Nine years ago, I was kneeling on the floor of an amusement park-turned-flea market in Topeka, Kansas called Boyle's Joyland, rifling through a moldy box of VHS tapes that had just been deposited in the media section. Each handful of public domain Bela Lugosi films and Kids Klassics cartoon compilations I lifted out discouraged me enough to want to stop looking, but something at the bottom was beckoning like a sea siren. After a few more stacks of gritty, poorly-preserved budget tapes, I saw it -- bright red, almost laughably simple in its presentation, not much more than a photo of a heavyset, middle-aged woman in hospital whites, gamely holding a bloodstained kitchen knife. "DEATH NURSE," luridly proclaimed the cardboard slipcover, which had fallen on hard times since its video store glory days. It was wavy from water damage, a good-sized chunk of the back was missing and rental stickers had been applied, only to be hastily removed much later, taking portions of the printing with them. Honestly, though, I couldn't have cared less. It may have been roughed up and literally put away wet, but, at this point, I was way past beauty. Death Nurse had me at "Presented by Chop-Em-Ups Video©."