by Edward Lee
Goon
by Edward Lee and John Pelan
Necro Publications
— 2010 —
— | — | —
Kindle Edition
GOON
©1996 by Edward Lee and John Pelan
Cover Art © 1996 Alan M. Clark
This digital edition 2010 © Necro Publications
Cover, Book Design & Typesetting:
David G. Barnett
Fat Cat Graphic Design
http://www.fatcatgraphicdesign.com
a Necro Publication
5139 Maxon Terrace • Sanford, FL 32771
http://www.necropublications.com
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Acknowledgments
Jonathan Snowden, Tony Gancarski, Lee Casebolt, Matt Cleary, CRZ, Survival Parkhurst, Dan the Masked Graduate, STUART, Dr. K, Dean~!, Mike Naimark, The Two Phils, Pogo Pete Stein, Rev Ray, Canz, JDW, BostonIdol, and all the regulars at tOA and DVD.
— J.P
To Dave Barnett, for the great job on the first edition; to Dave Hinch for this great job on the second.
— E.L.
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Table of Contents
Introduction
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Epilogue
— | — | —
Introduction
by t. winter-damon
First, let me openly admit that, in delving into the darkest regions of the human consciousness, in exploring the most demented extremes of perversity and aberrant behavior—a task I’ve committed myself wholeheartedly to in creating my own somewhat notorious body of works—an undesirable side effect is I’ve become quite jaded when it comes to horror fiction (and film, too, for that matter). Regardless of their pandering promises of gut-wrenching terrors, there is very little I read or see that draws more than a bored ho hum of ennui…
So very little to match those sick, feverish sensations of dread gleefully suffered while surviving a first encounter with, say, the writings of the Marquis de Sade, or Jack Ketchum’s Off Season, or Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left, or Tobe Hooper’s original The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, or George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, or David Cronenberg’s They Came from Within, or Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salo, or Jorg Buttgereit’s Nekromantik, or John McNaughton’s Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, or the ripoff Confessions of a Serial Killer, or such classics of seemingly “unredeeming social value” as those beloved Herschell Gordon Lewis’ sickflicks like Blood Feast, 2000 Maniacs, A Taste of Blood, The Wizard of Gore, and The Gore Gore Girls…? or their diseased offspring such as Blood Diner, Bloodsucking Freaks, Doctor Butcher, M.D., Don’t Go in the House, I Spit on Your Grave, Last House on Dead End Street, Maniac, Mark of the Devil, and Street Trash…
In part, I suppose, the fault lies in that we live in an age of utter hypocrisy—an age of false Puritanism and sham prudery, of the Moral Minority, where, although our newspapers and newscasts scream with closeups of bloody atrocity after bloodier atrocity, and the statisticians regale us daily with the ever-climbing percentages of teen violent crime and teen and preteen sexual activity and resultant pregnancies and AIDS infected casualties, try “pushing the envelope” in film or fiction, in these areas, and you’ll find out just how conservative/uptight The Establishment can be…Look at how Hollywood censorship chewed up the celluloid release of the “too sadistic overtones” present in the original, script-based cut of Dave Schow’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre III!
THIS “MORALISTIC” BIG-BROTHERING IS TOTAL BRAINDEAD BULLSHIT! YOU DON’T LIKE THE BOOK, YOU DON’T LIKE THE MOVIE—DON’T READ IT! DON’T WATCH IT! RIGHT…?
Okay. Okay. I’m down off my fucking soapbox, all right, already…?
Heh. In case it hasn’t hit you yet, think about this—
only 2 of the gutwrenchers I listed were books, the rest were all splatterfilms…right?
So. Who does deliver a total, no-holds-barred, bloody, puking bodyslam of a read in the world of horror fiction…? These guys and ladies can’t all be pussies and limpdicks, can they…?
