Geeklectica

I’ve finished putting up the last of the Christmas lights, a thrilling saga of tangled cords and questionable life choices. Watched Predator: Badlands too, and I’m VERY torn about it, to be honest. Strip it from the Predator franchise, and it’s a halfway decent action-adventure romp, the sort you’d tolerate on a rainy afternoon. But the second you clock it as a Predator film, it’s uninspired slop, slathered with a Weyland-Yutani crossover so ham-fisted it’s practically begging for an Alien spin-off. Oh, and the Predator design? An absolute travesty, spitting in the face of the original like it’s personal. Anyone else endured this cinematic rollercoaster, or am I just ranting to the void?

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1 month ago | [YT] | 8

Geeklectica

Hello everyone,

Rare Picture of Murder Kitty without his shades if you scroll..... I am all okay. I have just dusted off my die hard script and will hopefully have that video out to you sometime next week.

We start another round of sitting in pretty uncomfortable chairs on the 29th but I'll get a few bits done between now and then. Alien Earth, Predator badlands and I don't know if any of you have caught Pluribus - I would also recommend.

I hope all my followers and friends are well and happy and doing things in the festive season with those who love them best....... I am also crocheting again. Don't laugh. It gives me something to do whilst sitting in uncomfortable chairs.

Season Greetings to you all. x

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1 month ago (edited) | [YT] | 9

Geeklectica

In the mist-shrouded moors of the Yorkshire Dales, where ancient barrows whispered secrets to the wind, lived Elias Blackwood, a reclusive gamekeeper with eyes like storm clouds and a temper that could curdle milk. By day, he was a gruff sort, tending to the estate's pheasants and rabbits with a shotgun slung over his shoulder, muttering oaths about poachers and the bleeding rain. But come the rise of the full moon, Elias transformed—not into a man of reason, but a beast of primal rage, fur sprouting like brambles, claws raking the earth, and jaws snapping at shadows.
It started, they say, with a gypsy's curse during the Great War. Elias, a soldier home on leave, had stumbled into a caravan camp, half-pissed on gin and fury after losing mates at the Somme. He roughed up an old crone for sport, nicking her silver locket. She spat in his eye and hissed words in Romany: "May the wolf's hunger gnaw your soul till the moon claims you." He laughed it off as tavern rot, but that first change came swift as a bayonet thrust—bones cracking like gunfire, howls echoing through the trenches of his mind.
Now, decades on, Elias chained himself in the estate's old ice house each lunar cycle, iron links biting into his wrists to spare the village lads their throats. But chains weaken, and hunger sharpens cunning. One harvest moon, the lock gave way—rusted by years of damp—and out he burst, a hulking shadow with glowing amber eyes, tearing through the hedgerows like the Hounds of Hell themselves.
Farmer Jenkins was first, his sheep scattered like confetti, guts steaming in the dew. Then young Tommy the postboy, whistling home from the pub, found himself dragged into the bracken, his cries cut short by fangs that pierced like scythes. The villagers whispered of the Beast of the Dales, blaming foxes or escaped circus freaks, but old Widow Hargreaves knew better. She'd seen Elias's yellowed eyes in the market square, smelt the musk of wild on him even in daylight.
The squire called in the hunters—burly men from Leeds with silver-tipped bullets and crucifixes swinging like pendulums. They tracked paw prints to the ice house, found the snapped chains slick with blood. A posse formed, torches flickering like angry fireflies, pitchforks glinting. Elias, sensing the noose tightening, fled to the ancient standing stones atop Wuthering Fell, where ley lines hummed with forgotten magic.
Under the moon's merciless gaze, the hunters cornered him. Shots rang out, silver searing fur and flesh. Elias reared, a whirlwind of snarls and savagery, felling two with swipes that split ribs like kindling. But the squire's favoured hound, a massive mastiff, latched onto his haunch, and a bullet found his heart. He collapsed amid the stones, fur receding, bones reshaping into the man he'd half-forgotten being.
As dawn broke, grey and unforgiving, the villagers gathered. Elias lay pale, the gypsy's locket clutched in his fist—curse unbroken, or perhaps lifted in death's embrace. They buried him unmarked, under a yew tree that still howls on windy nights. And on full moons, folk swear they hear chains rattling in the ice house, a reminder that some hungers never die, they merely wait for the next fool to tempt the moon.

2 months ago (edited) | [YT] | 4

Geeklectica

Okay i just spent five minutes telling you about chemo and all that shnazz. I;m going to write and i'm going to be ok. But I wanted to write since i asked for my first type writer..... Chemo has been a bitch. No eyebrows and head is being shaved tomorrow, imagine a better looking Alien than Alien Earth. I'd be scarier...

