Stories (2011)

  STORIES

  Joe R. Lansdale

  FOREWORD

  THE JOB

  THE PIT

  BY BIZARRE HANDS

  TIGHT LITTLE STICHES IN A DEADMAN’S BACK

  HELL THROUGH A WINDSHIELD

  THE DRIVE-IN OATH

  SIX-FINGER JACK

  BILLIE SUE

  NAKED ANGEL

  NOT FROM DETROIT

  BOOTY AND THE BEAST

  STEPPIN' OUT, SUMMER, '68

  INCIDENT ON AND OFF A MOUNTAIN ROAD

  MY DEAD DOG, BOBBY

  TRAINS NOT TAKEN

  DOG, CAT, AND BABY

  MISTER WEED-EATER

  THE FAT MAN AND THE ELEPHANT

  THE PHONE WOMAN

  LETTER FROM THE SOUTH, TWO MOONS WEST OF NACOGDOCHES

  BY THE HAIR OF THE HEAD

  GODZILLA'S TWELVE STEP PROGRAM

  DRIVE-IN DATE

  BOB THE DINOSAUR GOES TO DISNEYLAND

  THE STEEL VALENTINE

  NIGHT THEY MISSED THE HORROR SHOW

  DIRT DEVILS

  WHITE MULE, SPOTTED PIG

  THE BIG BLOW

  BUBBA HO-TEP

  A CHANGE OF LIFESTYLE

  DEADMAN’S ROAD

  ALONE

  COAT

  BESTSELLERS GUARANTEED

  SURVEILLANCE

  HANG IN THERE

  CHOMPERS

  BEYOND THE LIGHT

  I TELL YOU IT’S LOVE

  THE JUNKYARD

  THE PASTURE

  BAR TALK

  BIG MAN: A FABLE

  THE COMPANION

  DRAGON CHILLI

  THE FULL COUNT

  HIDE AND HORNS

  THE HONEYMOON

  HUITZILOPOCHTLI

  ISLAND

  IT WASHED UP

  THE LAST OF THE HOPEFUL

  LISTEN

  MR. BEAR

  LONG DEAD DAY

  MASTER OF MISERY

  THE MUMMY BUYER

  NIGHT DRIVE

  OLD CHARLIE

  ONCE UPON A TIME

  ONE DEATH, TWO EPISODES

  QUACK

  THE SHADOWS, KITH AND KIN

  SOLDIERIN’

  THE STARS ARE FALLING

  THE WHITE RABBIT

  About the Author

  SOURCE MATERIAL

  FOREWORD

  Growing up in east Texas, I knew early on that I wanted to be a professional writer, even though I wasn't exactly sure what a professional writer was. I began to write stories at a very early age. Perhaps as early as seven, though I can't be certain of that, as family stories vary. I know that when I was nine I was seriously trying to understand how stories were told, and I even put together a book of stories, poems, and my interpretations of Greek and Norse myths. I also included, for some unknown reason, the ancient Greek alphabet that I had copied out of an encyclopedia.

  When I was old enough to sort of understand what a writer did to make a living, and I began to entertain the idea seriously, I thought that I would be a science fiction writer. I read all the time, and not just science fiction, but there was a time in my life where science fiction -- and keep in mind I lumped fantasy, horror, science fantasy, weird adventure, ghost stories, anything odd, under that label -- was my main source of reading matter, coupled with supposedly non-fiction books about things like flying saucers, Big Foot, ghost, and Fortean activity.

  When I finally began to write a true novel, it was in the Edgar Rice Burroughs vein. Somewhere, I hope, those efforts still exist. They are either in the library where my work is kept, or in my study, or, heaven forbid, I may have destroyed them. I remember thinking about it. I feel sentimental about those old pieces, and about ten years ago, when I last saw them, I took them out and was surprised to find they weren't really too bad, considering a kid, not even teenage yet, had written them.

