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Blog O' Blood, 1.0: Presented by Flick Chick
Living Large with Luigi Largo
As the song goes, "It's a thankless job, but somebody's got to do it."
That is how I often feel as an undercover reporter for Horror.com — though certainly I'm not inconspicuous in my cover — think of your fearless Flick Chick more as a limelight-loving participatory journalist ala Hunter S. Thompson, than as a true blender with a communal conscious and a societal message like John Howard Griffin.
OK; I'm putting myself into far-too-lofty professional company. Maybe I'm more like Tyra Banks wearing a padded bodysuit under a dowdy dress to see if, indeed, the public at large really does hate fat chicks. It's a no-brainer (especially when it comes to the zombies). We know these horror guys are villains already… but it's fun to blog 'n flog them anyway.
The point is, I've had to interview some pretty shady characters, all in pursuit of the almighty dollar. That's right: Dollar. I get paid a single sawbuck for these exposés. (And not a penny of it goes to victims' rights charities, in case you're wondering.)
Taylor Gentry may have tagged along with the legendary Leslie Vernon and been in a movie and everything, but that wannabe has got nothing on me. For one thing, I'm still alive. I'm the ultimate Final Girl girl-reporter.
I've braved the waters of Crystal Lake, disguised as a horny, skinny-dipping teenager to get just a few monosyllabic grunts from Jason. I had to pretend I was the new CEO of Good Guy Dolls to lure Chucky and Tiffany into the spotlight. I took enough No-Doz to choke Godzilla when I faced off with Freddy. Most recently, I took on Hellboy's Right Hand of Doom and lived to tell the tale.
I cannot even begin to tell you how many of my interviews have been conducted in boarded-up old houses that kept screaming "Get out!" (totally wrecking the sound on my tape recorder); in muddy basements with meat hooks hanging from the ceilings; isolated cornfields; dark and musty graveyards; and of course, two-story houses with the parents gone and the kids asleep upstairs.
So that's why I thought it would be a treat to interview Luigi Largo, heir-apparent to the GeneCo fortune, in a restaurant. Now, don't get me wrong — I've seen The Godfather and The Sopranos a time or two, and yes: I knew Luigi was "connected", but I figured as long as I stayed away from the cannoli, I'd be safe.
Luigi suggested the swanky hot spot, and when we were seated he made sure it was my back to the door, but still: I wasn't worried. Unlike some of the murderous monsters I've grilled, Luigi wasn't disfigured, wearing a mask, didn't bring his mother up once, and in spite of a few specks of dried blood on his otherwise immaculate velvet frockcoat, he was actually quite handsome and composed.
My focus for this interview was going to be on an upcoming film featuring him, called Repo! The Genetic Opera. He's portrayed as a wicked, hair-trigger tempered caricature in the rock 'n roll musical horror opus directed by Darren Lynn "Saw" Bousman, and to be honest, he seems quite proud of it.
My assignment took me into the future, where a biotech conglomerate called GeneCo is leasing out designer organs (hearts, livers, lungs and the like) to the rich and elite. But no matter how bucks-up you may be, you could wind up guts-out if you fall behind on your payments. There are repo men who do the actual repossession ("legal assassins" is the proper terminology). GeneCo's head repo-man is Nathan Wallace, a widower and the father of Shilo — the movie is supposed to reveal some shocking details about his wife Marni's death and even dares to point the finger at the Largo family.
The Largo dynasty, until recently headed up by its vainglorious patriarch Rotti, now consists of his trio of no-good offspring. Amber Sweet, a plastic surgery addicted tabloid tart whose exploits escalate so exponentially the presses can barely keep up (it's whispered she uses an illegal drug called Zydrate to withstand the pain); Pavi, a fey, wiley womanizer who loves the ladies so much he can't help but possess them body, soul and skin (it's said he's wearing a yet another new female face-mask even as I type); and of course, the subject of my scrutiny, Luigi.
Luigi is the eldest of the siblings, and is certainly the most sly and slippery. How he's evaded the law for all these years is beyond me — my best guess was that he's kind of like the O.J., Robert Blake and Phil Specter of this future dystopia I was visiting.
But perhaps the new movie will change all that. Maybe Luigi will find himself fitted for handcuffs (and not the kind lined in emu feathers). Luigi, as portrayed by actor Bill Moseley, is shown brutally gutting and stabbing several females as he slices and dices, and sings and dances. I've seen a rough cut of the movie, and it's quite disturbing. Which is why, in spite of my outward bravado, I was slightly concerned about getting this particular assignment — I rather like my blood and guts nicely contained within my skin where they belong.
