Outside, sirens wailed.
Stackalee tipped his Stetson and disappeared into the shadows. His footsteps echoed through the house, keeping time for the lyrics that spilled over his bloody lips.
Now late at night you can hear him in his cell,
Arguin' with the devil to keep from goin' to hell.
And the other convicts whisper, "Watcha know about that?
Gonna burn in hell forever over an old Stetson hat!"
Billy Lyons closed his eyes and whispered, "Everybody's talking 'bout Stackalee."
A Couple of Wolves At the Door
As a tail-end baby boomer, I grew up loving black-and-white movies with teenage monsters, giant bugs, and flying saucers. There's an undeniable lowbuck humor to most of these fifties cheesefests, but to tell the truth there aren't many of them that hold up very well for today's viewers. I'm not sure exactly why that is. Maybe you had to grow up on those movies to see past the cheese. Or maybe you need to be able to place yourself close enough to the original context of those movies to steel yourself against the camp factor. Either way, I can still make the trip.[36]
So I'll readily admit that more than a few of those old black-and-white timewasters give me a charge when I slap them in the VCR or DVD player, and I should probably be ashamed to admit how much I love them. Just in case you're not familiar with the kind of movies I'm talking about, I'll list a few faves here: I was a Teenage Frankenstein, I Was a Teenage Werewolf, Them!, Invaders from Mars, Tarantula, Teenagers from Outer Space, The Mole People, The Cyclops, She-Demons, Earth vs. the Spider... I could go on and on....
I wanted to find a way to translate that enthusiasm into my fiction. "Tooth & Nail" was an early attempt at writing a story with a drive-in movie sensibility. Stephen King mined this vein early on with tales of haunted cars and teenage delinquents returning from the dead for one last chicken ride. He made the whole exercise look effortless, and I could never quite figure out how he pulled it off. It's a fine line to walk. Writing about a haunted hot rod or a walking corpse with a ducktail and a leather jacket is the stuff of obvious parody. Getting the reader to take that kind of material seriously enough to actually feel a chili from it is a real challenge.
I found out soon enough that it wasn't easy to do that. I had some "drive-in" story ideas in mind, but I didn't want to go the obvious route with them. I didn't want to do the kind of straight-ahead parody Robert Aspirin or Piers Anthony might try. I wanted to have my cake and eat it too. My goal was to invest my stories with a dramatic energy that would involve readers enough to get them inching toward the edge of their seats, and at the same time provide a few laughs through the very nature of the material (i.e. the archetypes found in drive-in movies).
It took me awhile to figure out how to do that. After a few attempts that went over the top from the get-go, I discovered that the secret was pretty much the same approach I used when constructing all my stories. First, I needed to invest in the situation and the characters, no matter how outlandish they might be. Whether I was writing about a teenage monster, a bounty-hunting werewolf, or a high school witch, I tried to give my characters a walking talking sense of everyday reality. I knew going in that I'd have to get the reader to buy the character if I wanted them to buy the over-the-top scenario I was selling.
The humor came as an outgrowth of the story. I wasn't after jokes or puns that came straight at the reader. Instead, I wanted to introduce a more sardonic kind of wit that came from the characters, from their perceptions of the events (no matter how outrageous) and the conflicts they encountered in the course of the story, and—sometimes most importantly—their interplay with the other characters in the piece.
By the time I wrote "'59 Frankenstein," I was getting a pretty solid handle on the setup and follow through I've described above. That story starts off with a straightforward situation you wouldn't be surprised to find in any fifties J. D. melodrama—a kid asking his father if he can borrow the car keys. Only in "'59 Frankenstein," the kid is a teenage monster and the father is the overbearing scientist who made him. The story worked pretty well, balancing straight-ahead suspense with that sardonic humor I was after. The same kind of approach also worked in a story called "The Pack," which was about a (maybe, maybe not) werewolf motorcycle gang laying siege to a backwater town in the early sixties. I also used it in "She's My Witch," another story set in the fifties.