  But they were never finished. They just sort of went on and on in composition notebooks, but I didn't know how to reach a peak in the books, and then wrap them up. When I began to write novels with serious intent in my mid-twenties, I discovered I still hadn't learned that trick. The idea of novels became daunting. I decided I'd write something shorter, and in my mind easier, so I turned to short stories.

  I had always read short stories, but for some reason it had never occurred to me to pursue them seriously. I had written a few, but none were any good, and I just assumed novels were where it was at. I began to review stories I had read and loved. Stories by Poe, Doyle, Bradbury, Bloch, others, and I began to read them more carefully, and I expanded my reading. I had read stories by Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and others of that ilk that I had enjoyed, but now I began to study them seriously. And then, I began to write.

  I once spent about three months writing a story a day -- no kidding. I sent each one out to several markets, and all of them came back. Over a period of time -- more than three months -- I probably got a thousand rejects. I kept the stories and the rejects for years, and then, when we moved from Starrville, Texas to Nacogdoches, Texas, I had a ritualistic burning of stories and rejects. A few of the rejected stories survived, and were revised later and published, and some were published in a book I did of early writings, designed for the fan of this sort of thing; a book designed primarily to show that everyone has to begin somewhere.

  But, I got hooked on the short story, and pretty soon, they were all I wanted to write. They were much harder than I ever expected. In fact, harder than novels. But, still, there was less of an investment in time, and therefore I could get something to market relatively soon; I could see an end in sight when I was working on them, and I could change moods and genres rapidly. That was appealing to me, since, essentially, I have a short attention span.

  I became enraptured with short stories, and no longer just science fiction. I had expanded my reading, and now I expanded the type of stories I liked to write. When I finally began to sell my stories, I found I no longer wanted to write novels. I found short stories just too satisfying.

  Still, since I wanted to be a full-time freelance writer, I knew I had to eventually write novels. I almost regretted when the novels began to sell; my excuse to write short stories began to evaporate. By the early nineties I was writing fewer and fewer short stories. Some of the energy I had invested in them went into the novels, and into comic book and film scripts. It wasn't that I had lost interest in short stories, but it was as if I got up one day feeling like I had met certain goals in the short story world, and now I was ready to see what I could do elsewhere.

  Short stories, and novellas, are still favorites of mine, but I have really learned to appreciate the novel. And since I get paid more for novels these days than I used to, it has allowed me to return a little more frequently to short stories.

  I doubt I will ever be a full-time short story writer again. That was hard, though I did pull it off for a time. But, it wasn't exactly more than a hand-to-mouth living. Now that I can get more for my short stories, I also make more for the novels, so it's easy to see which one I give the time. Besides, I like doing novels as much as short stories now. That said, I think short stories taught me how to write tighter, better novels.

  These stories are the ones that I think taught me the most. They are personal favorites of mine. I could have added a few stories to this collection, replaced one with another in some cases, but these stories are the ones I think best reflect my work.

  Growing up in the South, there's an expression you hear. "He's in high cotton now." "I felt like I was in high cotton."

  This is taken from the fact that in the Old South, when cotton was good, it stood rich and tall and full. It was called high cotton. If you made your living from cotton, this was a good thing. The expression has carried over to inc
lude things that have nothing to do with farming or cotton.

  Short stories, for example.

  I can't say that this is the best cotton grown. But in my personal field, this is the best cotton I've grown in the short form.

  I hope, that as you pluck it from my field, you will enjoy the work better than those who pluck actual cotton, and I hope the product, once plucked, is satisfying.

  I have been a published writer for nearly twenty-seven years now, and these stories were written in the last seventeen. They are fewer and farther between these days, but I hope that long before another twenty-seven years, there will be yet another book produced from my field, and if talent, luck, ambition, and hard work stay with me, perhaps the cotton produced will stand even higher.

  I read an article in GEO magazine -- a magazine I believe has come and gone -- about dog fighting. It struck me as horrible and cruel. I had heard it compared to boxing, a comparison I don't buy. Boxers can choose to get in the ring or not, and they are taught how to protect themselves and there are referees. Dogs do it for the love of their masters and for something to eat. For a reward, when they lose, they are most often killed or abandoned. These dog-fighting guys don't want losers.

