“A folklorist’s eye for telling detail and a front-porch raconteur’s sense of pace.”
—New York Times Book Review
“A terrifically gifted storyteller.”
—Washington Post Book Review
“A zest for storytelling and a gimlet eye for detail.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Like 10-alarm chili, Lansdale is pretty strong stuff… He has become a cult figure.”
—People Magazine
“Lansdale is an immense talent.”
—Booklist
“Lansdale is a storyteller in the Texas tradition of outrageousness…but amped up to about 100,000 watts.”
—Houston Chronicle
“A great introduction to the raunchy, cheerfully unclassifiable East Texan bon vivant.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
Selected writings of Joe R. Lansdale
NOVELS
Act of Love (1980)
Texas Night Riders (1983)
Dead in the West (1986)
Magic Wagon (1986)
The Nightrunners (1987)
Cold in July (1989)
Batman: Captured by the Engines (1991)
Batman: Terror on the High Skies (1992)
Tarzan: the Lost Adventure (1995, with Edgar Rice Burroughs)
The Boar (1998)
Freezer Burn (1999)
Waltz of Shadows (1999)
Something Lumber This Way Comes (1999)
The Big Blow (2000)
Blood Dance (2000)
The Bottoms (2000)
A Fine Dark Line (2002)
Sunset and Sawdust (2004)
Lost Echoes (2007)
Leather Maiden (2008)
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
By Bizarre Hands (1989)
Stories by Mama Lansdale’s Youngest Boy (1991)
Bestsellers Guaranteed (1993)
Electric Gumbo: A Lansdale Reader (1994)
Writer of the Purple Rage (1994)
A Fistfull of Stories (and Articles) (1996)
The Good, the Bad, and the Indifferent: Early Stories and Commentary (1997)
Private Eye Action, As You Like It (1998)
Triple Feature (1999)
The Long Ones: Nuthin’ But Novellas (2000)
High Cotton (2000)
For a Few Stories More (2002)
A Little Green Book of Monster Stories (2003)
Bumper Crop (2004)
Mad Dog Summer and Other Stories (2004)
The King: and Other Stories (2005)
The Shadows, Kith and Kin (2007)
Sanctified and Chicken-Fried (2009)
HAP COLLINS AND LEONARD PINE MYSTERIES
Savage Season (1990)
Mucho Mojo (1994)
Two-Bear Mambo (1995)
Bad Chili (1997)
Rumble Tumble (1998)
Veil’s Visit (1999)
Captains Outrageous (2001)
Vanilla Ride (2009)
THE DRIVE-IN SERIES
The Drive-In: A “B” Movie with Blood and Popcorn, Made in Texas (1988)
The Drive-In 2: Not Just One of Them Sequels (1989)
The Drive-In: A Double-Feature (1997)
The Drive-In: The Bus Tour (2005)
NED THE SEAL TRILOGY
Zeppelins West (2001)
Flaming London (2006)
GRAPHIC NOVELS AND COMIC BOOKS
Lone Ranger & Tonto (1993)
Jonah Hex: Two Gun Mojo (1993)
Jonah Hex: Riders of the Worm and Such (1995)
Blood and Shadows (1996)
The Spirit: The New Adventures #8 (1998)
Red Range (1999)
Jonah Hex: Shadows West (1999)
Conan and the Songs of the Dead (2006)
Marvel Adventures: Fantastic Four #32 (2008)
Pigeons from Hell (2008)
ANTHOLOGIES EDITED
The Best of the West (1989)
New Frontier (1989)
Razored Saddles (1989, with Pat Lobrutto)
Dark at Heart (1991, with Karen Lansdale)
Weird Business: a Horror Comics Anthology (1995, with Richard Klaw)
West That Was (1994) (co-ed: Thomas Knowles)
Wild West Show (1994) (co-ed: Thomas Knowles)
Lords of the Razor (2006)
Cross Plains Universe: Texans Celebrate Robert E. Howard (2006, with Scott A. Cupp)
Retro-Pulp Tales (2007)
Son of Retro-Pulp Tales (2009, with Keith Lansdale)
FOR ADAM COATS
THE BEST OF JOE R. LANSDALE
COPYRIGHT © 2010 BY JOE R. LANSDALE
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ALL EVENTS PORTRAYED IN THIS BOOK ARE FICTITIOUS, AND ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PEOPLE OR EVENTS IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE THIS BOOK OR PORTIONS THEREOF IN ANY FORM WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER.
