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The
Capitol Hill Massacre by
Armando D. Muñoz
I
am a horror movie maniac. I see them all, in the theaters
on opening weekend, often multiple times. My horror film collection
is beyond count. This passion, strong since I was sprouting
my first short hairs, has steered me naturally into a burgeoning
career as a horror screenwriter and director. While I enjoy
horror’s every permutation, it’s the slasher subgenre
which thrills and chills me the most. Favorites like FRIDAY
THE 13TH and HALLOWEEN 2 I’ve
viewed enough times to reach triple digits. And this love
of horror fiction extends to literature as well, from Lovecraft
to King to Ketchum, all
of them crowding my bookshelves.
My
horror habits however do not extend to the arena of true crime,
a kissing cousin to the horror genre in its quest for carnage.
The excitement and entertainment is not there for me. My personal
limits keeps me from celebrating real life killers (Manson,
Dahmer, Bush), and my sadness for their victims is
simply too strong. I’d rather reread Stephen
King’s MISERY than a bio of
Ted Bundy. Whereas I can watch MURDER-SET-PIECES
with wide eyes, I can’t even peek through my fingers
at a televised surgery or facelift. Also loathed are prime-time
“America’s Wackiest Snuff Videos”
shows, which I avoid, along with the surgeries, by refusing
to subscribe to any cable services. There’s not one
true crime tome on my bookshelves.
I’m
a fictional gorehound, not an ambulance chaser. I don’t
want to see anybody’s fresh scabs or seeping wounds.
I don’t want to hear the gory details of the car wreck
you passed by earlier. And I can’t help upping the level
of explicit gore in each film I make. I root exclusively for
the victims, the final boys and girls, and I always hate the
villains.
|
The author at
the crime scene |
On
the morning of Saturday March 25, I awoke from a restless sleep
just after 7am, likely due to the leaking nose and sinus distress
brought on by my seasonal allergies which frequently awaken me at
this hour. Or was this sleep disturbed by the gunshots and sirens
in the distance, or the screams heard in dreams? A few hours later
I learned of the Capitol Hill massacre which had occurred at 7am,
a crime so shocking it became immediate national news. And now I
must cope, along with my community, with the heartbreaking and disturbing
aftermath of these tragic murders. True crime has come calling from
my backyard, and this time I can’t turn the channel and hide
from it.
But
what does this big downer have to do with CampBlood, a website dedicated
to movies about maniacal momma’s boys, anchorwomen in peril,
and transsexuals with tentacles and the sissy fanboys who love them?
I’m not sure myself yet. In the disorientation and shock following
this incident, and in such close proximity, I’ve decided to
attempt making personal sense out of a senseless horror by writing
about it. At the blessed urgings of Buzz, I’ve decided to
share these thoughts with CampBlood.org and all of my girlfriends
at tonight’s big slumber party.
I
want to make clear right away that it’s not my intent to mock
or satirize the Capitol Hill massacre in any way. My heart goes
out to everyone involved in this tragedy, and to my neighbors here
on Capitol Hill affected by this, and to the greater Seattle area
and outlying districts where a few of the victims were from. The
story is still unfolding, with two victims still fighting for life
in the hospital that have yet to be identified. We’re all
worrying for them and fearing we know them. We’re exhausted.
Everyday brings new revelations in the investigation. Every local
friend talked to reveals more tenuous personal connections to the
incident (tonight’s revelation, the editor of my last four
films had previously been to a party at the house where the after
party murders occurred.). In dealing with this it’s good to
keep my wits and sense of humor sharp, and my humor, like my movies,
tends to fall on the bloody dark side. Abundant genre film references
will also be employed to help throw events into perspective. Now
come along final boys and girls, this is going to get scary.
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2112 East Republican Street
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A
NIGHTMARE ON EAST REPUBLICAN STREET
Tedious
details aren’t necessary at this point, facts on the
incident can be looked up elsewhere, but here’s a
quick, pitch meeting sized recount of the events of the
Capitol Hill massacre. On the evening of March 24, a zombie-themed
rave called Better Off Undead was held
at a popular arts space on Capitol Hill, the big gay area
of Seattle and the most densely populated neighborhood north
of San Francisco. Among the 500 attendees were about two
dozen ravers who would descend to an after party at a nearby
two story house known for its communal and safe party atmosphere.
One of the new faces invited was Kyle Aaron Huff,
a buff, giant guy with a friendly face, 28 years old, new
to the rave scene and first spotted at them last month.
