Psyched, freaked out, totally gone berserk and demented by a compulsion to death metal the old most rotten way or, on the other hand, due to a massive exposure to zombified terror. Does it really matter when the harm is done and so, the resulting fucked up mind tends to perform on a deviant artistically interpretation, the aspirations and realizations of the macabre and of the most intolerable pain ever imagined? Could things even get any worse (or better, depends.) when the idyll with the forbidden is based on a maniacal obsession that gravitates around the deeds and (piece)works of a certain gang of wrongdoers adequately know as Autopsy? Here's where fiction and reality bounds are diffused, where the sweat, the tears, the blood and the urine are a finest blended cocktail, shaken by the fears and the convulsion which only the certainty of an imminent terrible death, can do no wrong.
