Chapter Eight
Rick decided to head to the beach.
He made the decision after a quick lunch at a cozy little delicatessen near the center of town. He had stopped in for a quick bite to eat and discovered they made the best submarine sandwiches north of New York City. By the time he left the deli, it was a quarter after twelve. The weather was overcast but warm, heavy with humidity. When Rick turned up Highway 1 upon leaving the house, he noticed the big, black storm clouds amassing from the north. Gonna be a huge storm, he thought as he reached the crest of town. Hopefully he’d get home before the worst of the downpour hit. The cloud mass looked like it was still a good few hours away.
Now the entire sky was becoming cloudy as the cloud mass moved in. As he hit the boardwalk he passed a few weathered locals and smiled at them. They gave glancing nods or ignored him altogether. They didn’t recognize him as being local. They probably never would even if he decided to settle down and live here.
He walked along the boardwalk, noting the storefronts of fish and chips eateries, tourist traps, fish and tackle stores. Halloween decorations adorned the window-fronts of all of them. The wind picked up slightly and the sky turned a sudden gray. Rick’s shadow, which had been keeping abreast of him, suddenly vanished in the sepia of the afternoon. Rick looked up at the sky to check the progress of the clouds and noted that the entire horizon seemed to have clouded up faster than he would have imagined. He stopped in mid-stride, gazing up at the sky in wonder as a raindrop hit his eyeball. Smack!
He started, both eyes shut tight. He rubbed the offending moisture out of his eye as bigger raindrops began to pitter-patter the boardwalk.
A loud cackle to his immediate right caused him to steer toward the sound. It sounded like a gorilla trying to cough up a furball. He blinked. It was just an old man sitting on a rickety rocking chair on the porch of the Fish and Tackle store. The man had skin like leather and looked like he was eight hundred years old.
For a moment, time seemed frozen. Rick stared at the old man. The old man cackled again, his mouth resembling a cesspool; his handful of remaining teeth were the color of lacquered oak. The man’s leathery skin, his moldy-hued gray hair, his weathered face, all looked like it had been chipped from the bark of a pine tree. His sinewy arms and legs were twisted branches that snaked at crazy angles. Stick him out in the woods and he’d be the haunted tree of the forest.
Rick almost expected to see dead leaves dropping off the man as he shifted his weight in the rocker. “Y’know…only turkeys is dumb enough to look up in a storm.” It took a moment for Rick to realize the old
geezer was talking to him. The old man cackled again. “Ya look up too long, an’ yew’ll drown!”
This seemed to tickle grandpa’s funny bone something fierce. He laughed until he began coughing violently. The force of the coughs sounded like his lungs were going to be wrenched up his esophagus. He hit himself in the chest with the palm of his hand and raised the cigarette he was holding between two twig-like fingers to his lips. It was the first time Rick noticed the cigarette. A long trail of ash hung from it, defying gravity. The old man took a long drag that seemed to give the ash a new life of glowing orange. A moment later his coughing subsided. Just the right medicine.
Rick managed a weak smile and nodded awkwardly at the man. He continued down the boardwalk taking in every sight, smell, and sound. The rain was coming down harder, not a downpour yet, but a steady spattering of large fat drops. The promise of bigger things to come.
The boardwalk ended at a small, quaint pier that jutted out over the ocean. It was jam-packed with small shops and restaurants. None of the big, corporate plastic and hype like the shopping center had displayed. All the buildings along the beachfront shared similar, weathered-wood exteriors. This was the real thing. When the rain hit them they gave off a nice, earthy aroma that mixed with the salt of the sea and the slight fish smell that seemed to be everywhere. Now this was small town, New England living!
He decided to check out the pier and its shops. A few tourists meandered about, not paying mind to the raindrops that were still spattering leisurely. Some were trying to avoid it like they were rat-poison droppings from the clouds. Rick grinned at the thought and looked up at the sky again. He shielded his eyes to avoid any more kamikaze raindrops and the subsequent ridicule he might suffer from any other billygoat locals. He scanned the sky and the horizon, admiring the beauty of it all.
