Suckers

by J. A.

  I did not weep at this.

  But I wanted to.

  Chapter 10

  Harry

  "Keeeyaaaa!"

  I struck the first cop with the knife-edge of my left hand, Drunken Jeet Kun Shaolin Monkey Fu style. I connected with the bridge of his nose, and he made like a bad poker hand and folded.

  Cop Number two pulled his weapon, but my instincts were honed like something really well-honed, and I grabbed his wrist and shoved the gun upward.

  Mayhem was bending down near the second cop's butt, but I am close to 100% positive he wasn’t sniffing anything. Following my heroic lead, Mayhem drove his shoulder into the second cop's stomach, driving him backwards.

  The gun went off, the bullet zinging over my head. Then Andrew made a fist and hit the cop in the jaw, and it was like watching a gigantic macho volcano unleashing its manly fury, all muscles and testosterone and heroics.

  Mayhem threw a series of powerhouse Clubber Lang lefts and rights, growling like a heroic grizzly bear as he pummeled the Pire. Not once did Andrew whimper like a whiney little tattletale bitch boy, no matter what anyone says.

  The cop went down, and Mayhem pried the gun from his hand and pointed it at me. I wondered if, in the frenzy of the moment, my heroic good friend had somehow forgotten who the bad guys were. I grabbed Pepe the Dancing Leprechaun and ducked.

  But Andrew had retained a clear head, and he fired at the first cop, who had gotten up behind me and was now holding one of those Conan swords, the really thick ones with the blood groove and the handle made from the tail of a dragon, but not a real dragon because they aren't real, one of those plastic dragons with reinforced graphite fibers.

  Then, somehow, the whole house burst into flames.

  "Could this be supernatural vampire magic?" I thought, searching for the dropped morphine bag.

  The screams of the damned echoed from the house. Or maybe it was the screams of all those poor fuckers who were on fire.

  They must have had some sort of meth lab in there, or maybe an oil refinery, because then there was this gimungous explosion, which blew Mayhem and I at least ten yards across the lawn.

  Sadly, Pepe didn't make it.

  Mayhem and I slowly got to our feet, picking off the burning pieces of his poor victim neighbor Dan Foltersmith, and parts of some naked elderly old women, and a heavily pierced ear that forensics later identified as belonging to Tanya Mertz, the runaway who began this whole sordid mess.

  Little Tanya had finally come home. In a very small box.

  Case closed.

  Paramedics came, with methadone to help me overcome my new addiction. And fire fighters. And news crews. And real cops without fangs who took our statements and offered me a key to the city because, in their words, "We always kinda knew there was something wrong with this house."

  Andrew Mayhem mumbled something about having to get home, so we shared a manly handshake.

  "You done good, kid," I told him. "I want you to have this."

  I reached into my pocket, and handed him a jar of spaghetti sauce. No mushrooms.

  "Thanks, Harry. We sure had some adventure, didn't we?"

  "We sure did, Andrew. We sure as hell did."

  We embraced, and then he walked stoically away, into legend.

  You can see the whole thing next summer, in the new Fatal Autonomy movie, Bloodsucker Nightmare: Harry McGlade vs. The Vampires, directed by Uwe Boll, coming direct to DVD. It will have exclusive uncut bonus footage, including eight minutes of commentary by me, and the alternate "pants-wetting ending" which Andrew assures me was just spilled water.

  They never found Vlad. And I'm man enough to admit that his undersized wee-wee sometimes haunts my dreams. Was he really a nosferatu, an undead immortal ghoul who will forever walk the earth, feasting on the living? Or was he just a fat guy with a small Johnson?

  Just to be safe, keep your doors and windows locked at night, and always carry a clove of garlic in your pants.

  And if you're alone in your room, at night, alone, reading this tale of horror, and you hear something moving around in your bedroom closet...

  RUN LIKE HELL! IT'S VLAD! HE'S GOING TO KILL YOU! GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!

  —Harrison Harold McGlade, Chicago IL.

  Chapter 11

  Andrew

  Harry McGlade has a nicer car and legions of deluded fans, but I have one thing that he doesn't: the final word.

