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Horror fans are a mysterious, cultish bunch. Or at least, they like to think they are, imagining themselves the vanguard of the underground; Morlocks feeding off pampered, mainstream Eloi dandies with D&G sunglasses and designer perfume. But go to any horror film screening, and see if you’re not surrounded by Blackberry-toting shitheads who got armband tattoos so they look good pounding Redbull & Vodkas at La Boum. Sure, there are the hardcore horror fans, concave chests vainly attempting to fill out Necrophagist t-shirts, keeping the black flame alive on message boards that use crime scene photos as wallpaper. But they’re dwarfed in number by the Friday night date crowd, who wouldn’t dare miss opening night for the latest Rob Zombie movie, provided Fast and Furious isn’t playing somewhere.