by Adam Howe
Praise for
DIE DOG OR EAT THE HATCHET
____________
“With Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet, Adam Howe hasn’t written one of my favorite books of the year, he’s actually written three of my favorites. If novellas are the format of kings (and Kings), then this collection is a royal smorgasbord. Stories that are tight, toned, and genre-confounding … Love this goddamn book and hate it at the same time. How is a British dude better a better observer and hybrid-izer of junk Americana than most American writers?” —Adam Cesare, author of Tribesmen and Mercy House
“The recipe for Adam Howe’s Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet is:
Two parts Joe Lansdale
One part Justified
and a heavy dose of WTF
The result is a swampy cocktail darker than any backwoods hayride, stronger than the meanest Sasquatch, and crazier than anything you’ll find chicken-fried at your local state fair.” —Eryk Pruitt, author of Hashtag and Dirtbags
“Whether you call it Splatterpulp or Punk-Noir, Die Dog is an out-of-control ‘46 Mercury coupe heading hell-bent for Dead Man’s Curve without brakes; a velvet-swathed lead slapjack to the base of the skull; a hard kick in the balls from a twisted, homicidal clown with giant shoes wrapped in razor-wire. It’s an explicit, hard-hitting, twisted funhouse ride into pulpish horror wrapped loosely in a tattered skein of irreverent, jet black humor. In short, it’s a freakin’ blast.” —Walt Hicks, author of Dirge of the Forgotten.
“Adam Howe’s skill with hilarious dialogue makes reading Damn Dirty Apes a laugh-out-loud experience, keeping you turning pages until the end and eliciting snickers from memory long after the story’s over. Filled with brutality, atmosphere, and surprising depth, it’s an absurd tale that explores not just the American south’s backwoods in all its sticky, smelly grandeur, but also the all-too human yearning for stardom, even greatness. Don’t let the Society for the Preservation of the North American Skunk Ape (SPNASA) prevent you from reading it! … There’s no safe place to hide in Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet. Once it gets started, the story sticks to you like flypaper, keeping you right there with shaking hands and widened eyes. Every page ratchets up the tension another notch even as it descends deeper and deeper into terrible darkness.”
—David Dubrow, author of The Blessed Man and the Witch
“Hilarious, repulsive, caustic and downright rad, these yarns run the gauntlet of a true reading experience. The only common thread amongst these tales is an overwhelming air of menace and the genuine threat that anything can happen, nobody is safe. Least of all you, the reader. Adam Howe is not for prudes or the faint of heart.” —Zachary Walters @ The Mouths of Madness Podcast
“Die Dog Or Eat The Hatchet is like James M. Cain on a bender with Spinal Tap. One louder and then some.”—Kent Gowran, founding editor Shotgun Honey
“A nasty little cracklin of Louisiana noir with a great classic pulp vibe.” —Thomas Pluck, author of Blade of Dishonor
“Adam Howe has done it again—I’ve neglected my family, forgotten to eat, lost track of time in my quest to devour each word & nuance of Die Dog or Eat The Hatchet. He’s delighted me at every turn while making the darkest recesses of my mind feel both alive & sullied all at the same time. Whatever you’re reading at the moment, stop it immediately and read this RIGHT BLOODY NOW” —Zombie Rob @ The Slaughtered Bird
“A rancid broth of gross distortions, misrepresentations and half-truths, played for shock value and scatological humor … I cannot, in all good conscience, endorse this work.” —Lambert Pogue, General Secretary, Society for the Preservation of the North American Skunk Ape (on Damn Dirty Apes)
“A nasty little cracklin of Louisiana noir with a great classic pulp vibe.” —Thomas Pluck, author of Blade of Dishonor (on Gator Bait)
“From its brilliant opening Adam Howe‘s short n sharp novella Gator Bait grabs you by the throat and drags you through the down and dirty world of 1930s Louisiana. A sleazy piano player makes one mistake after another in this atmospheric, brutal and darkly comic noir tale. I loved it.” —Paul D. Brazill, author of Guns of Brixton
“Adam Howe writes dirty stories populated with characters working like hell to leave a scum ring around the tub while they circle the drain. Gator Bait starts with mutilation and murder then shoves a rocket up its ass and goes south from there. Sticky, icky, pure pulp fun.” —Jedidiah Ayres, author of Peckerwood
First Comet Press Electronic Edition November 2015
Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet copyright © 2015
by Adam Howe
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Print ISBN 13: 978-1-936964-25-3
Visit Comet Press on the web at:
www.cometpress.us
facebook.com/cometpress
twitter.com/cometpress
CONTENTS
Foreword by Randy Chandler
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Damn Dirty Apes
Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet
Gator Bait
Story Notes
About the Author
FOREWORD
BY RANDY CHANDLER
My introduction to Adam Howe came by way of a porn-star dwarf with a humongous member. The well-endowed munchkin was named Rummy Rumsfeld, and his misadventures as portrayed in “Of Badgers & Porn Dwarfs” struck me with revelatory illumination in much the same way a Zen master smacks his student upside the head to impart nonverbal enlightenment. Rummy, of course, is a fictional character (though perhaps a doppelganger of a real-life diminutive porn star), whereas his creator is the real deal: a wily wizard of a storyteller we now know as Adam Howe.