Chances are, if you’re holding this book in your hot, sweaty palm, right now, then we might ASSUME you already know, right…? But, then again, you know the standard caveat regarding “ASS-U-ME”, don’t you. I mean, you might just be a pro-wrestling fan who picked this up thinking, “O, goody! a nice little book about Hulk Hogan and Sting and Hacksaw Jim Dugan and Macho Man Randy Savage and the Undertaker and The American Dream and all their ring-buddies… right? I mean, anything’s possible…
No. I don’t mean Charlie Grant. I don’t mean Ray Bradbury. Nor Ray Russell. Nor William F. Nolan. And I sure don’t mean Dean Koontz…
I could be referring, perhaps, to those high-visibility Splatter Dudes, like Clive Barker, John Mason Skipp and Craig Spector, David Schow, Ray Garton, R.C. Matheson, Joe Lansdale, the Michael Slade consortium, or (mutual pal) Killer Rex Miller…
But, quite honestly, none of these guys comes anywhere close to the writer in question, when it comes to being the true literary inheritor of the Herschell Gordon Lewis’ filmschool legacy…the UNDISPUTED, HANDS-DOWN KING of the MONDO GROSSOUT…
I believe most readers familiar with the more extreme fringes of modern horror would agree. There is only one writer whose works I always approach with that same frisson of anticipatory terror, that same sick, thrilling knotting of the stomach I felt as a child.
Okay.
Enough tapdancing.
EDWARD LEE KICKS BUTT!
Nobody.
I mean NOBODY, writes as consistently heatedly-explicit, overtheedge, bloodbathing, gutwrenching, hardcore horror as EDWARD LEE. He pulls no punches. Takes no prisoners. Makes no apologies. He WANTS to GROSS YOU OUT! BUGFUCK YOUR BRAIN! MAKE YOU PUKE! BIGTIME! And he never, never fails to deliver…
Consider his published kickass novels—GHOULS, INCUBI, SUCCUBI, COVEN, CREEKERS, THE CHOSEN, and (under the pseudonym “Richard Kinion”) SACRIFICE. Consider Lee’s release from Necro Publications—HEADER. Consider his short stories, like his notorious Stoker finalist, “Mr. Torso”, from HOT BLOOD IV, DEADLY AFTER DARK…
If that’s what you’re looking for in horror, then GOON will prove no disappointment. I guarantee you. Next to his novel, THE BIGHEAD, I believe GOON is the most nauseatingly repulsive, dementedly perverse can’t-put-it-down-no-matter-how-much-you-want-to page-turner to yet bear his name, chock full of sex-u-ral deviates and muckjumpin’ bughouse schizoid freaks, and psycho possum-chompers from Hell…
Now, Edward Lee is one sick, corpsegrinding fuck of a writer, but you tagteam him with another stone twisto, chainsaw-huggin’ whackadoo like the notorious Darkside Press’ Editor/Publisher John Pelan—the same psycho who brought you the DARKSIDE: HORROR FOR THE NEXT MILLENNIUM anthology and such demented collections as Wayne Allen Sallee’s WITH WOUNDS STILL WET—and add to that not only Pelan’s creative proclivities for the perverse but also his preeminent knowledge of the wrestling scene (this guy is actually friends with some pro wrestlers!)—you’re in for one gut-grabbing rollercoaster ride to Hell, count on it…
I kid you not, reading GOON, I could barely tolerate the mere sight of food for nearly two days afterwards…
I confess. It was the sex scene between Officer Straker and Ghoula that d
id it for me…
I mean, this shit could damn near turn a stone horndog pussyhound celibate for life…
So, hang on, have some truly devilish, demented fun, and get ready for one HELLUVA GROSSOUT…
And, to paraphrase the immortal/immoral words of the Granddaddy of Gore, hisself, Herschell Gordon Lewis, just keep tellin’ yourself:
“It’s only a book! It’s only a book!”
FINAL CAVEAT: It may be. But I’d still keep a pack of those industrial-strength airline flightbags handy!
TRUST ME…
t. Winter-Damon,
Prophet of the Perverse,
Tucson, Arizona
10 July 1996
— | — | —
Prologue
“I liked that.”