"Tooth & Nail" features both a werewolf and a vampire. It was written about five months before I did "'59 Frankenstein," and it also predates "The Pack" and "She's My Witch." I had a lot of fun with the characters in this one. At one point, I thought I'd do more with Birddog and The Jones. I enjoyed hanging out with them,[37] though I don't know why I made the werewolf in this story a surfer instead of a leather-jacket-wearing juvenile delinquent. If there was anything in this edition of Mr. Fox that I was sorely tempted to revise, it was that.
A werewolf with a surfboard.
It just doesn't seem right.
So that's the deal with one wolf at the door (with a surfboard). Now let me talk about another one—the wolf that wants to take a bite out of your checkbook.
Most of the stories in this volume were sold to small press magazines or anthologies, and (no surprise here) most of them didn't earn me much in the way of $$$$. Probably the low end of the small press payment scale was 1/4 cent a word (that's what Grue paid), and the high end was 3C a word (which was the rate over at Noctulpa). The most money per word I made for a story in this book was 8C per for "¡Cuidado!," which sold to an anthology put out by a gaming company.
So, I wasn't getting rich writing these stories, but I didn't worry too much about that at the time. The way I saw it, I was publishing to learn my craft and learn the business. If "real" money was going to come, I knew that it would come later.
Most of the time, I didn't try to negotiate my pay rate when an editor/publisher accepted a piece. In most situations, I don't think there was more to get in the way of $$$$$. Those publishers sure weren't socking away a fortune in profit from their little 'zines, so trying to negotiate with them wouldn't have exactly been a profitable use of my time or energy.
But that doesn't mean there weren't other things I could have asked for besides money. There were. And while they weren't things that would necessarily make me any richer, they were things that might have done me some good.
It took me awhile to learn to ask for those things, and how to ask for them. One thing's for sure, it always pays to be reasonable and polite when dealing with editors and publishers. Sometimes how you ask for something is just as important as what you ask for. In other words, it's important to be a pro, especially if you want your phone to ring the next time the editor in question is putting a project together.
End of etiquette lesson. Now on to the meat of the meal. Here are some things you can ask for in addition to money when selling your stories to markets large and small:
• If it's a magazine, ask for free ad space. If you've got a book for sale, that'll provide you with an opportunity to promote it. It'll also make a nice impression on the publisher of that book—you just saved him some money and got the word out about his product.
• Same thing if you're publishing on the web (or if the publisher to whom you're selling your story has a website): ask to run a banner on his site and/or add a link to your site. This can promote another work or lead readers to your website... in the end, it all means more attention for you and your work.
• For both print magazines and websites: if your work is beginning to gain attention, see if you can interest the editor in an interview. Most readers love to find out what writers have to say about their work, and an interview will give you a good opportunity to promote other projects.
• Ask for more contributor's copies of the magazine or anthology you're involved in. in some cases you might want to sell these extra copies yourself, or you can use them as a promotional tool. Many professional writers run contests on their websites with free b
ooks as the carrot to get people to sign up for promotional e-mails, etc. Apart from that, I've yet to meet an editor or publisher who doesn't like to get free books, especially if we're talking about a nice limited edition volume. Even editors in New York with whom you might be building a relationship will get excited about a freebee. Not to say that something like that will get you a novel deal... but it might get your novel looked at a whole lot quicker than it would be otherwise, and with a kinder eye.
• I've never pushed it this hard, but some writers do: I've known guys who routinely ask for their name to appear on the cover of any magazine/anthology in which they have a story. Some will ask for the lead slot in the magazine (i.e. their story comes first); some will ask the editor to consider a cover image based on their story. Personally, those requests all cross the line for me. The way I see it they're editorial decisions...not mine.
Of course, there's one other rule that will stand you in good stead; always get paid for your work. Make that a priority; and, as you move up the career ladder, make the size of your checks a priority, too.