He was among the first to arrive at the house after 4am,
and nearly 30 young people soon joined him.
Until
nearly 7am, the after party was perfectly chill… Then
Kyle Huff left in a state of calm, going to his large truck
parked around the block. Along with the arsenal of guns
and ammunition stocked inside the truck were a long machete,
baseball bat, and two cans of gasoline. What he chose was
a shotgun, a semi-automatic handgun, two bandoliers of ammunition,
and pockets full of rounds. He also got a can of red spray
paint, and walking back to the after party, spray-painted
the word “NOW” on the sidewalk and the steps
of another house on the way.
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Huff
began firing as he neared the porch, where two people were lounging,
at approximately 7:03am. Both were hit. Huff’s size, strength,
and firepower made it impossible for those inside to prevent his
reentry. Three who tried became the next victims, dying in the living
room. Some partygoers fled through the back door and jumped out
of windows. Others hid in the basement, in closets, beneath beds,
beneath sheets, and behind chairs. Two were hiding in the bathtub
when Huff shot through the upstairs bathroom door. Huff didn’t
see them through the hole, and he continued throughout the house.
He turned up the music playing to hide the sounds of his approach.
Four
more young people were shot before Kyle Huff exited the house in
pursuit of fleeing victims. One died at the scene, a second passed
away at the hospital, and the final two remain in serious condition.
Confronted by a lone police officer approaching the house, Huff
fired his shotgun into his own face. And a new cultural nightmare
was born.
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HEY
PREACHERS, LEAVE THOSE ZOMBIES ALONE.
In
the fall of 2005, a trend developed amongst horror fans and
urban thrill-seekers in some North American cities called
the Zombie March. Participants were invited to don their best
undead threads and faces and create a zombie invasion of unsuspecting
downtown districts and businesses. Whether as political protest
(zombies in malls, zombies in office), an act of theatrical
anarchy, or just to make people laugh and little kids cry,
these zombie invasions have grown in popularity and are a
blast to take part in. Just ask Buzz and I, as we shambled
for brains through Manhattan and Seattle respectively last
year. The blood is fake, our moans are many, and any resulting
screams are followed by laughter.
The
zombie theme for the Better Off Undead rave,
where the killer and his future victims met, may seem strange
to some at first. After all, aren’t raves typically
celebrations of Love, Peace, Unity, and Enlightenment, often
with names to match? The use of love drugs and general lack
of violence at raves are a testament to the positive vibes
they spread. But Burning Man’s been doing it for years;
the zombies walk every dawn. Ravers and zombies love to dress
up for any occasion, or without provocation. It’s fun,
it’s a statement, and it freaks out the normals. A zombie
rave without a bad vibe makes perfect sense, and if there
were a real monster in their midst with ill intent in mind,
he was able to keep it completely concealed.
When
news of the Capitol Hill massacre first came out, the crackpot
conservatives and NIMBY politicians had a field day pointing
their fingers at the most sensational aspects of the crime.
A night of the living dead dance creates a dawn of dead kids.
A decadent event for druggies becomes an after party orgy
of bloodshed. All of the parents are at fault for letting
their kids be kids and have late curfews, even though only
two of the seven dead were teen-agers living at home with
their parents. Seattle’s police chief took special note
of the people at the house in zombie attire looking like they
were already dead. Neighbors and witnesses were alarmed that
some of the ravers had “painted faces” and “colored
hair”. Me, I’d be far more alarmed by the clean
cut fellow with a shotgun creating a body count.
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A flier from the rave
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Various remembrances
at the site of the killings
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One
area in which the Capitol Hill massacre unfortunately mirrors
the Manson Family murders is how some will
use the incident to demonize youth culture in general, and
the rave scene in particular. This was a crime which involved
only young adults and a counterculture associated with free
love, loud music, and drugs. Hmm, sounds familiar, but Sharon
Tate never stuck a knife into a trippin’
hippie, and that’s the dynamic of what happened in
Seattle. It was the marginalized, modern techno hippies,
the freaks, who fell victim to a normal looking man who
was not one of them. But the conservatives don’t want
anyone to realize that, so remember, ravers + zombies +
parties = you asked for it! Investigation has also revealed
that marijuana was present at the after party and the killer’s
apartment across town, so if you believe that REEFER
MADNESS is a profound work of non-fiction, then
it’s obvious that the Devil’s Weed made them
do it.
