A horror ride through Boston's underground
Many have written of selling their souls to the devil, but a relatively unheralded phenomenon is *loaning* your soul to the forces of darkness for a few hours — minutes if you are really lucky — every workday, year round.
It is fairly easy to avoid a demon if his name tag reads "Beelzebub" or "Asmodeus" and he looks at you with 300 bloodsoaked eyes while grinning with 5 asymmetrical rows of teeth. Things get dicier when the unholy one goes by "Charlie," wears a dapper fedora, and waves his green tickets to doom with an inviting smirk; his lustful red tie forever lifted by the moving train he rides.
For the past few months, multimedia artist Kevin Banks has risked comfort and sanity in order to document the hellish underbelly of the Boston underground. The pictures he has taken, raw and undoctored, bear witness to what happens to ordinary folks once the escalator deposits them in the nether-passages of the city and they make the fateful choice to tap their magnetic passes and enter through those opaque glass gates ("Abandon all hope, ye...").
You will see underfed succubi cavorting on empty corridors, looking for who-knows-what filthy kick. You will encounter ghastly tribes of zombies roaming the T in their quest for delicious brains — behold their pale complexions, inability to form complete sentences without much grunting, and lowered visors covering their lifeless eyes.
You will almost be able to smell the foul stench of eldricht rodents feeding on discarded Starbucks containers.
And then there's the enigma of the Brown Line (1952-1974). You don't wanna know about the Brown Line.
Enjoy the ride. It won't be your last.
— Gustavo Turner
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