COVER ART © 2005 BY JOHN PICACIO. APPEARED IN TEXAS PARKS & WILDLIFE, JANUARY 2005, FOR “THE SECOND HUNT.”
COVER DESIGN BY ANN MONN
INTERIOR DESIGN BY JOHN COULTHART
TACHYON PUBLICATIONS
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(415) 285-5615
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[email protected]
SERIES EDITOR: JACOB WEISMAN
ISBN 13: 978-1-892391-94-0
ISBN 10:1-892391-94-5
ALL STORIES COPYRIGHT © BY JOE R. LANSDALE
INTRODUCTION © 2010 BY JOE R. LANSDALE.
“Godzilla’s Twelve-Step Program” © 1994. First appeared in Writer of the Purple Rage (Cemetery Dance Publications: Forest Hill, Maryland).
“Bubba Ho-Tep” © 1994. First appeared in The King Is Dead: Tales of Elvis Post-Mortem, edited by Paul M. Sammon (Delta: New York).
“Mad Dog Summer” © 1999. First appeared in 999: New Stories of Horror and Suspense, edited by Al Sarrantonio (Avon: New York).
“Fire Dog” © 2003. First appeared in The Silver Gryphon, edited by Gary Turner and Marty Halpern (Golden Gryphon: Urbana, Illinois).
“The Big Blow” © 1997. First appeared in Revelations, edited by Douglas E. Winter (Cemetery Dance Publications: Forest Hill, Maryland).
“Duck Hunt” © 1986. First appeared in After Midnight, edited by Charles L. Grant (Tor Books: New York).
“Incident On and Off a Mountain Road” © 1991. First appeared in Night Visions 8, edited by Robert E. McCammon and Paul Mikol (Dark Harvest: Arlington Heights, Illinois).
“The Events Concerning a Nude Fold-Out Found in a Harlequin Romance” © 1992. First appeared in Dark at Heart, edited by Joe R. Lansdale and Karen Lansdale (Dark Harvest: Arlington Heights, Illinois).
“White Mule, Spotted Pig” © 2007. First appeared in The Shadows, Kith and Kin (Subterranean Press: Burton, Michigan).
“On the Far Side of the Cadillac Desert with Dead Folks” © 1989. First appeared in Book of the Dead, edited by John M. Skipp and Craig Spector (Bantam: New York).
“Not From Detroit” © 1988. First appeared in Midnight Graffiti No.2, edited by Jessie Horsting and James Van Hise (Grand Central Publishing: New York).
“Cowboy” © 1997. First appeared in The Good, the Bad, and the Indifferent: Early Stories and Commentary (Subterranean Press: Burton, Michigan).
“Steppin’ Out, Summer, ‘68” © 1991. First appeared in Night Visions 8, edited by Robert E. McCammon and Paul Mikol (Dark Harvest: Arlington Heights, Illinois).
“Fish Night” © 1982. First appeared in Specter!, edited by Bill Pronzini (Arbor House: Westminster, Maryland).
“Hell Through a Windshield” © 1985 and 1989. Firs
t appeared in Twilight Zone, April 1985.
“Night They Missed the Horror Show” © 1988. First appeared in Silver Scream, edited by David J. Schow (Dark Harvest: Arlington Heights, Illinois).
Contents
CRUCIFIED DREAMS: Introduction by Joe R. Lansdale
GODZILLA’S TWELVE-STEP PROGRAM
BUBBA HO-TEP
MAD DOG SUMMER
FIRE DOG
THE BIG BLOW
DUCK HUNT
INCIDENT ON AND OFF A MOUNTAIN ROAD
THE EVENTS CONCERNING A NUDE FOLD-OUT FOUND IN A HARLEQUIN ROMANCE
WHITE MULE, SPOTTED PIG
ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE CADILLAC DESERT WITH DEAD FOLKS
NOT FROM DETROIT
COWBOY
STEPPIN’ OUT, SUMMER, ‘68
FISH NIGHT
HELL THROUGH A WINDSHIELD
NIGHT THEY MISSED THE HORROR SHOW
Crucified Dreams
Introduction
by Joe R. Lansdale
Eventually, I will come to the point as I take you on a spin through the paint mixer of my brain and dip you in the mish-mash of my nostalgia, but not quite yet. For now I speak uncensored, unfiltered, and full of madness.