Then he saw something strange across the beach itself, just over the ocean. Something slightly out of kilter.
Something was upsetting the seagulls.
They were flying in tight circles above the beach, screeching their beaks off. No big deal, seagulls screech all the time. But something about this was different. He didn’t know much about birds, but all his life he’d noticed that most birds don’t fly around when it’s raining and cold. By now the rain was coming down harder, pelting his skin into shivering wetness. He sought the refuge of the covered boardwalk as he gazed out at the ocean. Some of the tourists scuttled off to the safety of their cars or stores. But the seagulls remained, circling overhead and cackling.
Rick watched the birds for a moment, then studied the pier and the beach. There were no seagulls on either. Fifty yards up the beach a family of three was walking along the surf, huddled against the sudden cold and rain. A little girl of six or seven was tossing large chunks of sandwich bread into the air, trying to hit the birds. The food fell back onto the sand, uneaten. None of the seagulls swooped down for a free meal, and Rick noticed for the first time that even the pigeons and the sparrows were absent. He looked behind him, above the storefronts. The pigeons were sitting on the power line, watching the scene with seeming disinterest. It looked like they were stoned.
Back on the beach, the little girl looked at her mother questioningly. The woman shrugged her shoulders and the three continued walking.
A sudden cold shiver unrelated to the weather rippled through Rick’s body. This was just too strange.
Seagulls and pigeons were scavengers. They wouldn’t pass on a free meal for anything. He looked out at the sea for any sign of distress and saw none. The waves rolled rough in the growing storm, crashing onto the shore with a bit more force than usual. Everything looked normal.
He began slowly walking down the boardwalk toward the pier, keeping a watchful eye on the seagulls’ behavior. A faint pulse of music slowly eased the seagulls’ weird mannerisms out of his mind and snapped him out of his daze.
He stopped again. Familiar tune, one that had often comforted him in times of stress and confusion. The sound of music. Sweet, wonderful, thoughtful…thrash metal!
The metallic crunch was so alien at first that he didn’t believe his ears. It just didn’t fit in with this small, coastal sea town. It was probably from the head injury he had suffered in his vehicular mishap yesterday causing him to hear things. But no, he shook his head and listened. Sure enough, it was thrash metal all right. The grinding crunch of the guitar was familiar and he immediately identified the tune as Speak English Or Die by the wonderful band Storm Troopers Of Death. He grinned. He was beginning to like this place even more.
His eyes scanned the little sea-front shops as he walked along the boardwalk. The music was getting closer. It sounded like it was emanating from one of the shops at the end of the boardwalk.
He stood in front of the shop, a pleasant surge of surprise running through him. The shop’s marquee: RIP IT UP COMICS was the only evidence that the Phillipsport pier was in the twentieth century. The tiny, box-like store appeared like all the other shops on the outside; worn down, dilapidated, peeling paint. A Superman Poster, a Spiderman poster, and a cardboard advertisement of the latest Sisters of Mercy comics were the only things that set this shop apart from the others.
But once inside…
Rick could barely feel his feet as they propelled him inside the store like a moth to the flame. His eyes widened in surprise as they took in the massive rows of
comics set in cardboard structures in the middle of the store. The left of the store was filled with used paperbacks and hardcover books, the rest of the wall devoted to specialty-press graphic novels. The right side held the stands, the latest issues of every comic from every publisher, large or small. They were bagged in mylar sleeves, carefully arranged to maximize the display. Science Fiction and Horror magazines sat on the stands with the comics. It was weird to think that such a cool store existed in a town of less than six hundred, complete with goofy deputies and chain-smoking tree-people. He liked this place already.
S.O.D.’s “Fuck the Middle East” was ending and a live version of “Douche Crew” was beginning. Rick started, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. S.O.D. only recorded one album and it wasn’t a live one. He stepped farther inside the store to get a further listen to the tape.
A pair of twelve-year old boys stepped past him, stuffing bags of comics under their coats to protect them from the rain. They both carried beaten-up skateboards with colorful stickers on their undersides. The kids dropped their boards and stepped onto them effortlessly, skating away.