My fears were somewhat allayed when Luigi politely pulled my chair out for me to be seated, and promptly ordered the best and priciest vino on the menu. So far, so good.
I was curious to know what Luigi thought of the fact that Bousman, the aforementioned director of Repo! The Genetic Opera, cast an actor who's best-known for his career in horror movies in the role of Luigi. Bill Moseley mostly plays murderers; was this an insult, or a compliment?
Luigi sat back, settled in and laced his sinewy fingers behind his head. The ultimate pose of casual yet menacing power. He was silent, contemplating me. "I threatened Bousman's life if he didn't cast Bill Moseley!" he suddenly boomed. Heads turned throughout the restaurant. Then the patrons saw who was speaking and quickly found their dinner plates absolutely fascinating.
"Moseley did a great job of depicting me," the tycoon of terror continued, now quietly. "He's certainly got the looks — although I was surprised by the understatement of his performance." I asked him why, in his estimation, Moseley had held back. "We did not meet prior to the production of Repo! The Genetic Opera," Luigi explained. "As I understand it, Moseley does not work Method."
One of the things I was on the fence about asking was the fact that The Lost Diaries of Marni Wallace were about to be published. Leaked galleys seemed to imply that Luigi's late father, Rotti, might have had something to do with her death, but suddenly, all news of the book ceased.
Luigi laughed and shrugged, "Hey — Amber, Pavi and I simply bought the publisher, so Marni's absurd allegations will never see the light of day." When I pressed, asking if maybe someone else had done away with Marni, or perhaps she'd even committed suicide, Luigi simply looked upward and grumbled, "Hope your tomb's comfy, Bitch!"
Enough about Marni, then. What of other victims? "You were once quoted in the press as saying slaying scalpel sluts is no worse than swatting a fly. Do you really believe this?" I asked. "Isn't your own sister, Amber, a so-called 'scalpel slut'? I mean, where does your relationship with your siblings stand, as of now?"
Luigi downed his goblet of deep red merlot, leveled his intense eyes to mine and growled, " 'Slut' is too good a word for my whore of a sister. We don't exactly have a warm relationship... unless we're both insanely drunk, then occasionally it gets interesting." He refilled his wineglass, then mine, and I couldn't help but move my chair back just a little. He went on. "Pavi's a fruitcake, hardly CEO material. He's too busy chasing 10-year-olds, or whatever he's into now."
Given his own… well, let's just say 'dysfunctional' family ties… I was wondering if Luigi had ever considered having one of his own — a legitimate one, anyway. "Where do you see yourself five years from now?" I asked, leaving my wine untouched. "Do you think you will ever settle down and go for the white picket American dream?"
Luigi leaned forward, every muscle in his angular face tensed. "The nice thing about being rich is not having to think about inanities like the future! If any of my whelps survive, I'll challenge them to a knife fight; survival of the fittest, and all that. That's what my father did to me, and I've still got the scars to prove it." He asked me if I wanted to see them, and made as if to unbutton his trousers.
I had to steer the conversation away from his lap somehow, so I went for his Achilles heel. "You're famous for your incendiary temper," I said with more courage than I actually felt. "Have you ever tried anger management classes?" His raging rejoinder was swift and surly: "Of course not, you fucking twit!"
I began to notice a slow, but steady exodus of patrons from the once-bustling bistro. Finally, the waiter arrived with our entrees. A small salad for me, and a super-rare steak and two lobster tails for him.
Considering the downward spiral our talk was taking, I decided to try a lighter tack. I asked him some of my more silly color questions. Much to my relief, he calmed down… a little.
1) If you could have dinner with any fictional literary character, who would it be and why?
I'd like to sup with Captain Ahab in his quarters on the Pequod. We'd talk about revenge and dine on white whale!
2) What's your favorite vacation spot?
[derisively] Vacation spot? Haiti. I'm amused by suffering, and it's a great place to harvest cheap organs.
3) What's your greatest accomplishment? Your worst shame?
4) Who's in your MySpace Top 8?
Genghis Khan, Denise Richards, William Burroughs, George Bush (both), Jessica Simpson, Lindsay Lohan, and Dr. Christian Barnard.
5) If you could be any super-hero, what would your super-power be?
I'd be Viagra-Man! Hard as a rock, 24/7, a knife always ready for cheese.
After a seeming eternity, the check arrived. Luigi stuck me with it. (But at least he didn't stick me.)
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