  I thought about that, added in another story told me by a friend. Supposedly, back in the late fifties or early sixties, there was a small town where a black man's car broke down and he was captured and made to pull a wagon around the town square, and was fed axle grease on crackers. Finally, he escaped.

  I swear. That's the story. I'm not saying it's true, but it was told to me as the truth and it was given to the teller as the truth. If it did happen, I have no idea where this took place. North, South, East, or West. But it got the story wheels turning. My thoughts about dog fighting, boxing, and this supposed incident, all came crashing together, and became "The Pit." This was about 1982 or 1983. I sent it out, and no one bought it. They didn't know what the hell it was. All the standard honor markets -- there were a number of them then -- thought it wasn't horror, and they were probably right. Some wanted it to have a twist ending, or another ending. One editor wanted me to give it a positive spin. I wouldn't. I pulled it. It lay in a file drawer for several years.

  By the mid-eighties I was beginning to develop a name, and when I was asked for a story for a crime/mystery anthology being published by Black Lizard, I sent the editor this. He accepted it and later it appeared in my first short story collection, By Bizarre Hands. That's been many years ago and though it's been reprinted several times, it still hasn't gotten the exposure I modestly think it deserves. Maybe this collection will help.

  Joe R. Lansdale

  Nacogdoches, Texas

  Created for this custom eBook from multiple “Author’s Notes” and “Forwards”

  Flyboy707

  September, 2011

  THE JOB

  Bower pulled the sun visor down and looked in the mirror there and said, "You know, hadn't been for the travel, I'd have done all right. I could even shake my ass like him. I tell you, it drove the women wild. You should have seen 'em."

  "Don't shake it for me," Kelly said. "I don't want to see it. Things I got to do are tough enough without having to' see that."

  Bower pushed the visor back. The light turned green. Kelly put the gas to the car and they went up and over a hill and turned right on Melroy.

  "Guess maybe you do look like him," Kelly said. "During his fatter days, when he was on the drugs and the peanut butter."

  "Yeah, but these pocks on my cheeks messes it up some. When I was on stage I had makeup on 'em. I looked okay then."

  They stopped at a stop sign and Kelly got out a cigarette and pushed in the lighten

  "A nigger nearly tail-ended me here once," Kelly said. "Just come barreling down on me." He took the lighter and lit his smoke. "Scared the piss out of me. I got him out of his car and popped him some. I bet he was one careful nigger from then on." He pulled away from the stop sign and cruised.

  "You done one like this before? I know you've done it, but like this?"

  "Not just like this. Hut I done some things might surprise you. You getting nervous on me?"

  "I'm all right. You know, thing made me quit the Elvis imitating was travel, cause one night on the road I was staying in this cheap motel, and it wasn't heated too good. I'd had those kinds of rooms before, and I always carried couple of space heaters in the trunk of the car with the rest of my junk, you know. I got them plugged in, and I was still cold, so I pulled the mattress on the floor by the heaters. I woke up and was on fire. I had been so worn out I'd gone to sleep in my Elvis outfit. That was the end of my best white jumpsuit, you know, like he wore with the gold glitter and all. I must have been funny on fire like that, hopping around the room beating it out. When I got that suit off I was burned like the way you get when you been out in the sun too long."

  "You gonna be able to do this?" "Did I say I couldn't?"

  "You're nervous. I can tell way you talk."

  "A little. I always get nervous before I go on stage too, but I always come through. Crowd came to see Elvis, by god, they got Elvis. I used to sign autographs with his name. People wanted it like that. They wanted to pretend, see."

  "Women mostly?"

  "Uh huh."

  "What were they, say, fifty-five?"

  "They were all ages. Some of them were pretty young.

  "Ever fuck any of 'em?"

  "Sure, I got plenty. Sing a little 'Love Me Tender' to them in the bedroom and they'd do whatever I wanted."

