Francis Ford Coppola - Bram Stoker's Dracula

Blistered, peeling rot stretches reality like spandex, tears through cotton innocence,  erupts from places of pleasure and rest, a geyser of inverted, twisted blood,  a sound of sharp steel dragged along a pipe, piercing your ears.  A crime born of sleep.   "Well, all the lawyers got fat and the judge got famous, but someone forgot to sign the search warrant in the right place and Krueger was free just like that."

The night bleeds red rain, beating hearts aflame, pummeling lives like meteors into moonrock. Grand adventure awaits this drifting spectral waylaid soul. An adventure of darkness and love and woman divine. "There is nothing bigger than the night, Batman, and the eternal blackness beyond."

Rollin' in the mud, gittin' dirty. That's what War Pigs do. They tuck into that homecooked meal, dream of shore, and do what needs done. Nazi superweapons beware, the Allies have broken the perimeter! "I guess tomorrow you formally join the US Army for the first time, Sergeant."

Long-lingering shadow takes tender hand, leading the blood waltz; on red screen its silhouette a tale of lust and illusion, hunger and restraint. "Gentlemen, we are not fighting some disease here."

Ravenous thirst and fear to drink, rabies flecks the mouths of all these scum. I stand in judgement, standing alone in the rain. Genuflecting only to those monied interests I long to embrace. "That's right. Human bean juice. Ha Ha."

Soft hands that never did a day of work, insisting on the pollution of kindness, stamping freedom down with chips and fancy book learnin' words. A nightmare tower, ripe for atavistic ghouls to haunt and rule. Call the Demolition Man. He'll know what to do. "Brake! Brake! Brake now, you Mickey Mouse-piece of shit!"

Star bright towering rays, the ticking fingers, a clock counting days. Glimmering before cracks and crumbles and then collapse. And then worse. Second-rate workmen who brought calamity and vice. Money that froze time and fucked by the pool. Forever. "Thing like that... you felt you was up against the power of God."

Flames lick and pop warm, red and black, caressing the dual duelling dualities, the hidden wounds, the secret faces that tumble and twirl and whip or rumble through the streets alone. "Don't hurt us, lady. Our take-home's less than three-hundred."

Skeletal steel crushes skull, a powdered plume, marching forward, dreams of immortality swapped in a midnight rendezvous. World lost in fear. World lost until, rising from the ashes, a new warrior born. "All the armies of the world under one voice."

In war, the thunder distant voice always asks a question: whom shall I send and who will go for us? Among the muddy bodies, who will harvest flesh? Stand tall upon horror divine? In the darkness without choice, there is an answer: here am I, send me. "Hey, you want to talk Mexican? Join another tank, a Mexican tank. This is an American tank, we talk American."