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base...this was something else entirely.
    “What if it's real?” I heard myself say. As soon as I said it, I wished I could take it back. However, surprisingly, no one laughed.
    “You just gave the director the ultimate compliment Ronald,” said Pyramid Nose, his gruff voice echoed above the screams of the girl dressed as a tiger. She was being burned alive on some kind of gigantic oven; her hands bound, her feet dangling over an eye of a stove. The flames were so intense her costume melted and then her skin began to catch fire. A group of weasel-like atrocities sat around a picnic table, naked, save for plastic bibs; they beat forks and knives on the table like impatient children.
    But before they were allowed to dig in, the same man with blonde curly locks stepped out from behind the camera, yielding a very familiar pair of scissors. Again, the Director clipped out a chunk of her charred, well-done hair, then pinned the clump next to the first one. He was getting quite the collection.
    44:58, 44:59, 45:00....
    “Should I be impressed? Or should I be horrified?” I asked.
    “Show him the letter,” barked the corpulent man in the front row.
    Bernie did as he was told. He handed me a letter, handwritten, on thick yellowed paper.
    Dear Sirs,
    I am pleased you have taken an interest in my films. And, I am told, you have taken quite the interest in me as well. This is understandable considering my mysterious nature. Please, allow me to explain: movies to me, are more than moving, talking pictures. They are a gateway into the human soul. No matter how perverse or how graphic, anything you see on the screen lives within all of our hearts.
    A director is a god of his own universe. Just as the God above our heads needs no recognition, neither do I. All I want to do is tell a story. A story of death, of survival and of fear. Humanity at its most naked.
    After reading these words, if you still wish to meet with me, I'd be honored for you to visit my home in Bouldergreen, Kentucky. Address is on the envelope. I do not have a phone but you can call the local grocery store and leave a message with the grocer if you plan on making a visit. Sorry in advance for any inconvenience but I will never step foot in Hollywood. You must come to me.
    Wink, wink.
    -The Director-
    I looked up from the letter, baffled. “He's just some nutter living in the woods of Kentucky?”
    “So it would seem.”
    “Impossible. How'd he get the money to do this?” I pointed at the screen. At the moment, the black man in the bird costume was being pecked to death by a murder of carrion crows. How ironic. Blood dripped from their beaks, splashing on the lens of the camera. 71:40, 71:41, 71:42....
    “That's one of the questions I'm going to ask him.”
    “Bernie, no. You can't. This guy...he's a creeper. I mean, who in their right mind closes their letters with wink, wink ?”
    We watched the rest of the movie in relative silence, save for the nervous patter of tapping feet and the occasional awkward cough. At the climax, somewhere around the 82:00 minute mark, the house had completely melted away, revealing to the audience they were, in fact, in Hell. The only human left alive was Cat. She waited by a large iron gate guarded by a beast with three heads. The Director emerged from the shadows, four fresh locks of hair dangled from his lapel. He handed Cat something—some odd package. I asked Bernie what was in the package but he didn’t have a clue. It was another one of things that's never explained or even mentioned again.
     
    “Run, now, Kitty.” says the Director. The gates open. Through walls of bleeding, burning souls, she runs; through brimstone and ruin; past reaching hands, beyond cackling, faceless demons; ever onward she runs, faster, faster. 89:58, 89:59....
    Then...Hell vanishes. Cat is alone in a field of dandelions with the house to her back. She runs. FADE TO BLACK.
     
    I looked at Bernie unsure of what to say. His gold tooth winked