  Since he was whacked out on morphine at the time, I'm going to excuse the fact that his final contribution to this tale of misery and woe was 97.3% inaccurate. But you already knew that.

  Let's back up to the fanged cops. I'm not in the habit of attacking officers of the law, even when they're clearly part of the nefarious scheme. However, Harry let out a cry of "Turnip power!" and threw a punch, leaving me no choice but to fight or get shot.

  I will say this for Harry, he did get in one doozy of a punch. I think it even broke the cop's jaw. The other cop, however, got in a good punch of his own, knocking McGlade against the wall. He slid to the floor.

  "I think I just wet somebody else's pants," he said.

  I took out the other cop. That part Harry got right. But my victory glow only lasted slightly longer than Harry McGlade's average sexual encounter, because I immediately spun around to find myself once again staring at Vlad and his goddamn shotgun. Tanya stood next to him.

  "If you say I'm going in The Pit again, I swear I'm gonna lose it," I said.

  Vlad shook his head. "No Pit for you this time."

  "Quick shotgun death?"

  Vlad nodded.

  "Shit."

  "I just grew a toe on my hand," said Harry, holding his hand in front of his face. "I'm not sure if it's a third or fourth toe. They both look a lot alike."

  Vlad stared at him.

  "It's winking at me with its toenail. Does anybody else think that's strange? 'Cause I don't.

  I'm naming him Toejam McSmelly. He's an Aries."

  "I'm not so sure he's The One anymore," said Tanya.

  "Wooooooooooooo," said Harry. "That's a funny word. Woooooooooooo. It sounds funny when I say it. One time I ate a whole bag of sunflower seeds without chewing, and they came out looking exactly the same. That was a pretty wild night. Woooooooooo."

  Vlad pointed the shotgun at Harry and prodded him with the barrel. "What the hell is your problem?"

  "I can fit my whole fist in my mouth. See?"

  Harry crammed four fingers into his mouth, bit down on them, and began to scream in his throat.

  "They gave this guy his own TV show?" Tanya asked.

  Vlad looked crestfallen. "There must have been a huge amount of creative license. The Harry McGlade I'm looking at...hell, he didn't even perform well at the orgy in his honor. Screw Fatal Autonomy."

  "That's right, screw Fatal Autonomy," Tanya said.

  "Screw Fatal Autonomy to hell and back!" I said.

  "Screw Fatal Autonomy," said a bunch of voices that I hadn't even realized were within earshot.

  Harry pulled his hand out of his mouth and made some smacking sounds.

  "I can taste my own tongue," he said.

  "I'm just going to put him out of his misery," said Vlad, pressing the shotgun against Harry's forehead.

  "No, no! Don't make him a martyr!" I said. "Just leave him there to wallow in his lameness.

  Me too. Don't make me a martyr, either."

  "You're right." He popped out his fangs and tossed them onto the floor. "Harry McGlade is not worthy to battle the Pires. Come, flock! We must depart before the real police arrive. There will be no sacrifice this day. We will seek...Daniel Baldwin! Away with us!"

  Vlad and the Pires filed out of the house, got into a minivan, and drove away.

  "Well," I said.

  Harry smiled. "Woooooooooooooo."

  So, the house did not burn down. There was no explosion. The Pires did not all perish, though a few days later the Beverly Hills police force caught most of them. Harry did not magic
ally pull out a jar of spaghetti sauce. My version of the events is not as dramatic, I'll admit, but that's the way it happened.

  Harry McGlade's stupidity saved his life.

  And mine.

  For that, I will be forever in his debt.

  I spent the rest of the evening being questioned by the police. And so ended my adventure.

  - The End -

  * * *

  Andrew,

  Just finished reading the manuscript. Did I really say all that shit? Wow. That was some good morphine. I'll have to get the recipe.

  I know that Chad said to let you finish it up and not make any suggestions, but c'mon, what fun is it to end the story with you being questioned by the police? Look, we faced death together, and all I'm asking is that you forget about logic for a few paragraphs and give this thing a snappy ending. Maybe some Nazi's bust in, and we kick their asses, and then get drunk. Make them girl Nazis, with big cans. Or we could just go with what I originally wrote. Uwe Boll said it was brilliant.