As he stepped farther in the store, Rick saw that more jewels lay within. A display ran along the glass counter where the cash register sat, filled with the rarer comics. Behind the counter itself was an elevated section with even more shelves, and to Rick’s practiced eye it looked like the shelves held rare pulps. Cool. Standing behind the register was the tallest, skinniest man Rick had ever seen. He was sitting on a stool, perusing the latest issue of Cinefantastique.
A young boy of ten was standing at the counter bombarding the man with inane questions. The man rolled his eyes, answering questions as best as he could. “So what’s going to be more valuable, Superman #298 or the first issue of Nightshade?” From the expression on his face it was obvious the little shit didn’t give a damn about reading whatever he bought.
The thin man sighed. “Listen, kid…I’m not a fortune-teller. If you want that, go down the pier to Madame Zondra. Maybe she can divine next year’s price guide for you and you can speculate to your little heart’s content. Meanwhile, why don’t you buy ten of everything just to be certain.”
The boy sneered and walked away from the counter as Rick approached. He looked up at the thin man and smiled. The man smiled back. “How ya doin’?”
“Fine,” Rick said, approaching the counter. He was still stunned about the live S.O.D. song and wanted answers. “Was that S.O.D. I just heard?”
The man behind the counter smiled, his face becoming a huge set of teeth that nearly obscured his hooked nose and goatee. “You bet it is. It’s their live album.”
“You mean they got back together?” There was a God.
“Yeah, for one show only. They played in New York at one of the clubs, probably the Ritz. Album’s called Live at Budakon. Pretty cool, huh?” His Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down.
Rick was checking out the store as the man talked, unable to take his eyes off anything. He was in total sensory overload.
“You read comics?” The thin man’s eyes were magnified by the coke-bottom lenses of his black-framed glasses.
Rick turned back to the man. “Oh, yeah. I love ’em.”
The man leaned back and threw the magazine he was reading back on the counter and smiled. “That’s good to hear. Most of the brats who come in here don’t give a shit about the story or the artwork of the stuff they buy. They just want to know what books they’re going to be able to sell back to me a year from now at an inflated price.” He laughed again, his face filling with teeth.
Rick grinned. “This store is great. I thought I was going to have to spend the whole winter without a reading supply shop.” Rick wiped the rain from his forehead and grinned. “Phillipsport just doesn’t seem to be the kind of place for a shop like this.”
“In a way, it isn’t,” the thin man said. He was leaning forward over the counter, his grin wide and toothy. “At least that’s what everybody has told me. But there are lots of kids in the area, and the tourists usually use my shop as a baby-sitting service while they’re enjoying the rest of the pier. Thank God most of ’em slip the little runts a twenty before they dump ’em off here.” He chuckled.
Rick chuckled with him. He liked this guy, and was beginning to feel much better about spending the next six months in Phillipsport.
The thin man stood and rose to his full six-and-a-half foot height. It was astonishing that someone so skinny could still be alive. He looked like a survivor from Auschwitz. The T-shirt he wore caught Rick’ s attention; it displayed a field of skulls and a couple of military planes buzzing overhead. It was the Dead Kennedy’s Holiday in Cambodia album cover emblazoned in bright red and black. Rick admired the choice in clothing. A man of taste, obviously.
The thin man extended a skeletal hand. “I’m Jack Ripley. I own this place.”
Rick took the hand and shook it, marveling at his strength. Looks can be deceiving. The name Jack Ripley pulsed in his mind. He’d heard that name before.
It connected. He looked up at Jack Ripley. “Jack Ripley…the Ripper?”
Jack Ripley leaned back and grinned. “You’re showing your age, my friend. Most people stopped calling me Ripper ten years ago.”
Rick couldn’t believe it. Jack Ripley, otherwise known as Ripper in the comic world, was one of the most respected, most widely-imitated artists and writers in the world of underground comics. He had emerged in the late sixties, reached his peak in the early seventies and rode the wave of his success to the beginning of the eighties. He hadn’t been heard from since. Rick felt himself glow at the thought of meeting the elusive artist. He had met other comic artists of equal reputation; Robert Crumb and Todd MacFarlane, among others, but this was different. He had become a fan of Jack ‘Ripper’ Ripley long before he became a fan of other, more well known, comic book artists.