But Adam Howe hasn’t always gone by his given name. For reasons known only to himself, he used the pseudonym Garrett Addams when he won the On Writing contest judged by none other than Stephen King and was awarded the prize of having his winning short story “Jumper” included in later editions of King’s slim nonfiction tome.
Writing under his own name since then, Adam Howe has crafted a handful of astonishingly eccentric stories and novellas, some of which were collected in Black Cat Mojo, including the aforementioned porn dwarf with the legendary talent—one of the most affecting tales I have ever had the pleasure of reading. For all its cringe-worthy explicitness, delivered with razor-sharp humor of blackest hue, the story ends with a surprising twist that tugs at the heart. Who knew such hardcore stuff could be so heartwarming? Not I, genital reader. But Adam Howe pulled it off (pun admittedly intended). And that was when I knew I was in the hands of a uniquely talented storyteller.
The other two novellas and bonus short story in Black Cat Mojo (Comet Press, 2015) took me deeper into Adam Howe Land, inhabited by would-be play-yahs, half-assed criminals, delusional losers and a ragtag menagerie of dumb animals that are nevertheless generally smarter than their homo sapien counterparts. If you haven’t read it, add it to your Read Me Next stack/cue/ cache. Speaking of animals, Adam says he has plotted out a novel featuring a chimp in a prominent role, adding “I think that might have to be my last animal story for the foreseeable future. Be weird to get typecast as a writer of lurid animal-themed pulp books.” Yes, but it is a wonderful weirdness.
Which brings us t
o the book in your immediate possession.
A quick look at the titles tells you that animals also play key roles in these new tales. This time we get primates, a hungry man-eating gator, a dog-eat-dog serial killer duel, and what may be an Arkansas Bigfoot known locally as a skunk ape. And who could forget the simian descendants of Neanderthals bumping against lowlifes, rogues and brawlers in bizarre scenarios Hunter S. Thompson might’ve dreamed up on a weeklong binge of acid/ booze/laughing gas.
Adam describes the stories in Die Dog Or Eat The Hatchet as “straight horror/crime,” much darker than the first collection. And while that may be true, his trademark black humor (or humour, as Adam would say) is nonetheless present—in spades. The man can’t help himself. He turns people and situations sideways, ass over teakettle (ass over tit if you’re a Brit) and upsidedown to expose the absurd follies of man, and he does it in a voice echoing the hollow laughter of the gods as they look down upon the capering human circus from a crumbling Olympus.
As these stories you are about to read will prove, Adam Howe has a natural flair for making sentences sing and images dance, sometimes to bluesy jazz, sometimes to good old rock ‘n’ roll. The dude turns phrases that stick with you the way catchy song lyrics do. Like this grab-you-by-the-balls description of a man tithing a pole dancer in a Louisiana swamp dive: “He waggled a buck beneath her butt like a corner man rousing his boxer with smelling salts.” Trust me, it works perfectly in the context of the scene. It’s not easy to write original neo-noir that doesn’t suck but Adam clearly knows how. And he kills it.