Shank however.... I'm going to move him from horror to sci-fi. You'll love it.

2 months ago | [YT] | 7

Geeklectica

So AE series 1 will be uploaded and live on Sunday Night. Chapter 2 of Shanks story is below....

In the city's festering veins, where sodium lamps buzzed like dying wasps and the rain never quite washed away the sin, Viktor licked his wounds in a derelict warehouse by the docks. The scar across his cheek burned like holy water—a jagged reminder of that feral tabby, Shank, who'd turned a simple snack into a bloody farce. Viktor wasn't one for grudges; eternity was too long for petty scores. But territory was territory, and that alley—ripe with easy marks and the tang of fear—was his by right of fang and claw. A cat? A mangy stray with delusions of grandeur? It'd pay, slow and savoury, once he mended.

Viktor had risen from some Transylvanian pit centuries back, cursed or blessed depending on the vintage of your bloodlust. Fled the pitchfork mobs, hopped coffins across the Channel, and washed up in this concrete jungle, trading castles for crack dens. He was elegance wrapped in menace: tailored leather over a frame like a switchblade, eyes that glowed cherry-red when hunger hit. Humans were fine vintages, but he'd drain a hound or a rat in a pinch—anything to slake the thirst that gnawed like rust. Shank's ambush had been a slap, black blood crusting where claws had kissed flesh. Worse, it spooked his hunts; pigeons scattered, junkies bolted at shadows.

The kid was the spark. That scrawny slip of a girl, all hoodie and misplaced mercy, feeding the beast that scarred him. Viktor watched from the eaves one sodden night, rain sluicing off his coat like tears from the damned. She'd left her tribute by the dumpster—tuna glinting wetly—muttering to the dark about "poor strays." Shank prowled in, claimed it with a glare that could curdle cream. Viktor could've ended it then: drop silent, snap the girl's neck, leave the cat to starve on her corpse. But curiosity stayed his hand. What hold did a killer flea-bag have on her? He slunk closer, fangs itching.

Shank sensed him, of course—ears twitching like radar. The tabby exploded from the gloom, a whirlwind of spit and steel, raking Viktor's shins before vanishing up a fire escape. The vampire cursed in guttural Romanian, black ichor oozing. The kid froze, eyes wide but unbreaking, then tossed a blanket atop the crate and scarpered. Viktor retreated, seething. A cat had bested him twice now, turning his domain into a laughing stock among the night's lowlifes—ghouls chortling in the shadows, rats whispering of the "fanged fool."

Viktor plotted in the warehouse's gloom, sipping from a vagrant he'd stashed in the rafters. Silver nets? No, too crude. He'd lure the beast, use the girl as bait. One fog-choked evening, he cornered her in the alley's throat, mist coiling like smoke from his breath. "Little one," he purred, voice silk over gravel, "your pet's caused me bother. Fetch him, or join the gutters." She didn't scream—bollocks to that. Instead, she stared him down, small fists clenched. "Shank's no pet. And you're just a bully with bad breath."

Before Viktor could laugh or lunge, Shank was there—a streak of tabby terror, leaping from the dumpster with claws extended like daggers. He didn't fight fair; slashed eyes, hamstrung knees, dodged fangs with alley-cat grace. Viktor flailed, his immortal speed blunted by rage and rot-scent blood loss. The girl grabbed a broken bottle, slashing wild—glass met undead flesh, sizzling like fat on a spit. Shank finished it: a pounce to the throat, tearing arteries that shouldn't bleed but did, in this cursed corner of the world.

Viktor crumpled, dissolving to ash and regret under the flickering streetlight. Dawn's grey fingers crept in, scattering what remained. Shank, panting, eyed the kid. She draped the blanket over him, left fresh tuna, and backed off with a nod. He ate, glaring, but stayed. The city was still a stinking trap, predators aplenty in its bowels. But now, with Viktor dust and the alleys echoing his legend, Shank had a guardian of sorts—a kid with bottle-guts and a faith fiercer than fangs.

It wasn't redemption; Shank would still shred rats to ribbons, claim dumpsters as thrones. But a dry crate, a warm blanket, and a human who fought shadows for a stray? That was a stake through the heart of despair. In this rotten sprawl, it was enough to keep prowling, keep clawing, keep hoping the night might yield allies worth the scars. And if any other bloodsucker slunk near, well—Shank's claws itched for round three.

