The good guys follow astrology. The good guys read magazines. The good guys left the homeland.
The good guys are weak and unprepared.
The bad guys: one, a psychopath, works at the slaughterhouse, or once worked at the slaughterhouse, but then goes back and aggravates them, maybe standing outside absorbing the grue, the atmosphere. One, who disconnected his phallus in the form of a chainsaw that he can turn on and off, functions as housewife, like a stay at home dad, but to dysfuntional himself to bring forth children. The modern woman maybe, dressed in a man's formal suit, murdering, butchering, in a state of unburdened dualistic confusion. The other, the last, the surprise if you will, runs the local gas'n'go, and there we get the reference to OPEC, fuel shortages and the like, which read differently today than back in 1973.
You laugh. You say, 'he is just an old man'.
The old ones left to their own devices in the homeland modernizes, but in bizarre ways that confound the modern man, and herein the modern man is younger than middle-age, not emblematic of the everyman, but the younger sort, like the woodstock generation of the time. Fight the power dope smokers that jack off in their rooms listening to Jefferson Airplane. Reads differently now.
Collegiate set, I say.
Collegiate set, except for Franklin the wheelchair-bound manchild who acts in a sense as a bridge between the old and the new, the originals and the transplants. Old world meets new world in his hysterics, his anxiety. But Franklin, my boy, you're past is caving in, there are spiders on the wallpaper, and the neighbors never liked you anyway.