Brothers. It's a special relationship. I grew up with a little sister which was OK but not the same. I mean, an older brother can turn you on to cool music, teach you how to drive a stick, and give you a heads up into the often confusing world of the female species. As an older brother, you can impart the aforementioned life lessons to a younger brother. Twin brothers can pull all sorts of humorous pranks on teachers, youth pastors, and girlfriends (like Haley Mills in the Parent Trap, only with a penis). And conjoined twin brothers--that could be the most special-est relationship of all. Basket Case tells the story of separated conjoined twins, Duane and Belial Bradley. Their birth brought upon the death of their mother and their separation brings about the violent deaths of the doctors (two out of three of them are veterinarians) who performed the surgery.
Duane arrives in a nightmare version of New York City (think Times Square before it's Disneyfication) with an obscenely large wad of cash in his pocket and a medium-sized wicker basket under his arm. He takes up residence in the Hotel Broslin (think the Happiness Hotel, populated by goofy New York City stereotypes instead of singing Muppets) and assists his brother in dispatching the heartless doctors who left him for dead in a garbage bag years earlier. Duane does the research (i.e. finds the doctors' offices,homes) and Belial does the killin'. Brothers working together--it's a beautiful thing.
Unfortunately the fellowship falters when Duane meets Sharon, a busty receptionist, who offers to show him around New York, but actually wants to probe his throat with her tongue. Belial cock-blocks his floppy-haired brother not once, but twice, first popping out of his basket and screaming like a lunatic as Duane tries to get his awkward groove on and later when he drags himself to Sharon's apartment and gropes her to death. In the end, the Bradley boys have a literal falling out, toppling from a third floor window of the Hotel Broslin, splattering themselves all over the trash-lined, whore-strewn streets of pre-Giuliani New York City.
So why does this inspirational relationship between two psychically-linked brothers come to such a depressing, bloody end? The answer is simple: sex. Belial is a horny little Boglin with no penis and glowing red eyes. He's got no game, a busted grill, and his crib is a wicker basket for Pete's sake. He ain't getting laid anytime soon. On the other hand, his child-like, two-legged brother with clown hair has no trouble picking up chicks. It's a classic Freudian thing probably.
"Somewhere out there beneath the pale moonlight, someone's thinking of me and loving me tonight"