3 months ago | [YT] | 4

Geeklectica

In the grimy underbelly of a city that smelled like diesel and despair, there prowled a stray cat named Shank. Not that anyone called him that—names were for suckers with collars and cozy beds. Shank was a lean, mean killing machine, a tabby with a coat like a grease-stained alley and eyes that gleamed with the cold calculation of a loan shark. His territory was a labyrinth of bins, backstreets, and the occasional storm drain, where he reigned as an apex predator in a kingdom of rats, pigeons, and the occasional overconfident squirrel.



Shank’s life was a masterclass in ruthless efficiency. He didn’t just hunt; he orchestrated massacres. Rats didn’t stand a chance—too slow, too squeaky, too predictable. Pigeons? Feathered idiots, flapping into his claws like they were auditioning for a slaughter. Once, a raccoon thought it could muscle in on Shank’s dumpster buffet. Big mistake. Shank left it limping away, minus half its ego and a chunk of its tail. The alley whispered his legend: Shank, the untouchable, the unbowed, the cat who’d stare down a pitbull and make it blink first.



But here’s the sardonic twist: for all his predatory prowess, Shank’s world was a treadmill of survival. Every day, the same grind—hunt, eat, dodge the humans who’d sooner kick him than feed him. The city didn’t care about his body count or his swagger. It just kept throwing garbage, rain, and the occasional animal control van his way. Freedom? Sure, if you call sleeping on a soggy cardboard throne freedom. Glory? Only in the eyes of the other strays, who skulked in his shadow, too spineless to challenge him.



One night, after disemboweling a particularly plump rat behind a dive bar, Shank sprawled on a fire escape, licking blood from his paws. The city hummed its usual tune—sirens, shouting, the clatter of bottles. He was untouchable, sure, but for what? Another day of clawing out a living? Another night of dodging boots and car tires? The thought hit him like a stale fish: maybe being the king of this cesspool wasn’t the flex he thought it was.



Then came the girl. Some scrawny human kid, barely taller than a trash can, with a hoodie two sizes too big and eyes that didn’t flinch when Shank hissed. She started leaving cans of tuna by the dumpster—not the cheap stuff, either. Shank, no fool, waited her out, suspecting a trap. Humans were just taller, clumsier rats, after all. But she kept coming back, night after night, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, talking soft nonsense about “good kitties” and “a warm bed.” Shank scoffed (or as close to scoffing as a cat can get). A bed? Please. He’d sooner trust a dog.

Still, the tuna was good, and Shank wasn’t above exploiting weakness. He’d slink out, snatch the food, and vanish before she could try any of that petting nonsense. But the kid was persistent, and persistence, Shank grudgingly admitted, was almost respectable. Weeks passed, and he started lingering longer, letting her get close enough to see the scars crisscrossing his flank. She didn’t grab or coo or do anything stupid. She just sat there, like she knew he’d gut her hand if she pushed it.


One night, it poured—a cold, miserable rain that turned the alleys into rivers. Shank, soaked to the bone, found the kid waiting under a busted awning, a blanket in her hands. He could’ve bolted. Should’ve. But the tuna was there, and his stomach was louder than his pride. She draped the blanket over a crate, left the food, and backed off. Shank ate, glaring at her the whole time, but he didn’t leave. The blanket was dry. Warm, even. He hated how much he didn’t hate it.

The city didn’t change. It was still a gray, stinking trap, and Shank was still a predator forged in its filth. But now, when he prowled, he’d sometimes circle back to the kid’s alley. Not for the tuna—okay, not just for the tuna. There was something about her stubborn hope, her refusal to see him as just a mangy killer. It didn’t make him soft; Shank would still shred anything that crossed him. But maybe, just maybe, he could be a predator with a corner to call home. Not a throne, not a cage—just a crate with a blanket, and a kid who thought he was worth the trouble.

And if that wasn’t a claw in the eye of this rotten world, what was?

In the city’s rancid underbelly, where the air reeked of diesel and despair, Shank prowled—a stray tabby with a coat like a grease-slicked alley and eyes that cut like switchblades. He was a predator’s predator, a lean, mean killing machine who turned rats into confetti and pigeons into regrets. Squirrels? Snacks. Once, a raccoon thought it could swagger into Shank’s dumpster domain. Poor bastard limped away, tail in tatters, ego in the gutter. The alley cats whispered his name like a curse: Shank, the untouchable, the unbowed, the cat who’d make a pitbull piss itself.