  At the very least, let's exchange some sort of macho camaraderie Lethal Weapon banter.

  Maybe you're so grateful I saved your life that you hug me.

  It might also be funny if your fly was open, and you zipped up real fast and got your nuts caught in your zipper. I know that didn't happen, but man, that would be sweet!

  Think it over.

  Your pal,

  Harry

  * * *

  Harry and I walked away from the burning house, our faces lit by the eerie glow.

  "You're a good man, Mayhem," he said.

  "You're a..." I winced as the word tried desperately to avoid coming out of my mouth,

  "...good man, too, McGlade."

  "Best of luck in the future."

  "You too."

  We shook hands. We did not hug.

  I returned home. Weary, yes. In pain, definitely. But I knew that somehow, in some demented, messed-up way, my encounter with Harry McGlade had made me a better person, and I would never forget the time we'd spent together. All things considered, it was a pretty good evening.

  Except that I forgot about the fucking spaghetti sauce.

  INTERVIEW

  Jeff Strand interviews Joe Konrath

  Strand says: Calling Jack Kilborn an exciting new voice in horror is sort of a cheat, since it’s the pen name for J.A. Konrath, which is the “I could totally be a chick if you want to buy a book by a chick” pen name for Joe Konrath. But Jack Kilborn is the dark, dark, dark side of Joe Konrath, and his first novel Afraid is one of the most relentless horror novels in…well, maybe ever. If you’re a fan of authors like Richard Laymon, then Afraid will have you wetting yourself and the people around you with glee. He’s usually known for incorporating lots of humor into his books, but Afraid plays it straight.

  Therefore, I conducted a serious interview with him. Then Joe suddenly was all like “D’oh! We should’ve done a funny interview!” and I was all like “I did it this way on purpose to better match the tone of Jack Kilborn” and he was all like “No! No! No! This is wrong! Can we do another interview?” and I was all like “Do you think I have nothing better to do than keep interviewing you over and over? Get a friend, for God’s sake!” and he was all like “I’ll give you a [ favor omitted]” and I was all like “Sure.” So here’s an interview with JA/Joe/Jack, who, for the convenience of this interview, will go by “Jack”…

  Jeff: You once signed books at over 600 bookstores in a single summer. I think that a truly successful author could’ve just signed at the same store 600 times and made the readers come to him. Please comment.

  Jack: My new novel, Afraid, is being released on March 31, 2009. Run out and buy it. In fact, everyone reading this, and everyone they know, and everyone then don’t know, needs to buy a copy. Oh, and that’s an excellent point you’ve brought up, that I’m going to ignore.

  Jeff: Uh, okay then. We’re 0 for 1 so far. How about you ask me a question, even though the whole point of this was to promote Jack Kilborn’s upcoming novel Afraid?

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  Jack: Okay, when we wrote our collaborative novella, Suckers, did you have as much fun working with me as I did working with me?

  Jeff: I had so much fun writing the good parts of Suckers that I had to be put on anti-giddy medication. But I’ve heard the occasional comment that the humor in Suckers may not reach a 100% maximum maturity level, and that perhaps it’s an entire novella of “Hee hee hee! Men have wieners!” What happened to our original plan to write an insightful deconstruction of the current political climate?

  Jack: Heh heh heh. You said “weiners.” Heh heh.

  Jeff: You spelled “wieners” wrong, dumb-ass.

  Jack: I’ve always wanted to ask you this: Have you ever gotten so wasted you wet the bed and then tried to convince your wife that the dog must have peed on you while you were sleeping, which was the first thing that you could think of when she caught you trying to flip the mattress over? Next time, you should wait until she gets out of bed before you try to flip the mattress.

  Also, LySol gets out lingering odors pretty good.

  Jeff: Since when does Lysol have a capital S in it? I tried that once, and my wife pointed out that we don’t own a dog. I retroactively blamed the cat, but it was unsuccessful, and then I felt guilty about incorporating an innocent cat into my web of deceit. Now we just have rubber sheets.

  Jack: I see. Very intereSting.

