Can you hear me now?
Just t’other day, a FOE asked the Evil: “What’s up with this zombie infatuation all of a sudden?”
Evil knew of what she spoke: over the past two years, zombiana has infiltrated pop culture to an extent the once-living, now horribly risen could never have imagined. You’ve got your “zombie survival guides,” zombie apocalypse t-shirts, zombie walks, zombie rockstar mockumentaries . . . and the list goeth on.
Now, Evil is pro-walking dead. He himself has dabbled in the occasional zombie-related anecdote, though, truth to tell, he stopped when he sensed the impending oversaturation in our society of lifeless eyes, senseless moans, and death-stank.
Among publishers, who buy books 18 to 24 months before publication, this zombification of popular culture must have been met with sighs of relief; you’d have to think editors would be sick unto undeath of vampire novels by now. (Though apparently those Twilight books, and this True Blood HBO series, indicate that vampire love will never die.)
But that begs the question: when we finally tire of zombie this and zombie that, where does our cultural lust for heebie-jeebie providers take us? Naturally, Evil is here with a suggestion:
Observe: so intent is our model on her pose that she fails to notice scaly death approaching . . .
How about a certain lagoon-based creature? Or, heck—lake, river, swamp, loch, sea, bay, or fjord-based . . . basically, how about the famous but criminally underexploited Fishman? You’ve got your “humanoid but creepy” angle . . . the fact that it rises from the murky depths in which you, presumably a scantily-bikini-ed hottie, so blithely swim . . . throw in the whole “giant companies dumping toxic waste into our water supply” back story—what’s not to like? And fear?
Plus . . . looka that face:
That’s a mug you can love, even as it drags you screaming into its cavernous lair. Shot in grainy black-and-white, its lines and wide eyes—seemingly saddened by the accumulated wisdom of man’s follies—resemble those faces you see in Depression-era photos, no?
Who knows? Fishman might be the perfect monstrous metaphor for our times.
Enjoy the weekend. If possible, look great while screaming in terror.