Dispatches From The Underground
Just the other day I got to thinking; "I really hate cats." I was watching Jeremy Saulnier's wonderfully acerbic horror / comedy Murder Party and got reminded of this when the film's put upon hero Christopher finds himself routinely locked in a battle of wills (over who gets the comfy recliner) with his cat Sir Lancelot. Well, you know that stubborn little fucker isn't moving. This of course reminded me of what I have always believed to be true; that if the common house cat was equal in size to say, it's brethren in the wilds of Africa, I don't care how many cuddles you've shared or how many Choice Chicken Friskie treats you feed the thing, it's going to eat your face off. It's going to eat your face right the fuck off and it's going to purr while doing so. Gay men and single ladies the world over better hope that we never experience some 1950's era radioactive nightmare wherein our pets get magically super sized overnight. Seriously. I imagine the drama will play out as something along the lines of what transpires in Burning Bright in households across the nation. You think Mr. Fluffy is cute now, just wait till you see him taking a door down with his claws in a vicious effort to, you guessed it, eat your face right the fuck off. By the way, I hear candles are the new cats if you are a honorary member of the lonely hearts club. Better to make the switch now so as to avoid becoming a statistic in what surely will go down in history as darkest day of horror the world has ever known. Until that day arrives though, I suppose other people's cats are fine and whatnot if they keep their distance but the minute their precious fur ball starts slinky about on the back of my leg, my guard goes up and I find myself in fight or flight mode. Again, seriously. Has there ever been anything so socially "innocuous" that in reality masks the true face of evil? Felines are like Mogwais right before their gremlin phase. "Awwww, how cute. Look at little Snowball rolling over on her back. You want some belly scratchin's girl? Here ya go, Mommy loves yo..." CHOMP. Amirite? Little bitches, they're like furry little gay men, nothing but bad attitudes and piss and vinegar (or the ones at the local gay bar I avoid like the plague at any rate). Anyway, all this pondering over the inevitable feline led apocalypse brought me back to this, what this post is really about, Robert Morgan's wonderful horror short, The Cat With Hands. Packing more atmosphere, surrealistic horror and downright creepy menace into it's brief 3 and a half minutes than a whole host of feature length, live action horror films could dream of, Morgan solidifies with this masterwork beyond a shadow of a doubt, what I have so desperately been trying to warn you dear readers; cats are not to be trusted. And in this instance, neither should some of your neighbors. Disturbing stuff.
With a staggeringly creepy body of work to his name, Robert Morgan has been the recipient of over 20 awards for his short films. Those interested in checking out his other, equally excellent films may do so by visiting his official site here.