Where
the Manson Family murders soiled and instigated the end
of the hippie era, I can only hope that the events in Seattle
don’t trigger an end to the rave movement. If blame
is wrongly put on the victims and spun enough, reactionary
minds will legislate raves away again in Seattle by resurrecting
the dreaded Teen Dance Ordinance of years past, which removed
the safe, crowded gatherings which raves can provide youth.
We shouldn’t be led to forget, the murders didn’t
even happen at a rave.
And
what of the fate of us poor zombies, who know that dressing
up dead is just a way to get an extra kick out of life?
Will the Zombie Rave House Massacre encourage a reactionary
attack on horror entertainment too? The horror genre all
too frequently gets the blame for social ills when even
the flimsiest case can be made, and here we had fake zombies
losing real blood and life, stumbling through the streets
at dawn. Will the next Zombie March be halted by riot cops
and tear gas, Seattle’s problem solvers of choice?
It’s far too early to tell.
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GRISLY
BEAR
Now
let us consider the killer, the man who so frustratingly left
no motive for his atrocious actions. Without that elusive
why, we can only speculate on his reasons with the clues we
find. Here’s what I’ve found, looking through
my pretty pink 3-D horror movie glasses.
Some
killers are wild eyed, drooling, gibbering looney tunes made
flesh, and we should thank them for that. If they’re
obvious, they’re avoidable (unless they chase you really,
really fast). I can cross the street if there’s a howling
mutant with a machete ahead, and I know not to invite him
to my next clothing optional pajama party. First hearing of
the Capitol Hill massacre and the giant outsider responsible,
I could only think, what kind of disturbed, monstrous nutbag
could have done it?
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| The
next day I heard the name Kyle Huff and saw the first picture
of this goateed ghoul, and my first thought was HOT! Attractive
in a buff bear way. On the list of homicidal hotties, I’d
place Huff at the top, above Ted Bundy (too
plastic Ken doll) and Jeffrey Dahmer (too
rough trade). And what regular readers of this website wouldn’t
have wanted to see the monstrous nutbag of this monstrous
nutbag? Many others interviewed about the case referred to
Huff as a gentle, giant teddy bear, and isn’t a teddy
bear by definition something cute and cuddly that you want
to curl up in bed with?
By
appearances alone, it’s not hard to see why the occupants
of the house invited Kyle Huff to their after party, even
though he lacked the outlandish look of most ravers. He certainly
doesn’t look the part of homicidal maniac either. Given
the chance, I would have invited him to one of my hot panty,
I mean pajama parties too. I also can’t ignore the faint
bleeps Kyle Huff registers on my gaydar. Perhaps that’s
wishful thinking, or might there be more?
Slasher
cinema, Carol J. Clover, and true serial
killer case studies prove that most maniacs operate under
some psychosexual fury. Norman Bates had far too much mommy
love, Buffalo Bill wanted a sex change so
bad he wore real pussy pants to pretend, and Gary
Ridgeway, the Green River Killer,
wanted to punish the cheap sluts (his view, not mine) he felt
couldn’t satisfy his insatiable sex drive. Occasionally
there’s the unexplainably evil type, as in HALLOWEEN,
but even Michael Myers got so worked up seeing
his sister’s big boobies that he had to cut them off.
Kyle
Aaron Huff and his twin brother Kane grew up in rural Montana,
a place where visible queer types and gender rebels are out
of view. In that environment, it was the black clad, heavy
metal loving Huffs who were the high school outcasts. They
didn’t have to wear day-glo bracelets or disco threads
to be the outsiders, their Metallica t-shirts took care of
that. Like any misplaced queer or rave baby, they knew how
it felt to be the ones who didn’t fit in. They were
both voted “Least Spirited” in their high school
yearbook, which is another way for the popular types to say
“you’re freaks and you don’t belong with
us”. Luckily, large cities offer far more opportunities
and people to fit in with, and the Huff brothers eventually
moved to Seattle together.
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Kyle
Huff
A
stuffed bear at the crime scene
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| The
rave scene, like most counterculture music scenes, attracts
a large number of people questioning their sexuality and experimenting
with new ones. Add a little E, and it’s touchy-feely
time, all genders invited! Kyle Huff had to have known as
much as he started frequenting raves in late February or early
March, where he was spotted standing back and observing the
crowd, but not dancing. It’s conceivable he was looking
for an accepting crowd to come out in, a possibility doubly
conceivable to me since it was after moving to Seattle from
a small town and entering the rave scene that I felt comfortable
enough to finally come out of the closet. Perhaps Huff couldn’t
take that final, freeing step out, and as a result he carried
six others with him to the grave.
