Master Seth Sawyer - Guitar and Vocals
Judge Jarod Sawyer - Guitar and Vocals
Count Vlad Zacul Sawyer - Doublebass and Vocals
Killsaw Sawyer - Drums
Influences
Thorazine and Thoreau, malt liquor and Mahler, missionary and Moliere, jujubes and James Joyce, humping and Hugo, dryhumping and Dvorak, Aristotle and ass, Renoir and ribwiches, Twain and twat, Tutankhamen and tacos, Mozart and milfs, filet mignon and fisting, King Tut and carnies, Hitchcock and whores, Fellini and fellatio, Karl Marx and Carl's Jr.
The slaughterhouse now lies in ruins, gutted by the hungry flames of an angry mob spurred to action by the suspicious death of a beautiful debutante everyone loved. But what has come of the Sawyer Family, and why do people still lower their voices when speaking of them, as if they would emerge from the woods at one's back, lurking silently like sentinels guarding ancient secrets of the underworld?
Except for the few cursed lunatics, those who claim to have witnessed the unearthly ritual killings at the old slaughterhouse and returned blithering idiots, drunk in the street, no one knows. And no one dares to ask these mad hillbillies, for fear they may fall into the telltale trance often associated with the sadistic family. Their eyes glaze over, they speak in tongues, patterns not of English or any other discernible modern language. They sometimes dance in seizure, foam at the mouth, or descend into violence. They describe visions, not of this Earth but of another, or something in the distant past, or something not yet recognized in science or exploration.
A gated compound, miles across, fenced by sharpened pikes bearing desert baked heads and organs and strange tentacles of undiscovered sea creatures; roaming circus freaks on tethers, alligator men and reverse jointed children who hop like kangaroos; the beginnings of great stone pyramids, statues of unearthly horror, obelisks covered in preternatural hieroglyphics and images of deformed nudes; Brother Killsaw ordering an army of ambling, shackled zombies to "Build, Build," while taking measurements from the sky; Count Zacula forcefeeding the undead laborers a steaming, fetid brew from a hollowed gourd dipped into an iron cauldron; The Judge silently tending greenhouse, naked, his teeth blacked out from a strange bone pipe wafting an acrid blue smoke from his lips; Master Seth leading virginal girls to the peak of the central, flat topped pyramid, conducting orgies atop, letting the blood spill down the steps like a maniacal Aztec.
Is this all true, you ask? How could it be? But there are things beyond our realm of understanding, unspeakable things that exist in nightmares, where there is no God, and not even evil, just four tyrants carrying the torch of those that existed before man, God, Satan, life itself.
The Sawyer Family .2