But this city had darker shadows than Shank’s. A vampire slunk through the night—a gaunt, pale creep named Viktor, all cheekbones and menace, with a smile that promised you’d bleed before you blinked. He wasn’t the sparkly type; Viktor was a leech in a leather jacket, haunting the same grimy backstreets Shank ruled. Humans were his prey, but he’d snack on anything with a pulse—dogs, rats, even the occasional feral cat dumb enough to cross him. The alley grapevine buzzed: Viktor didn’t just hunt; he savored the fear, draining his kills slow, like a bartender pouring a cheap shot.

Shank didn’t care about Viktor’s body count. He cared about territory. The vampire had been skulking too close to Shank’s prime dumpsters, scaring off the rats and leaving a stench of old blood that ruined a good hunt. One night, after gutting a fat rat behind a dive bar, Shank caught Viktor’s red eyes glinting from a fire escape. The vampire was crouched over a drained pigeon, licking his fangs like a creep. Shank hissed, low and mean. Viktor just grinned, tossing the bird’s corpse like a taunt. Game on.

Life for Shank was a sardonic treadmill: hunt, eat, dodge the boots and bottles of a city that didn’t give a damn about his kill streak. He was king of this cesspool, sure, but what was the point? Another day clawing scraps, another night dodging animal control or worse—now Viktor, who thought he owned the dark. Freedom was just a wet cardboard box and a belly that growled louder than his pride. Shank was too stubborn to roll over, but the grind was wearing him thin.

Then came the kid. A scrawny human girl, hoodie swallowing her frame, eyes too steady for someone barely taller than a trash can. She started leaving tuna cans by Shank’s dumpster—not the discount slop, but the good stuff. Shank, no idiot, waited her out, expecting a trap. Humans were just taller rats, after all. But she kept showing up, night after night, muttering about “nice kitties” and “warm beds.” Shank’s scoff was a silent snarl. A bed? He’d sooner trust Viktor not to bite.

One night, the kid’s routine got interesting. Shank was mid-tuna heist when Viktor slithered out of the shadows, eyeing the girl like she was a walking wine bottle. Shank froze, claws flexing. The kid didn’t see the vampire, but she felt something—her shoulders stiffened, and she glanced around, clutching her hoodie. Viktor moved closer, silent as death. Shank should’ve bolted. Should’ve let the human fend for herself. But something about her dumb, stubborn hope—the way she kept feeding a killer like him—itched under his fur.

He didn’t think. He moved. Shank launched himself at Viktor, a hissing missile of claws and fury. He raked the vampire’s face, drawing black blood that smelled like rot. Viktor snarled, swatting at him, but Shank was too fast, too feral. He darted between the vampire’s legs, slashing tendons, then leapt onto a dumpster to hiss a warning that echoed down the alley. Viktor, caught off guard by a cat with the audacity of a lion, hissed back but retreated, melting into the dark. Shank’s heart pounded, but he’d be damned if he showed it.

The kid, oblivious to the showdown, just saw Shank perched like a gargoyle. She left the tuna and a blanket on a crate, backing off with a small smile. Shank ate, glaring, but didn’t bolt. The blanket was dry. Warm, even. He hated how it felt like a win.

Viktor didn’t come back. Word in the alleys was he’d moved to a new haunt, spooked by the “demon cat” who’d scarred his pretty face. Shank didn’t care about the legend. He still hunted, still killed, still owned the night. But now, he’d circle back to the kid’s alley. Not just for the tuna—though it didn’t hurt. Her stubborn faith in him, a mangy predator, was a claw in the eye of this bloodsucking city. Maybe he’d never be a pet, never curl up on a couch. But a crate, a blanket, and a kid who didn’t flinch at his scars? That was enough to keep hunting, keep fighting, keep hoping this rotten world might cough up something worth keeping.

3 months ago (edited) | [YT] | 6

Geeklectica

You have Twenty four hours to decide next video. Full Reviews in my usual style. I'll try to avoid spoilers where possible. production will begin Wednesday but hopefully published at 8PM Sunday Night.

Option 1: Three films related to bloodsuckers. That you may not have seen, It's October after all. Contagion, He Never Dies and The Boys from County Hell.

Option 2: A full review of Alien Earth S1 - The Good, The bad and The incompetent.

Option 3: All the in Universe films of talented filmakers Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead covering The Endless, Synchronic and resolution Sci-Fi Horror.

3 months ago | [YT] | 3

Geeklectica

We are live! I repeat this is not a drill!

3 months ago (edited) | [YT] | 9

Geeklectica

I'm working on it - likely to be Tuesday/Wednesday - I had to watch a whole load of vids last night as I had forgotten how to do a lot of fairly basic things in DaVinci. But, I'm working on it!

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3 months ago | [YT] | 6