The
flip side scenario would have Montana’s Least Spirited,
unable to find community within greater Seattle, deciding
to turn his building anger toward those he found to be freaks.
Lots of people from Montana don’t think fondly of queers;
there are all sorts of laws against them there. So he integrates
himself with a scene known for its flamboyant queer theatrics
and participants, and lights the fuse. Also worth remembering
is that the stalking and killings transpired on Capitol Hill,
which is Seattle’s big gay Mecca.
Whether
it was gay shame or a homophobic holocaust, both psychosexual
explanations are plausible and quite obvious, yet the topic
of sexual frustration has been little talked about in the
local hunt for Huff’s motive. Therefore I’m putting
it out on the table, and I want to add one more curious fact.
In all of the post tragedy interviews with family, friends,
and acquaintances of Kyle Huff, nobody can find one girlfriend,
in past Montana or present Seattle, to speak with.
If
ever a bear needed a bear hug and acceptance, it was the lonely
Kyle Huff. It’s a shame he could only connect to others
with loads made of lead. And I find I can’t hate the
villain of this terribly true story.
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Prom Night
"NOW"
painted outside the crime scene
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IF YOU’RE
NOT BACK BY MIDNIGHT…
…you
won’t be coming home! So goes the memorable slogan
for the Canadian slash trash classic PROM NIGHT
from 1980, a movie much loved in the cabins of CampBlood
and a personal favorite of mine. Ravers would be wise to
study Jamie Lee Curtis throwing spectacular
shapes on the light-up stage in order to improve their own
dance floor prowess, but I digress. That slogan seems more
ominous now following the murders on Capitol Hill. Had a
few of the victims made it home by midnight, or even by
6am, they could have avoided their fate. And some who did
make it home safely by 7am still didn’t survive, since
the after party house was a home to many.
If
only the similarities ended there. Although Kyle Huff’s
rampage still lacks a motive, he did have something to say,
and that statement was one word which he forewarned in spray
paint on the sidewalk and a random porch on his way to the
killings. NOW. Now, fans of PROM NIGHT will remember that
one of the film’s creepiest innovations was a killer
that would hiss “NOW!” repeatedly or in one
long drawl at the moment he’d kill his victims. Now
that’s spooky. Spookier still, in PROM NIGHT’s
final reel, the killer is revealed to be Alex Hammond (Aaron
Huff, ahem), a peer and friend to the group of potential
victims, who only snaps into killing mode after the beginning
of a dress-up theme dance (yikes!), picking his peers off
one by one in a quick rampage. He soon dies outside the
scene of his crimes in front of the fleeing survivors and
late arriving cops (make it stop!). Alex Hammond is also
the twin of the film's opening scene victim.
That’s
some list of similarities, but it must be just creepy coincidence.
Whether
PROM NIGHT is found in Huff’s movie collection, or
a case is made against the film’s dated, derivative
narrative, we can only hope not. What the similarities between
PROM NIGHT and After Party Morning do illuminate is the
added impact a tragedy can have for horror fans already
familiar with the details. Earlier this year, I was shocked
by the mine explosion tragedy in West Virginia where a dozen
men perished and one wounded young man was recovered. But
this seemed like more than just the televised tragedy of
the hour, to be dismissed when the next horrible headline
arrived. I felt like I’d been down in that mine before,
repeatedly reliving that awful ordeal, and in a way I had,
through my many viewings of that other early 80s Canadian
classic MY BLOODY VALENTINE. That film echoed the events
in the mine to an alarming degree, and I was surprised by
the amount of discussion and sympathy expressed within horror
film circles.
Rather
than the desensitized, unbalanced sickies our detractors
paint us out to be, I’ve found the horror community
to be an exceptionally caring and thoughtful crowd with
an added appreciation for survival. Far from being desensitized,
I’d argue that I am more sensitive to tales, fiction
or not, of threats faced, and I’m overly invested
in the plight of the survivors, due in no small part to
the amount of quality time I spend with the final girls
and boys of horror cinema.
During
the week following the murders, I tried to deal with it
by keeping to my regular routines and doing what makes me
happy, namely going to theaters to watch horror films. I
chose the new HILLS HAVE EYES and SLITHER.
Oops. THE HILLS HAVE EYES’ centerpiece trailer massacre,
perpetrated with guns, was especially gut-wrenching, and
SLITHER, which has countless possessed characters getting
their heads ventilated via firearms in scenes played for
splattery laughs, seemed not so funny. I found neither film
to be irresponsible or exploitive, however, and I plan to
revisit both once some time and healing have come to pass.