And don't work for free. Early on, I decided that submitting my fiction to markets that didn't offer at least a token payment was a waste of my time. I never submitted stories to markets that paid nothing at all, or only paid in contributors' copies. If an editor wasn't even willing to invest a token sum in me, I wasn't willing to invest my talent in him or his product. And, for the most part, that's the way I've played it—since I started publishing in 1989, I've given away exactly one story, to a British Fantasy Society publication called Chills.
Why'd I do it? Simple. The editor was the first guy who came asking for a Norm Partridge story. He wrote me a fan letter, said he admired my work, and asked to run a piece in his magazine.
It was the first time an editor came looking for me, instead of the other way around. That was a moment I'd been waiting for, and at the time it was a good enough reason for me to make an exception to my rule. After all, sometimes rules are made to be broken.
TOOTH AND NAIL
In a vault beneath a ruined house, the Lord of the Night rose from his coffin. One slow movement, much practiced over the years, performed with a macabre grace that raised gooseflesh upon the heaving breast of the comely maiden chained to the wall.
The Lord of the Night trained his depraved stare upon her innocent blue orbs. She looked away, whimpering, and he knew that only the gag stuffed between the maiden's ruby lips prevented her from releasing an agonized scream or a woeful plea for mercy. He approached her, his cape whispering over the dank floor. With manicured fingernails, he gently tickled the meaty wound upon her delicate neck.
A delicious tremble shook her very being, and she swooned.
This pleased the Lord of the Night. He attempted a malevolent smile, but the memory of his recent encounter with a man who wore a silver gauntlet over one fist stunted his smile at an embarrassed grin.
The man with the silver gauntlet was the maiden's protector. At least, that was what the man believed. The Lord of the Night knew that this was not so. From the moment his eyes first met those of the maiden, he had known that she was only for him. He would be her protector. Her final protector. Just as he had done for so many others. How many, he could not quite recall.
No matter. Surely, the man's ingenuity had surprised the Lord of the Night. And the human had proved a dangerous opponent, certainly. The Lord of the Night could well remember spitting teeth in the wake of the man's attack. But, in the end, it was the Lord of the Night who held triumph in his evil grip. He had dispatched his foe with startling force, and, in spite of his wounds, had supped upon the blood of his enemy's charge, she who had so recently whimpered and trembled and swooned at the very sight of him. She who wore chains on her wrists of marble, and the mark of his remaining fang upon her ashen neck.
Yes, this was triumph. He laughed heartily, shaking his fists at the worm-eaten beams overhead, his eyes cold fire branding the corpses of his previous victims. Once his sustenance, now only decaying mannequins locked in helter-skelter poses, horrid decor for his shadow-choked bedchamber.
And when he had vented his wicked merriment, the Lord of the Night climbed the stairway and strode through the house, ready for the vile beauty of another night of wanton menace.
He flung open the front door and trained his iron gaze upon the town. Humanity had abandoned this place long ago, no doubt in fear of him. Normally, the view of the deserted streets and the crumbling relics which mankind had left behind — matched with the eldritch spectacle of the final sliver of sunlight being buried in the decrepit cemetery on the edge of town beneath a shovelful of night sky — would have cheered the vampire's cold heart, but this night it did not.
For the Lord of the Night spied a strange silhouette in the cemetery. Indeed, there was a shovel. But it was not heaped with the night. It was heaped with earth.
And the shovel was held by a man. A man bathed in the glow of one final sliver of sunlight.
A man bathed in the cacophony of earthly desire.
The Lord of the Night slammed the worm-eaten oaken portal of the ruined house.
He hated humans.
But more than anything, he hated rock 'n' roll.
Boot slammed shovel. Shovel gobbled hard-packed earth. The man put his back into it and his lumbar region cussed him good, but the words passed his lips as nothing more than a pitiful groan, a groan that the man couldn't hear because Little Richard was shouting wop-bop's and a-loo-bop's and a-lop-bam-boom's over the transistor radio.