  Jeff: Next question: When I let you borrow my car to transport that dead hooker across state lines, you promised me that it would never happen again. It happened twelve more times. I’m starting to think that you aren’t succumbing to the uncontrollable urge to kill, kill, kill and are instead just using my car to return DVDs to Blockbuster so you don’t have to pay for gas. Is that true? Is it?

  Jack: I swear, it was all about murder. It’s always been about murder. But on your way to work, can you return these copies of Gigli and Ernest Goes to Jail for me? Can you do that, Vern? And see if they have the next Ernest film, Ernest Gets Waterboarded. I heard it has comic hijinks.

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  Jeff: Jim Varney is dead, and I’ll thank you not to mock his memory. He was the dog in Toy Story, you son of a bitch!

  Jack: But getting back to talking about Afraid, which comes out March 31. Afraid is a very scary book, with a very real end of March publication date. What scares Jeff Strand? I mean, other than those Publishers Weekly reviews you got? I didn’t even know that “sucktastic” was a word, but it must be, because they used it like eight times.

  Jeff: You’re taking that out of context. The review says “In a world of sucktastic books like those sucktastic books written by the sucktastic J.A. Konrath, whose sucktastic Whiskey Sour, sucktastic Bloody Mary, sucktastic Rusty Nail, sucktastic Dirty Martini, and sucktastic Fuzzy Navel are pure suck, it’s refreshing to see the awesomeness of Jeff Strand.”

  Jack: That sucks.

  Jeff: Shot of Tequila is an insanely entertaining book, and yet you’re practically giving it away on your website. Why don’t you charge more? I’d pay at least seven bucks to read it, if you hadn’t given it to me for free. Do you think the people who you’re charging a dollar will be mad when they see this interview and find out that you let me read it for free? What’s Shot of Tequila about, anyway? I wasn’t paying much attention because it was free.

  Jack: Selling Shot of Tequila on my website for 99 cents was an experiment. It’s an early Jack Daniels novel, except Jack is a supporting character. I wanted to see how many people would be willing to pay for an Ebook download. So far, 112. I also have free Ebooks available on my website. They’ve been downloaded–no joke–15,834 times. Which proves my hypothesis that my fans are cheap. That’s why Afraid, which comes out March 31, is available as an inexpensive paperback for only $6.99. On March 31.

  My turn for a question. In ten short years, your fan base has grown from a dozen hardcore fans to almost double that. That isn’t actually the question. The question i
s, if you were Night Owl II from Watchmen, and you had that pimped out flying submarine thingy, would you act so broody and dippy all the time?

  162

  Jeff: Probably. But I can say that if I were a guest in the submarine thingy, and it was parked in the garage, and there was a button with a very clear picture of a flame on it, I wouldn’t push the button while the submarine was indoors. So if J.A. Konrath and Jack Kilborn got into a fight, who would drop to the ground screaming “Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me!” first?

  Jack: We wouldn’t fight. We’d make-out. That’s not gay. It’s more like masturbation, with more positions. Hey, you write funny horror novels. I’ve got this great idea for a funny horror novel, about an accountant who gets bitten by a werewolf AND a vampire AND a zombie, and then gets cancer. I mean, how unlucky is THAT?!?! I want to call it “Sheldon the Un-Un-Undead Dead Guy, Who Died.” It’s also got paranormal romance in it, because that genre still has a pulse. Maybe Sheldon also gets bitten by a mummy. Do you turn into a mummy if a mummy bites you? Anyway, I’m too busy to write it, so I want you to write it, and I’ll give you 20% of the profits. You need to research that mummy thing first. Here’s an outline you can work from: Chapter 1 - The accountant gets bitten a bunch of times by monsters. Also, he’s got a hot next door neighbor who sunbathes naked.

  Chapter 2 - Some plot things happen.

  Chapter 3 - At long last, the much-awaited graphic sex scene with the hot naked next door neighbor. Also, maybe the hero does some monster stuff.

  Chapter 4-29 - More stuff happens. With twists. Remember to add some surprise twists.

  Chapter 30 - The hero dies of cancer, while having hot sex with the hot naked next door neighbor. Also, there’s a surprise ending. Maybe with a mummy. With this outline, the book will practically write itself. In fact, I’m only giving you 10%, since I did all the work.