Fade in. Intro plays, fades into voiceover.
Close-up on the lead singer. The interview is in progress, the first question inaudible. Vic shifts on his overstuffed chair, one leg tucked up under him. Unable, even on camera, not to perch. “Well, yeah, I mean, originally it was a joke, kind of. Like the Who, or the Band, you know? So it’s like, ‘Who?’ and you go, ‘Exactly!’ So we’re the Real Monsters. You watch King Kong or whatever and they come in all heavy and go, ‘But who are the real monsters?’ And it’s like, we are. We’re the real monsters.”
He laughs, teeth glinting in the bright studio lights. “I mean, I drink blood for a living. I don’t go out of my way to kill people, but, well, shit happens, you know?” The interviewer interjects. “Fuck, do you check to make sure all your beef is free range organic what-the-fuck-ever? I don’t try to make it hurt. And Lonso, under the right circumstances, just goes balls-out and starts killing people. He can’t help it; no self-control, you know?”
There is a clip of stock footage from one of the werewolf’s rampages. Just a flash of fur and a shot of screaming in the distance. Nothing graphic; this is early evening broadcast, aimed at youth.
“And then C-134N and Frankie – no one does percussion and keyboards like robots and dead people, let me just say right now. C’s got no hate for anyone, but no love, either, you feel me? And Frankie has major problems with authority. They’d both be killing you right now except they know it’d be inconvenient.”
The camera cuts briefly to the corner, where two sets of glinting dead eyes stare out, each with its own brand of bleak and detached amusement.
“So it’s like, people ask and, you know, we have the answer now. There’s... there’s a moral clarity. In relation. Everyone knows where they stand. The... we’re it. It’s us. The answer.” He laughs again, glances away from the camera. “We’re the real monsters. What the fuck are you?”