His mother was a minor B-movie actress—a wasp-waisted vixen who battled giant grasshoppers, ants, and other monsters in drive-in theatres all over America in the late fifties and early sixties. You wouldn’t know her name or her face, but you’ve probably heard her scream if you’ve ever fallen asleep with your TV tuned to a cheap movie channel that comes with any basic cable package. Fat Zach lived with his mother in the bungalow until she died and he inherited the house, along with some cachet as the son of a retro scream-queen—the kind of thing that got you a tiny foothold in certain Hollywood circles—enough for Zach to begin his career following famous people around and digging up dirt. I first met Zach at his bungalow when he interviewed me for Slaughter on Sorority Row. Zach was still doing small-time stories for horror magazines back then, and I remember how creepy it felt, sitting in his filthy little living room with furnishings that hadn’t been changed since the fifties.