  "Was it the old ones you was fucking?"

  "I didn't fuck no real old ones, no. Whose idea is it to do things this way, anyhow?"

  "Boss, of course. You think he lets me plan this stuff? He don't want them chinks muscling in on the shrimping and all."

  "I don't know, we fought for these guys. It seems a little funny."

  "Reason we lost the war over there is not being able to tell one chink from another and all of them being the way they are. I think we should have nuked the whole goddamned place. Went over there when it cooled down and stopped glowing, put in a tucking Disneyland or something."

  They were moving out of the city now, picking up speed.

  * * *

  "I don't see why we don't just whack this guy outright and not do it this way,"

  Bower said. "This seems kind of funny."

  "No one's asking you. You come on a job, you do it. Boss wants some chink to suffer, so he's gonna suffer. Not like he didn't get some warnings or nothing.

  Boss wants him to take it hard."

  "Maybe this isn't a smart thing on account of it may not bother chinks like it'd bother us. They're different about stuff like this, all the things they've seen."

  "It'll bother him," Kelly said. "And if it don't, that ain't our problem. We got a job to do and we're gonna do it. Whatever comes after comes after. Boss wants us to do different next time, we do different. Whatever he wants we do it. He's the one paying."

  They were out of the city now and to the left of the highway they could see the glint of the sea through a line of scrubby trees.

  "How're we gonna know?" Bower said. "One chink looks like another."

  "I got a photograph. This one's got a burn scar on the face. Everything's timed.

  Boss has been planning this. He had some of the guys watch and take notes. It's all set up."

  "Why us?"

  "Me because I've done some things before. You because he wants to see what you're made of. I'm kind of here as your nurse maid."

  "I don't need anybody to see that I do what I'm supposed to do."

  They drove past a lot of boats pulled up to a dock. They drove into a small town called Wilborn. They turned a corner at Catlow Street.

  "It's down here a ways," Kelly said. "You got your knife? You left your knife and brought your comb, I'm gonna whack you.

  Bower got the knife out of his pocket. "Thing's got a lot of blades, some utility stuff. Even a comb."

  "Christ,
you're gonna do it with a Boy Scout knife?"

  "Utility knife. The blade I want is plenty sharp, you'll see. Why couldn't we use a gun? That wouldn't be as messy. A lot easier."

  "Boss wants it messy. He wants the chink to think about it some. He wants them to pack their stuff on their boats and sail back to chink land. Either that, or they can pay their percentages like everyone else. He lets the chinks get away with things, everyone'll want to get away with things."

  They pulled over to the curb. Down the street was a school. Bower looked at his watch.

  "Maybe if it was a nigger," Bower said.

  "Chink, nigger, what's the difference?"

  They could hear a bell ringing. After five minutes they saw kids going out to the curb to get on the buses parked there. A few kids came down the sidewalk toward them. One of them was a Vietnamese girl about eight years old. The left side of her face was scarred.

  "Won't they remember me?" Bower said.

  "Kids? Naw. Nobody knows you around here. Get rid of that Elvis look and you'll be okay."

  "It don't seem right. In front of these kids and all. I think we ought to whack her father."

  "No one's paying you to think, Elvis. Do what you're supposed to do. I have to do it and you'll wish you had."

  Bower opened the utility knife and got out of the car. He held the knife by his leg and walked around front, leaned on the hood just as the Vietnamese girl came up. He said, "Hey, kid, come here a minute." His voice got thick. "Elvis wants to show you something."

  THE PIT

  Six months earlier they had captured him. Tonight Harry went into the pit. He and Big George, right after the bull terriers got through tearing the guts out of one another. When that was over, he and George would go down and do the business. The loser would stay there and be fed to the dogs, each of which had been starved for the occasion.

  When the dogs finished eating, the loser's head would go up on a pole. Already a dozen poles circled the pit. On each rested a head, or skull, depending on how long it had been exposed to the elements, ambitious pole-climbing ants and hungry birds. And of course how much flesh the terriers ripped off before it was erected.