by Mike McCarty
Partners In Slime
by
Michael McCarty
and
Mark McLaughlin
Introduction by Gregory L. Hall
Afterword by David Dunwoody
Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998
www.damnationbooks.com
Partners In Slime
by Michael McCarty
and Mark McLaughlin
Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-349-2
Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-350-8
Cover art by: Matt Truiano
Edited by: Kim Richards
Copyright 2011 Michael McCarty
and Mark McLaughlin
Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
1st North American and UK Print Rights
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Michael McCarty says:
I’d like to thank:
My partner in slime–Mark McLaughlin
My partner in life, my wife–Cindy McCarty
The memory of beloved rabbit–Kitty The Bunny
Friends, fans, fellow writers and bookstores deserve thanks, too: William F. Nolan, P.D. Cacek, Louise Bohmer, Amy Grech, Linnea Quigley, C. Dean Andersson, Joe McKinney, Jody R. LaGreca, Nate Kenyon, Dave and Julie Thompson, Jim and Charlee Jacob, Sherry Decker, Jean Brandt, Gabrielle Faust, Scott Madsen and family, Daniel Shields, the Hultings, the McCartys, Camilla Bowman, Mel Piff, Ron Stewart, Ronster, Latte, Christopher Kowalsky, Joyce Godwin Grubbs, Joan Mauch, the Creature Feature Tombkeeper, NVF, the Neumiller Family, Julian from Port of Spain, R.L. Fox, The Source Bookstore, Borders, Barnes & Noble, the Midwest Writing Center and the fine staff at Damnation Books.
Mark McLaughlin says:
I’d like to thank some of the many stars in my personal universe:
Greg C.: It may not seem possible, but the light of one exceptional star can dispel every shadow.
My fellow slime-slinger Mike McC., Cindy McC. and Kitty T.B.: The first family of horror.
Pamela B. and Martha G.T.: My guiding lights.
Shane R.S., Jerrod B. and S.D.: Three supportive guys with excellent taste in fiction.
Andrew W.: The nicest fellow I’ve never actually met!
Mark B.: My dear pal from across the big pond, so good to have you in my cyber-life.
Rick M.: Old chum, I’ll never throw you to the sharks.
The good and kindly folks at Damnation Books, Skullvines Press, Delirium Books, Medallion Press, Sam’s Dot Publishing, Bad Moon Books, and indeed, all publishers who love horror fiction as much as I do.
Tang: Move over, Dog Star–the Cat Star shines with a fierce orange light.
All my Facebook friends: So many stars, and such bright ones, too! Together, you form a swirling galaxy of warmth and splendor.
Table of Contents
Introduction by Gregory L. Hall
Part One:
McHORROR!
Collaborative Short Stories
by Michael McCarty and Mark McLaughlin
Blood from a Stone
The Bride of Bugboy
The Pint-Size Revenge of Baby Caligula
Military Mite
The Ten Klown-Mandments
City of Two-Thousand Sins
Night of the Squealers
Sex, Drugs & Rot ‘N’ Roll
The Resurrection of Ghattambah
Mark and Mike Stories Co-written with the Zombie Ladies:
Kyra M. Schon of Night of the Living Dead and Linnea Quigley of Return of the Living Dead
Arlene Schabowski of the Undead by Mark McLaughlin
and Kyra M. Schon
The Wizard of Ooze by Michael McCarty and Linnea Quigley
Part Two:
McTERROR!
Solo Novellas
Giant Cockroaches from Outer Space by Michael McCarty
The Nightmare Quadrant: The Legacy of Alphonse Sweetwater-DuBois by Mark McLaughlin
Afterword by David Dunwoody
About the Authors
Introduction
Spank Him And I Feel It
by Gregory L. Hall
It’s only fitting that when writing an intro for such a power-duo as Michael McCarty and Mark McLaughlin that I should also have a partner to scribe these words in praise of their collective work in Partners In Slime. But after weeks of searching, posting on various facespaces and placing actual ads that I had to pay for in every genre magazine I could think of, not one person stepped up. Not one.
I’ve come to realize being a power-duo is much harder than I first anticipated.
McLaughlin and McCarty. For years now their names have been connected and celebrated in the horror world. Numerous books and collections and awards. Both have a gift for writing fun fiction, talented men these. Mark has an out-of-control imagination that allows him to be silly at 300mph. Michael is a playful wordsmith who could beat your grandmother to death with a barrage of puns and not give a dookie. Combine the two and it’s like having Robin Williams work with the Daily Show, if Mark and Mike were world famous and super-rich. And I think Jon Stewart once slept with Gillian Andersen from the X-Files so there is that difference as well.
But that’s not the point I’m trying to make here. Duos. Partnerships. Dare I say a marriage of sorts. Few of us can make any of these terms successful, especially over a long span of time. Rattle them off. Abbott and Costello. They made it work despite hating each other. That doesn’t fit Mike and Mark who are truly great friends and it shows in their collaborations. Laurel and Hardy. Look what happened to them. They’re dead. Mark and Mike are not, and with both of them under 30 years of age, won’t be any time soon. How about Lucy and Ricky? The first power-couple in TV. Built an empire together and revolutionized how things are done. But as we saw in their show, they slept in separate beds. Mike and Mark do not.
