Imagine being a relatively talented director, screenwriter, dp or craftsperson, ready and eager to work, create and possibly make history, and the only work you can find is in the horror genre. And after a few tries at expanding your realm you gradually realize you’re stuck there and will never get out — a clock-puncher in the horror factory for the rest of your life. Yes, horror carries a higher prestige factor than porn because there’s at least a slim chance that a mainstream breakout could happen, but it’s also a level or two below fantasy-superhero CG crap, which is a dungeon in itself.

Imagine waking up every day, looking in the bathroom mirror and realizing, “God, I’m still chained to this godawful racket…a lowly horror-film worker, a prisoner of gore…trying to be or at least work with the new Guillermo del Toro, Tom Holland, Wes Craven, Tom Savini, Sam Raimi, George Romero or John Carpenter but knowing deep down that the odds are heavily against me…hate myself, hate my life, hate the horror-fan conventions I’m forced to attend to so I can earn pocket money by handing out autographs and posing for photos.” Can you imagine?