Thoughts, like electric grasshoppers, jump in space and time.
When I was a child, in the fifties and early sixties, the world was full of magic, but not everyone could see it. For some the world was gray, and it could be that way for me too, unless I turned my head just right and looked for some well-lit crack in my universe so that I might peer into another that was full of color and commotion and a sense of wonder.
My mother opened the secret door first and showed me other worlds were there, and then she backed off and left it up to me to go inside and look around. She showed it to me by reading to me, fairy tales and funny animal stories from comic books, all manner of children’s stories, and pretty soon I could read, and I could do this long before I went to school, and for no reason I can clearly explain, once I learned to read, and realized the alphabet helped accomplish what I was reading, I wanted to make letters and find their order and make words and sentences and paragraphs and pages and finally, stories, and books.
But the first things I read with great enthusiasm and wanted to write, and also wanted to illustrate, were comics. I loved DC comics especially, for here were refugees from another universe, brightly colored in panels with magnificent heroes and rocket ships and monsters and most importantly to me, people who wanted to be honest and good and make the world around them a better place to be.
So I’ll say it again, and let me testify: I loved comics, and they introduced me not only to brighter and weirder worlds, but they crossed up worlds. Westerns sometimes blended with horror and science fiction and action and mystery, and sometimes my heroes, like Batman, traveled through space and time, or hung out with my favorite alien, Superman. There were men who were given powers because they were good and just and brave, like Green Lantern. Oh, man. I tried to be good and just and brave for just that reason, hoping some alien dying from a rocket crash might pass to me a power ring and a lamp with which to keep it charged.
“In brightest day and darkest night” and all that. I was primed and ready, waiting on my alien.
I sometimes wished I might find a chemical formula, if just by accident, that could be tasted by me, or that might drench me in such a way (perhaps by lightning bursting through my bedroom window and striking my chemistry set), that when it was all said and done, I would develop the ability to run at top speed, so fast I might have to wear a special red costume compacted inside a ring. I could call myself The Flash. I could vibrate through solid matter, run up walls, dash across the ocean without getting my feet wet, break the sound barrier, the time barrier, and if I was real lucky, I’d get to battle a giant super intelligent gorilla who lived in an invisible city full of other gorillas. Man, the possibilities.
As for Wonder Woman, well, I wanted to be heroic enough that she might like me. Back then I wanted to ride in her invisible plane and go to her secret island. I hadn’t yet figured out there was something else about her that attracted me as well. That skimpy costume, for example, or what was under it, and the fact that her island was secret.
But Batman was my favorite hero. He was a regular guy. He learned about all manner of things because not only was he pissed off over the murder of his parents, he was a genius. He studied chemistry, astronomy, all the sciences. He was a gymnast and a martial artist: Judo, Jujitsu, Karate, boxing and wrestling (these were about all the martial arts the reading public knew of in those days), and he was good looking and had money and the women lined up for a mile.
Yeah, baby. I wanted to be Batman.
I didn’t have the money. I thought I was okay looking, but nothing to look cool in a tuxedo at a charity benefit. In fact, I had never seen anyone in a tuxedo, or anyone who wanted to wear one. The only charity I knew about was us. We were poorer than the proverbial one-legged church mouse with a respiratory problem. I did study all the disciplines Batman studied, in a small child sort of way. I read books on chemistry and rocks and astronomy and insects and the human body, and before I realized my dad was in fact an excellent wrestler, a fair boxer, and a hell of a former country self-defense fighter, I read the one book I could get on weight training, exercise and self-defense. I don’t remember the title, but it was mostly about exercises and lifting weights, and in the back were a few self-defense techniques. I probably got it from the Gladewater library on our trips there to visit with my cousins, returning it when my mother or father went in that direction. My dad tended to do that a lot, as he was a troubleshooter for a company, gone now, called Wanda Petroleum.