Of course there is always the possibility that the two Mc’s have what is called in the biz the ‘Matt Damon-Ben Affleck’ arrangement. If you recall these two boyhood buddies penned the Academy Award winning Good Will Hunting. Hollywood was in awe of the gold spun from their bond. As another legendary duo, Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, handed the mantle of celluloid brilliance over to this ambitious young superstar team-up, the world knew we’d be seeing so many more powerful scripts from these two.
And we’re still waiting.
Want to know why? Matt Damon is a fine writer who worked Good Will Hunting over and over again. And Ben Affleck got them pizza.
When you are youthful and talented and your high school buddy is not-so-much at your level but it’s all you know, a loyal friend will say ‘Ben, I couldn’t have finished this script without you, man. Oh, and can you grab some bread sticks too?’
Tell me which of the McLaughlin-McCarty duo is Ben Affleck? You can’t. In this collection you will see short stories they’ve written together. You w
ill see novellas they’ve written apart. They even team up with other partners not known for writing (super groovy zombie movie icons Linnea Quigley and Kyra M Schon) to really show off.
In the mash-up of McCarty and McLaughlin, the pizza never gets picked up.
A true fan can see what each brings to any story and we grin much the same way when we are able to pick out which lyrics were written by John and which were by Paul in a Beatles tune. They have that ability like all the great combinations to be unique yet meld together so perfectly. Their chemistry is the equivalent of the McDonalds technology that was able to make the hot stay hot and the cold stay cold…yet deliver unto us a delicious McDLT when it was time to bite down.
I’d love to focus on the flaws of working with a partner. Unless an arrangement is made where the final decision of ‘rocks, paper, scissors’ determines who gets all the cash, you have to split the money you make in half. But the Mc’s would simply spin it to the positive and say you not only double the quality of the work, you double the fan base and the exposure. How about top billing? One of you has to be listed first and that always raises potential for ego punching. Nope. I’ve seen some of their books listed as McCarty/McLaughlin and others the opposite. These guys are so supportive of each other they switch off on their shower rotation so every other day each one is guaranteed the full glut of hot water.
Fact is I’m jealous. I’m bitter and jealous and bitter. Mark McLaughlin and Michael McCarty are the best writing team in horror/comedy. Or God let me fix this so I don’t get hate mail- the best in comedy/horror as well. Others may have a one time hit that climbs higher on the best sellers list but then the partnership is like Cher’s virginity. You’re pretty sure it once existed but you can only count the days back to when it was last reported to have been seen.
These gents will be cranking out incredible fiction together twenty years from now. And when they’re put into an assisted living center together they’ll take turns smearing prose in Jell-o on the walls of the old folks home.
Me? I can’t find someone to stand me long enough to contribute even the adjectives needed for all the bombastic, fantastical, anti-heinous gelatinous praise I want to heap upon them. And in that realization, it’s occurred to me that perhaps the ability to partner with someone so seamlessly is a talent and a gift in itself.
You hold in your hand their definitive collection. Individually they are at the top of their game. Together? Double that.
Part One:
McHORROR!
Collaborative Short Stories by Michael McCarty and Mark McLaughlin
Blood from a Stone
The handsome red-haired man walked down the long, dim corridor. His face had the healthy glow of a man in his mid-twenties. He wore a long white coat with a gold medal pinned to the lapel. He glanced at a clock on the wall–almost midnight. He wondered if the halls of this nursing home were just as dim at noon. He walked past the security guard station.
“Hey! Wait up,” said a heavyset man in a coffee-stained uniform. His office chair creaked as he lifted himself to his feet. “How did you get in here?”
The red-haired man turned, smiled pleasantly at the guard, but said nothing.
The guard frowned. “Do you work here?”
The man in white shrugged. “I do have work to do here tonight.” He stared at the guard with brilliant green eyes. “You seem tired. You should take a nap. Don’t mind me. I’m just running an errand.”
The guard opened his mouth to say something, but all that emerged was a yawn.
“Sleep, my fat friend,” the red-haired man said with a laugh. “Sleep until dawn. No one will know.”
With a weary nod, the guard settled back into his chair.
The man in white continued down the hall, listening to the gasps and snores and machine beeps coming from the various rooms. Old people. Worn-out bodies, clinging to life. It seemed odd to him that most creatures grew feeble with age. Shouldn’t they grow stronger? That seemed to make more sense.
He saw that he was approaching the nurses’ station. All the white-clad women were standing around, chatting and drinking coffee. Some were smoking cigarettes. One was even smoking next to a sign that said THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING. Of course, this was a night shift–the hard and fast rules of the day no doubt departed with the setting sun.
“May I help you?” asked a plump, middle-aged blonde nurse. All the nurses were clearly surprised to see him–their eyes were wide with curiosity, and perhaps attraction, too. The smoker quickly put out her cigarette.
The red-haired man decided to have fun with them. “I am Dr. Acula, here to see one of my patients. I must say, it dismays me to see the lot of you chatting–and smoking!–on company time. Surely you have work to do.”
