelli outdoes himself, and this time prepared the three-tentacled octopus and turkeys with a wonderfully seasoned shrimp and yak-eye stuffing.
Speaking of stuffing, Aunt Vesta and Uncle Tesla were in their usually supercilious moods at the dinner table, spicing the repartee to new heights. Afterwards, dessert was taken in the grand ballroom and the conversations continued.
“I must agree with Zombos,” said Cousin Cleftus, adjusting the thick amber-colored monocle over his one good eye. Uncle Tesla raised his brandy, sniffed it with disdain, and sipped a little.
“Lovecraft's premise that mankind’s oldest and strongest emotion is fear,” he continued, “while essentially correct, is incomplete. Fear ismerely the emotional energy. You must define those elements that instill fear, and once you do, you will find what makes us fearful today is greatly different from what made movie audiences frightened years ago."
“And today,” continued Zombos, “one fears not the supernatural unknown, but the loss of one’s authority over life. That theme is reflected more and more in this current horror Cinema of the Helpless. To have one’s life and death inevitably at the whim of forces beyond one’s control is essentially the basis of all horror, but those forces are no longer cosmic or alien in nature, but mundane and co-existing with us, and conspiring against us, until they strike, leaving us helpless, or in pain, or dead. We live with the monsters, and they are us.”
Uncle Tesla sipped his brandy again. He looked very much like Renfield in Dracula; not as portrayed by Dwight Frye, superb as he was, but Bernard Jukes in his stage portrayal. “I say Zombos, Iloz mentioned you were all a bother over receiving some sort of doll yesterday?” he said.
Zombos turned a shade grayer than he normally was. “Not doll,” he said, shifting a caustic glance my way, “but a large action figure: a wonderful interpretation of the Metaluna Mutant in This Island Earth.”
“Oh, I see.” Uncle Tesla anxiously glanced toward the desserts buffet. I quickly changed the subject. “When would you like to screen Lemora: A Child's Tale of the Supernatural in the cinematorium?” I asked.