Felander shuddered as he watched the tall man put the last of seven stitches into his torn lip. The man hadn’t even removed his mask for the operation. The dead, flat nailhead eyes peered from the typical red canvas shell, with glittery blue trimming. Just his ruined mouth and flat, dead eyes exposed.
“Who do I wrestle tomorrow?”
“Slick Dare, Luntville,” Felander answered. But this was obligatory too. He wasn’t thinking about tomorrow night’s card. “An easy work. You come after him with a bat, then he snatches it and hits you in the head. Same gimmick as the last three cards.”
“Um. Fine.” The mammoth figure turned, disappearing behind the scarlet curtain. “Good night.”
Yeah, goodnight. Felander winced when he looked at the mutilated body on the floor. What a mess, he thought.
««—»»
The black Winnebago rumbled down the road. Trees on either side splintered the moonlight, a lambent webwork glissading over the vehicle’s black-lacquered finish.
Just a nice quiet ride through the woods, Jon Felander thought behind the wheel. Things could be worse, couldn’t they? He couldn’t wrestle anymore himself—blown knee. The promotion was about to get rid of him as manager for the big names like Dare and Ghoula and Funk. You’ve lost your spark, Jon, Virgil Watts had told him. But then Felander had brought in the spark.
And, besides, the money wasn’t bad. It was just these late-night drives that bothered him, and of course the clean-up duties.
The Winnebago slowed at a spur on the road. Crickets chirruped when he rolled down the high window and tossed the bag into an adjacent ravine.
There was a tiny splash in the night, then the massive vehicle pulled off.
The bag contained two human hands and feet, twenty-eight teeth, and two eyeballs.
— | — | —
Part 1
Lee couldn’t believe he’d let Lucille talk him into coming to this. A wrestling match, for Christ’s sake. Everyone knew this shit was fake, so what was the point?
“Isn’t this great?” Lucille enthused.
“Yeah. Terrific.”
But fake or not, Luntville Coliseum was packed. For a whopping seven bucks a pop, they had the best seats in the house, front row, center ring—so close you could smell these guys. When one took a face slap, their sweat flew out and sprayed you. Right now, amid a cacophony akin to the Superbowl, two guys were hamming it up fierce in the so called “Squared Circle,” some big guy with bleached blond hair and a bigger guy in a mask. The fans went wild, everything from ten year-old kids to senior citizens. Lee watched unimpressed as the guy in the mask picked up the blond and slammed him to the canvas with what the announcer called a tombstone pile-driver. The larger man then picked the prone grappler up in what Lee recognized as an airplane spin and tossed him deftly out of the ring.
“So who’s Blondie?” Lee asked. “He’s the good guy, huh?”
Lucille rolled her eyes at his ineptitude. “That’s Slick Dare, and he’s the Face.”
“The Face?”
“That’s what they call good guys. Faces. Bad guys are called Heels.”
You learn something new every day, Lee reasoned, and dug into his box of popcorn. Intermittent glances, though, nagged at him. The guy in the mask—The Heel, Lee corrected himself—had just jumped off the top rope and somersaulted toward this blond guy named Dare. At the last moment, Dare jerked away and the masked guy landed belly-first on the concrete floor. The fans exploded.
“Did you see that?” Lucille remarked. “Still think this is all fake?”
“Come on,” Lee replied. “The Heel dove out of the ring and landed on the floor. Big deal. These guys train for years to take falls.”
Then—
thwack! thwack! thwack!
Lee watched as the Heel repeatedly smashed a metal folding chair against the top of Dare’s pristinely blond head. “They’re special chairs,” Lee insisted. “They look real but they’re actually made of plastic. I can’t believe how fake this shit is.”
Lucille scowled at his pessimism but then shrieked in glee as Slick Dare suplexed the masked guy on the cement floor. He turned and bowed to the cheering crowd. Behind him, the Heel rose, hauling a baseball bat out from under the ring. Lucille screamed and pointed: “Slick! Slick! Behind you!”
Naturally, Mr. Dare didn’t hear Lucille, nor did he seem to hear the several thousand other people screaming the same warning. At the last moment, he turned, snatched the bat away from the Heel, and—
Ka-KRACK!