Headlights bloomed in the distance, and the man tossed the shovel aside. A battered van was coming in his direction, engine roaring as it traversed a town which had been abandoned shortly after the freeway moved thirty miles south. The big black machine belched exhaust, fogging neon signs that hadn't tasted the spark of electricity in five years —The Coyote Flats Drive-in Theater...El Borracho Motel...Billy the Kid's Bag-'Em Hamburgers. The driver downshifted as he passed the latter, and the van responded with a fetid exhalation of black smoke that did nothing to cheer the fifteen-foot tall plywood gunfighter who stood watch over the abandoned burger stand.
Expectantly, eagerly, the man in the boneyard picked up the scent. He smelled scorched oil that hadn't been changed in 20,000+ miles, and he smelled brakes which were getting by without much-needed shoes and — for want of same — were taking out their frustration on drums that were as thin as a miser's last dime. Besides that, he smelled a man who could stand a splash of Hai Karate and a clean pair of socks and about half a bottle of Listerine. What he didn't smell was red meat, and not only wasn't it red meat, it wasn't rare meat. Now the man did cuss, long and loud, and neither Little Richard's screech nor the squeal of the van's worn brakes could bury his words.
The van made a sharp turn and raced through the cemetery — collapsing headstones, kicking up dust devils — finally screaming to a stop just short of the cussing man. The bedraggled driver stepped down from the van, took one look at his sweating buddy, and grinned. "Hey Bird-Dog," he said. "Ain't it a little early for you to be digging for bones?"
The digger didn't even crack a smile, though he did take the time to bend low and turn off the transistor radio. "That's not funny, Jones," he said. "The hunger's starting to creep over me, my back is doing grievous bodily harm to my pain centers, and, like Elvis said. I'm itchin' like a man on a fuzzy tree." He peeled off his shirt, bent low, and scratched his back against the arm of a wooden cross. "Damn, my belly is on fire. I hope my nose is playing tricks on me. I hope you remembered those burgers."
Jones shrugged. "No burgers. Only an old wrinkled-up grandma at the burger stand. I got fried chicken instead. Coupla real sweethearts workin' at the diner in town. This one gal, she looks just like Carroll Baker. I'm here to tell you — "
"Save it, Jones. I don't want to hear it."
Jones bit into a meaty breast. "That waitress...man oh man. One look at her and I broke out in a cold, cold sweat. Two looks and I'm yellin' MAYD
AY! MAYDAY! 'cause she's givin' me the eye right back and I'm goin' down in flames. I'm shoutin'. I'm singing. I'm high on a mountain of LOVE. I mean, she was pure-D Carroll Baker, top to bottom. You ever see that Baby Doll movie, Bird-Dog? Man, oh man. You seen that movie, you know what I'm talkin' about." He chugged Budweiser, knowing he wouldn't get an answer out of his partner with a hook and a line, but he kept on asking questions just the same. "Say, Bird, you want a beer? You want some chicken? Maybe some fries?"
Bird-Dog waved him off. "Get it out of my face, Jones. Just the smell of that stuff makes me sick." Bird looked at the fries, little flaccid things sweating grease; they were about the same color as Casper the Friendly Ghost. "Jesus, the things you people eat."
Jones smiled, punctuated the smile with more beer, more chicken, more fries. "If you'd rather, I think we still got some of those dog biscuits in the back."
"Oh, that's rich. My stomach's growling in serious anticipation. I'm just all set for that, except I wouldn't know how to wash it down. What do you recommend, Jones? A Chenin blanc, perhaps? Or maybe a Burgundy? I think a Chenin blanc might enhance a dog biscuit's crunchy zip. Biscuit's kinda like an appetizer, y'know —light, flaky.. .just like you, Jones. Anyway, you never go heavy with appetizers. Anybody knows that. You save up those Burgundies for heavier fare —Alpo, and Happy Chow, and such."
Jones waved him off. "I knew I should have never buddied up with some silver spoon surfer boy. You Californians, you think you know everything. "
"Not everything. Just wines."
"Oh, yeah?" Jones laughed, short and hard. "Tell me then. Bird, what kind of wine goes best with vampire?"
Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales Page 21