For now I better stick to films that feature axe, knife,
and power tool mayhem exclusively.
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NOT
QUITE DEAD RINGERS
INow
it’s time to explore my tenuous connections to the Capitol
Hill massacre, the many reasons it’s such a haunting
event for me. Proximity certainly has something to do with
it. I’ve lived on Capitol Hill for a decade. The Capitol
Hill Arts Center, where the zombie rave was staged, is about
five blocks away from me, and a venue which I’ve been
to in the past. It’s a great space. I highly recommend
checking out an event there. They need the support after the
negative publicity the murders have brought them. Had the
Better Off Undead event featured industrial or gothic music
instead of techno, I might have been there that night. I’m
always looking for an excuse to go out in public as a zombie
with peeling flesh, drooling blood, carrying some body part
for a midnight snack. I’m known for that.
The
after party house is about nine blocks away from the C.H.A.C.
space. It’s also right around the corner from a former
boyfriend’s house where I spent many of my early 20s
party years. My editor knew of the house right away, he’d
been there before. I filmed much of my third film MIME AFTER
MIDNIGHT on the streets three blocks away. The apartment across
town where the Huff brothers lived is in the Northgate area,
where I just happened to live for five years before my move
to Capitol Hill, just off of the same street as the Huffs,
about 10 blocks down. Their building I knew well.
I
didn’t know any of the victims or survivors of the massacre,
at least so far, since identities are still being revealed.
But I can relate to them. Although I was weaned on heavy metal
and punk rock, the early 1990s brought me into the burgeoning
rave scene in Seattle and I was hooked for years. Some of
those all night parties rank among my strongest memories of
that time. I would imagine scenes for my screenplays while
sweating on the dance floor. I remember Roman temples on the
hillside and songs that made me cry as the sun rose. It’s
a wonderful rite of passage for many young people and the
victims were in the right place in their lives. I don’t
recall one violent incident from the rave scene then, and
the only fear I remember came when ducking down to avoid police
detection when setting up an after party in an empty warehouse.
Nobody could predict or prevent the massacre on Capitol Hill.
It was an isolated incident, without precedent.
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Armando takes in some of the memorials at the house |
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I’m
not one to usually identify with killers, but it’s inevitable
here. Like Kyle Huff, I grew up in an intolerant small town
in a similarly minded state, I loved heavy metal (still do),
I had long hair, I wore all black, and if I wasn’t voted
Least Spirited in my high school yearbook, then it was a mistake
on their part. I then moved to the Northgate area of Seattle
and started to go to raves in the Capitol Hill area.
Oh,
and I also have a twin. For that reason it’s nearly
unbearable for me to imagine how Kane Huff must feel in the
aftermath of this tragedy. My heart goes out to him and his
family. I am not an identical twin though. Her boobies are
much bigger than mine, but my penis is bigger than hers. I’m
not sure which one of us has the bigger balls.
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| 
The front of the house
"NOW"
painted outside the crime scene
Bulletholes
in the porch wall
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2112, IT’S
NOT JUST A CLASSIC RUSH ALBUM ANYMORE
When
news of the Capitol Hill massacre first hit, the location
became an immediate destination for many. There were constant
vigils and memorials and an outside service that packed
the streets. From the beginning, I was torn on whether or
not to visit the site and take my camera and get some footage
of real life horror history unfolding. I could make a pretty
but bloodstained penny selling such footage to one of the
many prime time victim shows. But I’ve never been
the kind to crane my neck to get a view of some passing
accident scene. And I don’t watch TV. I decided not
to go. It was all too horrifying and already way too close
to home for me to confront it directly.
Four
days following the tragedy, I realized if I was going to
make some sense and peace out of it, I was going to have
to write about it. One week after the Capitol Hill massacre,
I finally felt it necessary to visit the location.
The
address 2112 East Republican Street, the location of the
crime, happens to share the name of one of my favorite Rush
albums. I hope the association of 2112 to the massacre will
fade with time. The house where it happened may forever
be haunted by the crime, like the Amityville house, the
site of another shotgun massacre. I wonder if it will ever
be inhabited again, but I think it should. It’s a
beautiful looking house, nestled in with lots of bare trees
and bushes waiting to bloom.