“Dr. Acula?” the plump blonde raised an eyebrow. “Never heard of you.”
The man in white smiled, opened his green eyes wide and stared, his eyes slowly scanning from one woman to the next. “Really? That surprises me. I’m actually somewhat of a celebrity. People all over the world are familiar with my work. Are you sure you haven’t heard of me? Think about it...search your minds...in fact, I bet if you all went to sleep, you’d probably remember and have lovely dreams about me. Why don’t you do that? Fall asleep. Lovely dreams. Lovely. All about me.”
He stared and stared, and the nurses began to yawn. One by one, they sank from sight behind the counter of the nurses’ station. Soon he heard a few petite snores, and some not so petite.
“Good night, ladies,” the red-haired man whispered as he continued on his way.
He approached the last door on the left, opened it and entered the darkened room. The only light came from a few tiny red bulbs on various monitors. The man in white could see perfectly well in the dark, and he drew closer to the bed. The old man sleeping there wheezed fitfully.
“Wake up, Dr. Van Helsing,” he whispered. “Or can I call you Abraham, after all these years?”
“Hmmm?” the silver-haired, bearded man stirred, then opened his eyes. He put out a hand toward the nightstand and fumbled with the lamp until he managed to turn it on.
“Well. It’s you,” he said, staring up at his visitor. “I recognize that medal. The rest I’ve never seen before. You’re young now. With red hair? Your people don’t have red hair.”
“I am not typical of my people,” the visitor said. “I can be many things, as you well know. Tonight, I am showing you a side of myself you’ve never seen before. I thought that would amuse you.” He laughed as he tapped the tip of the old man’s nose with a forefinger.
“The fact that you have a sense of humor,” Van Helsing said, “is probably the most surprising fact I’ve ever learned about you. How can one who is so evil, who has killed so many, be able to laugh?”
“Because I am just a child,” the man in white said. “A child is one whose death is too far away to cause worry, and since I shall never die...” He laughed again. “The world is my playpen and your sort are my toys. And my baby bottles.”
The old man looked him up and down. “You are thin now. And young. Or at least, the appearance of youth. Your face looks...elfin. Angular. Feline, actually. Yes, like a cat’s face.” He frowned. “I wish I knew all your secrets. That would make me happy, to know how one man–if indeed you are a man–can be so many things.”
“Well, Abraham,” the visitor said, “you may never learn all of my secrets, but soon I shall know all of yours.” He opened his eyes wide, his beautiful, brilliant green eyes. He smiled down at the old man. “So tell me.”
“Tell you what?” Van Helsing asked.
The red-haired man shrugged lazily.
“This is absurd,” the old man cried. “Why should I tell you anything?” He pressed the nurse call button.
“That won’t do you any good.” The man in white said. “Your keepers are asleep
at their posts. Now tell me.”
“I have nothing to tell you!” Van Helsing opened a drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a Bible. “I take it you are still afraid of this?”
The red-haired man chuckled. “Sorry, no. Crosses, holy water, all those things–the world’s climate has changed, and I’ve changed with it.” He snatched the book out of the old man’s hands and tossed it into the shadows beyond the foot of the bed. “Nobody believes in any of that now, so why should I? I keep up with the times. There are so many exciting things to do these days. I love this new age of technology and convenience. It makes religion seem so...trite.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Though in a way, I’m practically a religious figure myself these days. People feel compelled to share their woes–their confessions–with me. As though I were a priest.” He stared at the old man. “So tell me what you want to tell. What you need to tell.”
Van Helsing stared back. “This is foolishness. Some wicked game of yours.” He looked into the red-haired man’s brilliant eyes. “You are a beast. Your eyes remind me of a cat I used to have, back when I was little. A huge orange tomcat with a crook in his tail. He used to try to eat off my plate. He would grab my cold-cuts and run off with them. I used to love cold-cuts lightly sprinkled with sugar. I wish I could have some right now, but I have diabetes.”
“Really? Tell me more,” the red-haired man said.
“Back then, I used to tease Nick Perkowski all the time,” the old man said. “Once I made him eat a box elder bug, then he went off crying. I used to call him Crybaby Nick. Oh, and once I paid a seven-year-old girl to lift up her dress and show me her underwear. I was about nine years old. I guess I was being bad just to be bad. When my mother died, my father changed from a loud, happy man to a quiet, sad man. I didn’t cry at my mother’s funeral. She never talked to me very much, so I wasn’t all that sad. But I felt bad that I wasn’t as upset as my father. I used to think there was something wrong with me that way.
“Every now and then I watched Nick’s older sister Carla undress. I would climb up a tree outside their house at night and watch as she took off her clothes. Her underwear was very lacy. I was so stupid, I worried that watching her undress would make her pregnant. My parents never explained those things to me. My cat used to pee in my shoes. That cat–what was his name? I cried when he was killed by the neighbor’s dog. Tangerine, that was his name! He was so tiny as a kitten. Who knew he would grow so big? I cried when that cat died, but I didn’t cry over my mother.”