—broke it over the Heel’s head.
The applause deafened Lee as Slick Dare jogged back to the dressing room, arms raised in victory in spite of the disqualification. Two men in white came out with a stretcher, and began lifting the Heel onto it.
“How’s that for fake?” Lucille challenged.
Lee laughed. “You kidding me? He hit the guy in the head with a balsa wood bat. You couldn’t hurt a lady bug with that thing.” But just as he’d finished the statement, something touched his foot. Lee looked down.
It was the fat half of the broken bat.
I’ll prove it’s balsa wood, he thought, and picked it up.
And pick it up he did, his eyes widening at the feel of its weight and density. Ash splinters jutted sharply from the break, and Lee knew at once.
This ain’t balsa wood. Jesus Christ. This is a real fucking Louisville Slugger…
His gaze trailed off, watching the two guys in white lug the Heel away on the stretcher.
Lee dropped the broken bat with a sick sensation in his gut. “What, uh, what’s that guy’s name?”
“I told you, Slick Dare.” Lucille grinned. “Isn’t he handsome?”
“No, no, not him, the other guy. The Heel.”
“Goon,” she said. “His name is Goon.”
««—»»
The flood of semen eddied into Melinda’s mouth. Her eyes squeezed shut. For a moment, she feared she might gag and blow all the sperm out her nose.
“Yeah, oh shit, honey,” Reed said. The big black hands gripped her head like a vise. The penis in her mouth felt like a baby pig. Melinda thought it was going to push all the way down into her stomach when he came. Gimme a break! she thought.
“Aw, yeah.” Eventually he pushed her mouth off. “Gonna be a good girl and swallow, right?”
Melinda gulped it down, wincing. She should be used to it now; it all tasted pretty much the same: like thin, hot snot. She sighed and leaned back. Reed the Butcher sat down on the bed. He grinned slyly. “You ringrats sure can suck a cock, oh yeah. You oughts to have a belt, baby: Deep South Conference Cock-Suck Champ.”
“Thanks,” Melinda said. “You really know how to flatter a woman.” After nearly a month of this, Melinda Pierce figured she could now call herself a full-fledged ringrat. She was willing to do whatever it took to get what she wanted, and there was one thing she wanted in a big way:
Goon.
The trail of broken, abused bodies was too obvious. She knew it was him; his handiwork was unmistakable. The only problem was…
Finding the big son of a bitch.
Unabashed at her nakedness, she lounged back on the motel bed, reached for her bottle of Canada Dry
to wash the fetid taste of Reed the Butcher’s Man Batter out of her mouth. But when she glanced aside, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
Reed, still in a sitting position, urinated gustily into the carpet. “Pissin’, baby. What’s it look like?”
“You ever heard of a toilet?”
Reed guffawed. “Shee-it, honey. This whole fucking $30-a-night motel is a toilet.”
The stream of urine churned rents into the pile. It looked to be about a gallon. All Melinda could do was shake her head.
But she mustn’t forget her purpose. So what if the guy just pissed on the rug? I’ve got to find out about—
“Hey, baby. Ya know, I got some good friends down the other end of the motel. Cool guys, all of ‘em, and they won’t try no shit, lemme tell ya. But-what’cha think? You interested in pullin’ a train?”
A train. Christ, she thought. A choo-choo train. A gang-bang. Melinda had heard that ringrats do stuff like that all the time. She didn’t quite understand the phenomenon. Sexual attraction was one thing, but… Shit. These guys were mostly dopes. Fucking brain-dead morons, but the interlude with Reed had hardly satisfied her, and it was still early. Sure, most of these guys were morons, but they did know how to party. And most them were built, a lot of them, like Dare and Dude and Romeo—and this dolt here, Reed the Butcher—they had great bodies, plus they were quite frequently over-compensated for in the genital department. But there’s more to the attraction than that, isn’t there? Melinda thought. That’s what’s so great about these guys. Rough sex and all the sensations that a veritable cornucopia of drugs and booze could provide and she wanted to taste it all.