But, what I’m trying to tell you in this long-around-the-block manner, via the alleyways with a look in the trashcans and a glance at the sky, is, I wanted to be Batman, and I tried. Even to this day, that character has influenced my life, leading to a thirst for knowledge. I never mastered the disciplines Batman knew. After I found out how to make baking soda boil over, my chemistry skills hit the wall. When it comes to math, once I run out of fingers and toes, I’m done. I still look at the stars, but I remember very little beyond: Oh, pretty.
What Batman did for me, though, was make me understand that the world was bigger than I knew, that there were things beyond getting out of high school and going to work and waiting for retirement. Like Batman, I wanted to be something special.
And, it would be pretty cool too if I could learn to throw a batarang.
One last time, ladies and gentleman, I’ll testify, shout it from the rooftops: I loved comic books.
Mae and Pete Green, who ran a kind of general store in my little town, one of the last of its kind, sold me comics on a regular basis, all in color and full of spandex or whatever costumes were made of in the fifties and early sixties, for a dime. Kid crack, jacked to the max. In the back of the store, half the cover page cut off, were unsold comics that were not supposed to be sold, but were in fact raffled off for a nickel a book. There were a few old pulps there too, and a lot of Popular Science and Popular Mechanics magazines. I thought that store was a little slice of heaven and for a few coins I had been given the keys.
And my mother, bless her heart, she used to sew me Batman suits with cardboard inside the ears, though, in time, this didn’t keep them from drooping until I looked a bit like a sad ear-cut Doberman with a constipation problem. She made for my nephew, who was close to my age, as my brother was seventeen when I was born and married not long after, a Robin suit. We were pretty damn cool, right there in Mt. Enterprise, waiting for crime to happen.
We did a lot of waiting. Back then there wasn’t much crime in our part of the country, least that we knew about. Though our bank was robbed on occasion, and I remember hearing about that, thinking, well, where the hell were we? Not only did we not know about the robbery, unlike Batman who always seemed to be patrolling at just the right time, we wouldn’t even have had our costumes with us if we had.
It happened midday — admittedly not a classic time for our Bat hero — but no one sent up a signal or nothing. It was over and done with and we were at the house, enjoying our summer, either watching TV or wrestling in the yard, climbing the apple tree, pretending it was a spaceship. Hell, except for the Bat cowl, when all this happened, my suit was in the wash.
I began to believe my career as a crime fighter wasn’t going to get off the ground.
But that writing thing, creating stories, I began to suspect it had chosen me, and that I had not chosen it, and that bitch was going to be a harsh but delightful mistress. Color poured into the world in a more constant fashion.
The reading of superhero comics led to my reading of other comics, and I suppose you could say more adult comics, like Classics Illustrated. These were wonderful and accurate and beautifully drawn and colored versions of classic literature. You’d be surprised what they adapted. Everything from H. G. Wells to Dickens, to all manner of books in-between; things a kid now wouldn’t bother to examine, and may never have heard of.
Classics Illustrated led me to read the books from which they were adapted, when I could get my hands on books. They weren’t readily available in small town East Texas. In fact, though I was born in Gladewater, my early years were spent in a town of 150 or so, called Mt. Enterprise. There was little enterprise to be found there, but I remember the place fondly, and it was a wonderful place for a kid to grow up. I felt like Huckleberry Finn, who didn’t mind going home. And, in fact, I preferred to wind up in my room in my bed at night, perhaps to slip secretly into the living room to watch a late night movie, preferably science fiction, and all the better yet if space aliens were involved. Even better if they were the sort that were frightening and pissed off, and no friend of Earth. It made for a better story, and I was always drawn to that more than the “they don’t really mean me any harm” aliens, though, on some level I liked it all.
Forbidden Planet, It Came from Outer Space, This Island Earth, The Day the Earth Stood Still, so many others, including one special bit of creepy nastiness, the original Invaders from Mars.
I had a bedroom that reminded me of Invaders. It had a back window that looked out on a back yard that also reminded me of the story, and not far away a stretch of woods. The movie came on late one night, on one of the three television stations available back then, one only available when the weather was
The Best of Joe R. Lansdale Page 1