Anyway, enough about me and my problems. Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yes: Rattle, Rattle STILL NOT GIVING A SHIT NOW! And when the dripping is done, we linger in the black for a moment, listening to the patter of rain against glass until the camera fades up to peer through the nighttime windows of a tastefully-appointed loft somewhere damp. Inside, a thirtysomething yuppie sporting a pair of sideburns that almost rival Darling Sammy's in length and stupidity sits down at his laptop in the apartment's living room to work on something utterly unimportant as far as this episode is concerned. Incidentally, this gentleman has chosen to decorate his apartment with cartoon cut-outs of feet. No, seriously: The wall behind his head features a massive framed print that includes at least seven of the things, for whatever bizarre reason. Just thought you'd like to know.

In any event, with his focus thus trained on his computer's screen, tonight's first bit of Monster Chow of course fails to notice the mysterious, black-clad someone who's now tippy-toeing his or her way through the apartment's front door, and as this certain ominous someone carefully steps through the outer rooms, he or she lets a very large bronze knife drop into his or her hand from the sleeve of his or her coat. DUN! The imperiled yuppie rises momentarily to shut one of the rain-streaked windows, and barely has he returned to his previous perch upon his white sofa when...that certain ominous someone hurls him ass-over-end into his expensively framed foot print! Dun-dun-DUN! Tonight's first bit of Monster Chow proceeds to crash to the floor amid a shower of broken glass, and as the shot pulls in to gaze upon his by now heavily bloodied face, the gentleman's features contort in agony while his uninvited guest begins hacking away at his body with that enormous bronze blade. Fresh gouts of blood spew forth to splatter against that poor, defenseless white sofa for a bit, and as the soon-to-be-dead yuppie howls and wails his anguish, his uninvited guest rips open the gentleman's shirt to carve a garish symbol into the gentleman's chest. The camera leaps to linger on that symbol for a very long few seconds -- it's basically a stick figure waving its arms in the air, by the way -- then slowly spirals upwards towards the ceiling, in the process revealing that the now-dead yuppie has had both his hands and his feet whacked off at the joints. It's exceptionally lurid. And as I take my eyes from the television screen to gaze wistfully at Raoul's empty overstuffed armchair, I miss the abrupt cut to this evening's...