More Bloody Props!

I have more bloody props!

I also have this urge to use exclamations in nearly every sentence. Exclamation points are anathema to serious writers–however, I can continue to think myself a serious writer because I just used the word anathema.

So I have more bloody props. Of course I do. Sometimes I wonder if you wonder (I’m also a serious existentialist), where I get all the money to buy this junk. In all other areas of my life, I’m frugal. I spend maybe $50 on clothes a year. I live on oatmeal and pasta. I sometimes cut my own hair. Entertainment? I am my own entertainment.

But for bloody props, I’ll spare no expense. But I don’t even know why I even told you all that. I only paid a quarter for this:


I found it at what was the most disgusting yard sale I’ve ever seen. We had followed the signs to find it in backwoods Pasadena for miles. HUGE YARDSALE, all the neon signs promised. We made lefts and rights, deeper and deeper into the neighborhood, many of the yards overgrown and swampy. Finally, we reached it. The girlfriend, usually happy to take a look at the junk with me, frowned and asked if she could stay in the car.

It was as though the garage vomited its contents all over the yard–and in fact, “yard” is a generous word. Let’s call it a gravel lot. Everything was caked in two inches of gray dirt–stray pieces of metal and half-used rolls of electric tape, mismatched tools and undefinable balls of string. I wouldn’t have even bothered looking, except I saw this ear.


And so it was love at first sight.

The man who owned all the stuff in the gravel lot wasn’t even there. Standing there awkwardly with this filthy little ear in my hand, I heard someone yell that they’d be right out. Sure enough, moments later the screen door creaked open, and there in the doorway sat a huge, lurching man in a beast of wheel chair the size of a motorcycle. His skin was gray like the dirt, offset by the faded colors in the Hawaiian-print shirt he wore. He puttered outside, down the sidewalk, and stopped before me, somehow towering over me, even in his chair.

“How much is this ear,” I asked in a very small voice.

“A quarter.”

I handed him a dollar. I watched him start to drive back into the house to get three quarters change. I thought about letting him keep the change, running with my ear back to the car. But then I wouldn’t be able to brag that I’d only paid a quarter for it. I stood my ground.

He could have murdered us both, clunked us over the heads with one of the metal rods and hitched our bodies to the back of the wheelchair, dragging us into the garage.


There’s a red smear on the container, and I’m not sure if it’s supposed to a be a part of the illusion, or if it’s blood from the man’s previous yard sale customers.

It’s a Don Post severed ear, which makes it a cadillac of severed ears. It reminds me of hamburger. This makes me hungry. I plan to put this ear in a ziplock bag with some blood capsules, and tell children I found it on the street. They’re not old enough yet to hear the true story of Motorcycle Man and the gravel lot.

For the next bloody prop, I don’t have an accompanying horror story. I just found it at a Halloween store.


I just love this. It captures the hokey goryness of B-horror films, while combining body parts and food. This also makes me strangely hungry. Then again, I live on cheap carbs, so I usually am hungry.

There’s a wine and food pairing in case I do decide to make a meal out of it:


Sweet Silence of the Lambs reference. You can tell a lot of love went into making this prop, the kind of thing that makes Halloween special. Finger Fries gets an A plus.

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes / severed ears and finger fries

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