Rick could hardly believe it. He smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead and grinned. “Man, this is great! I love your work.”
“Thanks.” Jack grinned, obviously smitten with the attention. “It’s nice to know people still appreciate what I did even if I didn’t work on Spiderman or the X-Men.”
“Are you kidding? I grew up reading stuff like Drugg Buddies and Jesus-on-a Stick Comix. They shaped my life.” Rick chuckled. “They made me into what I am. And now I’m standing here with the man who created them. I can’t believe it.”
Ripper leaned back against the wall of pulp cartons.
His large blue eyes were enlarged and distorted by the glasses. “Yeah, those were the days. You know, I still get royalties from the All Fucked Up posters.”
“Really? I had one of those in my room for three months before my Mom found out about it and made me take it down.”
Ripper laughed.
Rick grinned and laughed with Ripper. Jack Ripley looked to be in his mid fifties, but obviously took great pains to hide it. His graying, light brown hair was trimmed close to the skull around his temples, long and wild along the top and the back, kind of like a punk rock Lyle Lovett. His large blue eyes turned down at the corners, giving him a sad, hound-dog look, which wasn’t helped by the thick glasses. A hooked nose hung down over his upper lip, which was pulled back over the buck teeth. A patch of a goatee sprouted on what remained of his chin. His face was set in skull that appeared long and bony. His body was skeletal, complementing the rest of his bizarre features. His blue eyes radiated a warmth that ebbed like a beacon, bathing his features in a more attractive way. You couldn’t help but like the guy the minute you started talking to him.
“So what’s the world’s greatest underground comic artist doing in a little town like Phillipsport?” Rick wondered if the answer was going to be along the lines of his own reason for moving here. What he got was quite different.
Ripper smiled. “I ask myself that question every morning I wake up.” He sighed and drew himself down on a stool in front of the cash register. “I used to live in Los Angeles. Moved there fr
om Northern California in 1973. Everyone thought it was a good idea. A few movie producers were interested in making films based on my comics.”
Rick nodded. He’d gotten a few nibbles at Baron Semedi, too.
“You ever dealt with movie people?” Ripper asked. He leaned forward over the counter, his features grave.
Rick shook his head. “Not directly. A couple of producers expressed interest in one of my novels, but that was it.”
“You’re a writer?” His tone changed to sudden interest. His eyebrows raised on his bony forehead in surprise.
Rick nodded. “Yeah. I write horror novels.”
Ripper laughed. “Wonderful.” He smiled a mouthful of giant teeth at Rick. “What’s your name?”
“Rick Sychek.”
Recognition fluttered in Ripper’s eyes. “Rick Sychek. Yeah, I know that name. Didn’t you write a book called Shadowbeast?”
Rick grinned and nodded. This was great. One of his adolescent idols recognized him.
“I liked that book. Haven’t read any of the others though, but I do stock them.” He waved a hand toward the paperbacks displayed along the window. Rick followed his gaze briefly and turned back to Ripper. “So, you have bad luck with Hollywood?”
“Not really. Like I said, a few producers expressed interest in Baron Semedei. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Ripper snorted. “Well, be careful in the future. Most producers are crooks. The good ones mean well, but they’ll fuck you over as well. Worst mistake I ever made was believing the bullshit some producers kept handing me about making one of my comics into a film.”
Rick frowned, concerned. He was hoping to move to Los Angeles next year and try his hand at screenplays.
“To make a long story short, this guy did make a movie out of Bird of Prey, but he stiffed me on the money.
I took him to court and won, but I still got fucked. My lawyer took a good chunk of the settlement and by then I was in deep debt with bills and the IRS. I had to draw the Deadshit series to get myself above water again.” He paused for a moment and Rick caught a glimmer of the bad memories passing in his eyes. He could relate. He had been through bad times before. “Anyway, after all that happened, I decided to find the most out-of-the-way place I could and settle down.”
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