The
entire street has a comfortable feel and pleasant look,
but closer inspection reveals clues to the recent heartache
brought to this block. There are ribbons in remembrance
around a pole. A car parked across the street belonging
to one of the victims is draped with flowers. The sidewalks
around the house hold flowers, candles, gifts, personal
notes, and pictures in memorial. To this I add an offering
of my own, for the dead and for those who might appreciate
seeing them: two colorful rave flyers for events that had
meaning in my prior rave years. One is for a party called
Love, the other is for Endymion:
Circus of the Night, “a celebration of the
eternal mystery of the afterlife”. Parties so great
I… can’t quite remember them. These flyers belong
here.
There
is already some peace here, but closer inspection of the
house brings jarring reminders of the screaming nightmare
recently endured by so many. A handwritten sign taped to
the door warns “Do not go behind this door”.
There are multiple warped holes in the porch walls, from
where the first shots took out the first victims. There
are faint stains around those holes that look suspiciously
like former blood splatters. Low in the window beside the
front door is a brownish stain on the inside, and I’m
trying not to think of what it is or how it got there. A
teddy bear and a weathered cow skull sit on the porch railing.
I think the fuzzy toy and the jagged bones are both cute,
but I’m funny that way.
The
side of the house seems unaffected. The blinds on the large
side window are pulled partway up, and revealed right inside
is a large plastic bottle filled and splattered with something
red. It must be paint or fake blood from Friday evening’s
zombie dress up, this was a house of artists after all,
but the red jug’s placement and purpose can’t
help but make the mind conjure up horrible scenarios. Pictures
released the previous days showed the house’s former
occupants removing personal belongings in crates while wearing
gloves and face masks. In time, with a fresh coat of paint,
I hope the residence will have occupants happy to be there,
but for now it may well still be a toxic, stomach turning
crime scene inside.
The
NOW warnings remain on the sidewalk and the porch steps
of the house on the opposite corner, though they are faint,
having been partially cleaned away. Newer graffiti over
them offer further tributes and even debates.
What
finally brought peace during my visit to the after party
house had nothing to do with the house itself. It was the
people who arrived in a near steady stream, to see with
their own eyes where it happened and what it means. As a
community, Seattle has weathered shock before in the years
I’ve lived here. The death of Kurt Cobain
(I remember exactly where I was and how I felt
when I found out). The WTO police riots. The Mardi Gras
riot. And shake it baby, I can’t forget the earthquake,
which occurred the morning after the Mardi Gras riots. That
was a fun double feature of survival fear. What makes the
Capitol Hill massacre the worst of the lot is the size of
its body count. And what I see at 2112 East Republican Street
now is a community gathering, grieving, and giving each
other some hope. We’re all survivors of this nightmare.
Seattle has healed before, and seeing that process in action
in the curious faces of others, people of every age and
race, drawn to this now legendary site of horror is enough
to bring a smile to my face.
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|
DO
YOU WANT TO PARTY!? IT’S PARTYTIME!
It’s
been one week since taking on my assignment to analyze the
Capitol Hill massacre, and time seems right to wrap it up,
although all the pertinent questions, the whos and hows and
whys, remain. Two raves which had been planned for the weekend
were cancelled, but two more raves popped up, with benefits
going to the victims’ families, survivors’ expenses,
and the building of a memorial for the victims, which, in
Burning Man tradition, will be temporary
and eventually torched. A shuttle ran between the raves, and
one of the parties was on Capitol Hill. The dancing continues.
I
broke character and was drawn to the site of a real life body
count, and I learned in the process. I heard the chilling
911 calls, some from inside the house during the massacre.
I heard the gunshots, and I shook and cried. In the quiet,
dark hours after midnight last weekend, while composing this
piece, I was plagued by repeated phone calls from somebody
who would not speak, and who could not be traced. That was
a long and scary night.
Watch
my back man, and I’ll watch yours (I’ll even wash
it if you ask me nicely). One final comparison I’m thinking
about is between the horror community and the rave community.
We’re both outsider, outrageous by nature, and looked
down upon by the popular snakes. Some of us in Halloween land
do look rather dark by nature, and for that and our habits,
we are frequently judged. In the past, I was physically attacked
by a teacher for reading a FANGORIA, and
then punished for it. Some people would be happy to see us
harmed. But if we look out for each other, as a subculture
and community, we can survive any attacks from the nanny brigade,
or just a random nut with a gun and a grudge.
Dance
on.
Editor's
note: We'd like to thank Armando for sharing his thoughts
with all of us as he searches for answers in this tragedy.
We wish him, his community (all of our community, really),
and the friends and family of those lost in the massacre peace
and comfort.
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A memorial outside the crime scene
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