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Authors: Joe R. Lansdale
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was making his way there by roundabout methods.
Soon . . . Soon . . . Soon.
In the last few days he had witnessed three murders, contributed to all three, and personally performed one himself (he could still visualize the deep, red arc he had made in her throat shortly after slicing the nipples from her breasts). He hated that the highway cop had not been his kill, but that was unavoidable. Looney Tunes had the shotgun, and it was only fair.
Still, kicking a dead cop in the balls didn't do much for his disposition; didn't squelch the desire to kill; a thing that had become like an itch with him. (Thank you, Clyde, for the rash, because it feels so good to scratch.) Soon, tomorrow night, he would scratch that itch again. He had two murders planned— no, let's be accurate about this; executions. But before these executions took place, the victims would know fear. They would suffer the torment Clyde suffered waiting in his cell. Thinking about those grey walls and steel bars . . , And they would feel much more pain than he felt when he hung himself.
Why, Clyde? Why? Not like you to do that sort of thing.
Ah, but maybe there is a why. Is that you I feel stomping about in the back of my brain, Clyde? Is that your mind mating with my mind, possessing my soul with your own?
Are you me? Am I you?
Huh?
Oh yeah, I hear you, baby, I hear you, and they'll get theirs soon. Forgive my doubts about you. I'm tired, and it's so weird.
What?
Tomorrow night. No later. I promise.
And so for a few more miles the car rolled on. Brian driving with his pale face ghostlike in the night, the others sleeping, storing up.
PART TWO:
The Guts of the Fish
One year earlier (October
to October)
"Some of our neighborhood kids will
shoot you for a buck or maybe just
for laughs. It's got me so I'm soared
to walk my own turf after dark, and
I'm pretty tough. But they're real
monsters, some of them. And they
come younger every year."
—Anonymous Chicago car thief
possessed adj. 2. Controlled by or as
by a spirit or force.
—The American Heritage Dictionary
Houses are like the human beings
who inhabit them.
—Victor Hugo
(1)
BOYS WILL
BE BOYS
ONE
Not so long ago, about a year back, a very rotten kid named Clyde Edson walked the earth. He was street-mean and full of savvy and he knew what he wanted and got it any way he wanted.
He lived in a big, evil house on a dying, grey street in Galveston, Texas, and he collected to him, like an old lady who brings in cats half-starved and near-eaten with mange, the human refuse and the young discards of a sick society.
He molded them. He breathed life into them. He made them feel they belonged.
They were his creations, but he did not love them. They were just things to be toyed with until the paint wore thin and the batteries ran down, then out they went.
And this is the way it was until he met Brian Blackwood.
Things got worse after that.
TWO
—guy had a black leather jacket and dark hair combed back virgin-ass tight, slicked down with enough grease to lube a bone-dry Buick; came down the hall walking slow, head up, ice-blue eye working like acid on everyone in sight; had the hall nearly to himself, plenty of room for his slow-stroll swagger. The other high school kids were shouldering the wall, shedding out of his path like frenzied snakes shedding out of their skins.
You could see this Clyde was bad news. Hung in time. Fifties-looking. Out of step. But who's going to say, "Hey, dude, you look funny"?
Tough, this guy. Hide like the jacket he wore. No books under his arm, nothing at all. Just cool.
Brian was standing at the water fountain when he first saw him, sipping water, just blowing time between classes; thinking about nothing until along came Clyde, and suddenly he found himself attracted to him. Not in a sexual way. He wasn't funny. But in the manner metal shavings are attracted to a magnet—can't do a thing about it, just got to go to it and cling.
Brian knew who
Soon . . . Soon . . . Soon.
In the last few days he had witnessed three murders, contributed to all three, and personally performed one himself (he could still visualize the deep, red arc he had made in her throat shortly after slicing the nipples from her breasts). He hated that the highway cop had not been his kill, but that was unavoidable. Looney Tunes had the shotgun, and it was only fair.
Still, kicking a dead cop in the balls didn't do much for his disposition; didn't squelch the desire to kill; a thing that had become like an itch with him. (Thank you, Clyde, for the rash, because it feels so good to scratch.) Soon, tomorrow night, he would scratch that itch again. He had two murders planned— no, let's be accurate about this; executions. But before these executions took place, the victims would know fear. They would suffer the torment Clyde suffered waiting in his cell. Thinking about those grey walls and steel bars . . , And they would feel much more pain than he felt when he hung himself.
Why, Clyde? Why? Not like you to do that sort of thing.
Ah, but maybe there is a why. Is that you I feel stomping about in the back of my brain, Clyde? Is that your mind mating with my mind, possessing my soul with your own?
Are you me? Am I you?
Huh?
Oh yeah, I hear you, baby, I hear you, and they'll get theirs soon. Forgive my doubts about you. I'm tired, and it's so weird.
What?
Tomorrow night. No later. I promise.
And so for a few more miles the car rolled on. Brian driving with his pale face ghostlike in the night, the others sleeping, storing up.
PART TWO:
The Guts of the Fish
One year earlier (October
to October)
"Some of our neighborhood kids will
shoot you for a buck or maybe just
for laughs. It's got me so I'm soared
to walk my own turf after dark, and
I'm pretty tough. But they're real
monsters, some of them. And they
come younger every year."
—Anonymous Chicago car thief
possessed adj. 2. Controlled by or as
by a spirit or force.
—The American Heritage Dictionary
Houses are like the human beings
who inhabit them.
—Victor Hugo
(1)
BOYS WILL
BE BOYS
ONE
Not so long ago, about a year back, a very rotten kid named Clyde Edson walked the earth. He was street-mean and full of savvy and he knew what he wanted and got it any way he wanted.
He lived in a big, evil house on a dying, grey street in Galveston, Texas, and he collected to him, like an old lady who brings in cats half-starved and near-eaten with mange, the human refuse and the young discards of a sick society.
He molded them. He breathed life into them. He made them feel they belonged.
They were his creations, but he did not love them. They were just things to be toyed with until the paint wore thin and the batteries ran down, then out they went.
And this is the way it was until he met Brian Blackwood.
Things got worse after that.
TWO
—guy had a black leather jacket and dark hair combed back virgin-ass tight, slicked down with enough grease to lube a bone-dry Buick; came down the hall walking slow, head up, ice-blue eye working like acid on everyone in sight; had the hall nearly to himself, plenty of room for his slow-stroll swagger. The other high school kids were shouldering the wall, shedding out of his path like frenzied snakes shedding out of their skins.
You could see this Clyde was bad news. Hung in time. Fifties-looking. Out of step. But who's going to say, "Hey, dude, you look funny"?
Tough, this guy. Hide like the jacket he wore. No books under his arm, nothing at all. Just cool.
Brian was standing at the water fountain when he first saw him, sipping water, just blowing time between classes; thinking about nothing until along came Clyde, and suddenly he found himself attracted to him. Not in a sexual way. He wasn't funny. But in the manner metal shavings are attracted to a magnet—can't do a thing about it, just got to go to it and cling.
Brian knew who
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