Another lyrical example of the author’s gritty eloquence: “He was a little gray sadsack with bloodhound eyes, a drooping mustache and worry lines corrugating his forehead. He wore a funeral-black suit. Cobwebs of hair were pasted across his sweat-beaded baldpate.” And then the expositive kicker: “He was the kind of guy you don’t give a second glance—especially when looming beside him was a rent-a-thug with a mug like a Universal monster.”
I needn’t give more examples. I’ve kept you long enough from the stories within.
But before you proceed, a word of warning. And that word is suspense. Adam will ratchet the tension to nearly unbearable heights but by that time you’re so deeply involved in the story that there is no stopping. You must go on! The diabolical brew of humor and horror is the alchemical elixir that will fuel your journey to the climax of the tales, even as you’re not sure whether you should laugh aloud or cry out in horror. These stories are intended only for those with strong stomachs and sturdy hearts.
To put it in laconic vernacular: NO WIMPS BEYOND THIS POINT!
And please … don’t feed the animals.
—Randy Chandler, author of Dime Detective, Bad Juju & HELLz BELLz
Acknowledgements
My partner Suzie.
Ladies, pop quiz: Your fella tells you he has a ‘good idea’ about a randy skunk ape abducting a porn performer wearing a baboon costume …
Do you
a) Change the locks?
b) Have him committed?
c) Ask, what’s a skunk ape?
d) Support him wholeheartedly?
I’m very lucky … for a guy currently residing in a lunatic asylum.
‘Bloody’ Bill Chaney: Helped me edit these stories, often under sufferance.
Clans Howe and Cooper: I apologise in advance.
Paul Cook (massively talented singer/songwriter—check him out @ Paul Cook & the Chronicles), Dave Head, Paul Usher, Alexis Liosatos (whose first short story The Man Who Collected Dali you should read in Verto Publishing’s Into the Trenches anthology …)
Gino: For enduring the book’s title with the plucky good grace of his breed. (His preferred title was Live Dog and Bite the Axeman.)
Also:
Chris Barnes @ The Slaughtered Bird
Jim @ GingerNuts of Horror
Col @ Col’s Criminal Library
Paul D. Brazill @ Brit Grit & International Noir
Paul Nelson @ From Dark Places
Gef Fox @ Wag the Fox
Matt Craig @ Reader Dad
And Thomas Pluck
My e-buddies: Randy ‘Big Dawg’ Chandler & David Dubrow
One of these men survived a close encounter with a Floridian skunk ape.
For the Gator Bait early release, I assembled a crack-team of blurbers:
Jedidiah Ayres (follow his Hardboiled Wonderland blog)
Dave Dubrow
Walt Hicks
Zombie Rob @ The Slaughtered Bird
And they didn’t leave this man behind.
For the Die Dog collection, these guys had my back:
Eryk Pruitt
Adam Cesare (we’ll put our little misunderstanding down to cultural differences)
Kent Gowran
Zach @ The Mouths of Madness Podcast
And Dave Dubrow, Walt Hicks, and Zombie Rob served a second tour of duty: I salute you.
Thanks also to Cheryl Mullenax at Comet Press for weathering the skunk ape storm.
And indeed: Lambert Pogue, General Secretary of the Society for the Preservation of the North American Skunk Ape, and the late Gerard Hauser.
If you like my book covers, check out Inkubus design.
Thank you to my new friends and readers on Twitter and Goodreads. I genuinely enjoy interacting with you crazy bastards, and appreciate your support. Hope you like the book!
Last, but by no means least: Thank you to Champion Mojo Storyteller Joe R. Lansdale, who gave me the title for this book. Joe, you were crazy giving up a title this badass. But then, your next book’s called Honky Tonk Samurai. Badass titles clearly aren’t something you struggle with. Discovering your work—quite recently, I’m ashamed to admit—has reenergized my own. Muchas gracias.
Alright …
Now let’s blow the roof off this bitch!
“All right, let’s get it on. I promise to do my little number. But I’m not going to talk about violence.” —Sam Peckinpah, 1972 Playboy interview
DAMN
DIRTY
APES
The Society for the Preservation of the North American Skunk Ape wishes to remind readers that the following is a work of fiction. Although the study of these remarkable hominids in their natural habitat is a rich and rewarding activity, the capture of skunk apes should only ever be attempted by trained professionals.
—Lambert Pogue, General Secretary, S.P.N.A.S.A.
1.
They arrived in a thunder of bike engines, hitched their hogs in the parking lot and swaggered inside the bar with their leathers creaking, shaking the road dust from their long lank hair. They wore weathered denim vests, sporting arm sleeve tattoos that would’ve made a Ku Kluxer blush. The patch on the back of the vests was a snarling ape skull wearing a Kraut soldier’s helmet, the kind with a spike on the crown. DAMN DIRTY APES was spelled out in silver studs across the shoulders. The four bikers muscled their way through the Friday night crowd to the slab of oak bar. They demanded pitchers of beer and bottles of firewater and I knew it was going to be one of those nights.
The Henhouse was a titty tonk on the outskirts of town. The joint wasn’t much to write home about, and why the hell would you? Dear Mom, Getting a lap dance and thought of you … Lit by neon beer signs, fairy lights, and a gaudy glitter ball above the T-shaped stage, the place had a seedy Pleasure Island ambience. A shrine of dusty bottles was shelved behind the bar. Butcher-block tables corralled the strippers’ stage. Lurking in the shadows at the back of the room were a few horseshoe booths with slashed vinyl seats, a cigarette-scarred pool table, a rotary dial phone kiosk with an OUT OF ORDER sign, a jukebox that played both kinds of music—country and western—and a Smokey and the Bandit pinball machine on which I held the high score with damn fool pride.
As far as strip clubs go, the girls who danced there—the usual waifs and strays on the low road to nowhere—could’ve done a whole lot worse. The owner, Walt Wiley, doted like a daddy on his dancers, Fagin to their gang
of lipsticked pickpockets. Hell, I could’ve done worse myself, though not by much. I was head bouncer at The Henhouse. That’s not as grand as it sounds. I was also the only bouncer. Walt gave me the trumped-up title in lieu of a raise. There wasn’t much to the job apart from taking out the trash—sometimes literally—and making sure the girls got home safe each night. For that I could pay the rent on my room above the thrift store in town, and keep that Smokey and the Bandit pinball machine fed with quarters. And gals love a tough guy, so I even got laid now and then.
Sensing trouble from the Damn Dirty Apes, I closed the Ring magazine I’d been reading. Not moving from my regular perch at the end of the bar slab, I sized them up. The biggest of the bikers was a blubbery giant with a head like an Easter Island statue. His vest looked tiny on him, like a midriff top that had shrunk in the wash. Not that it looked like it had been washed—ever. Next to Blubberguts was a grinning idiot with rotten brown teeth like shit-smeared punji sticks. The face of the guy next to him was shrapneled with metal piercings. The last guy was the ugliest of them all, and on second glance, not even a guy. She was a flat-chested, hatchet-faced hag wearing a necklace of plastic doll heads.
Blubberguts, Smiley, Shitface and Baby Doll; it helped me to depersonalize the people whose asses I kicked.
Walt gave them their first round on the house. A mistake, I thought. A crowd like this mistook kindness for weakness. Walt’s appearance didn’t help matters. With his shiny bald dome and exaggerated sad sack features, big doleful eyes and a red pickle nose, Walt looked like a Muppet with alopecia. As he fixed the Apes their drinks, he said: “Welcome to The Henhouse, fellas.” Then he glanced at Baby Doll a second time, realized his mistake and said: “Ma’am.”
Smiley saw me eyeing them from my spot at the end of the slab. He nodded at me, and then squinted to read the news cutting Walt displayed in a frame behind the bar.
I kept begging Walt to take that cutting down, but he claimed it made people think twice before starting trouble. It hadn’t so far and it wasn’t about to now. The headline read BIGELOW BOY BRUTALIZED IN PRIZE FIGHT and there was a grainy photo of yours truly—albeit younger, trimmer, mulleted—with a mug like ripe roadkill and swollen eyes bulging from a bloody mask. I was trapped on the ring ropes. The ref was diving between my opponent and me to stop the big bastard from decapitating me.