Sixty-Five Stirrup Iron Road
Page 19
“Nope. Nothing. Maybe he got away,” Keene said.
“Yeah, or maybe he did the job on all of them,” Ryan calmly suggested. “That guy’s not himself when he throws on his Lucha Libre mask.”
“No way!” Wrath rebutted. “He’s too nice a guy … I think. But-but …how could this happen?”
“They wrote themselves into the book,” Lee answered in monotone, looking straight ahead at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “They went meta.”
“Come on,” Wrath said. “They wouldn’t be that stupid. They put themselves into a book written by nine of the most brutal and extreme horror authors on the planet?”
“Yup,” Lee answered. He was now puffing a ridiculous e-cigarette.
“Why would they do that? That’s suicide!”
“Really,” Ryan agreed. “I wrote myself into Gillian Anderson’s house instead. Think I’m gonna need a new keyboard.”
Keene downed another shot of bourbon and then asked, “What happened to Ketchum?”
“Yeah,” Wrath said. “And wasn’t there something about a duffel bag?”
Ryan nodded. “And a note?”
Suddenly, Lee had all the answers. Not a good thing.
“His dick got cut off too,” Lee said. “And the poor bastard’s body was found stuffed in a duffel bag in the backyard. They say he killed some girl, a hot piece of ass who was fucking the guy who owned the house, before something—I mean someone—got him. Bunch of Dewar’s bottles in the bag too. And the note his killer left said, ‘Who are you calling “baggage,” fucker?’ It was signed by somebody named Flavia Something-or-Other.”
“Flavia?” Wrath exclaimed. “That’s the chick he killed! She’s the chick he created in the book! The mistress! The one stalking Chuck! Remember? Chuck, the guy who looked like Mitt Romney? Ketchum wrote himself into the book just so he could kill her.”
“Yeah,” Lee said.
“But his dick, man,” Keene appended. “His dick.” Now that infamous grin was stretching his face.
“What in God’s name happened to his dick?” Wrath demanded. “Was it sticking out of his mouth like Bryan’s?”
“His dick was never found,” Ryan elucidated, looking off at some distant mental abstraction. “The killer obviously absconded with it.”
“I’ll keep an eye out on eBay,” Lee promised, and began chuckling.
Wrath was getting agitated. Also not a good thing. “How is any of this funny? These are our friends!”
“Oh, come on, lighten up,” Keene said. “It is funny … I mean, in a sad, mournful kind of way, of course.”
“You say that about everything,” Wrath muttered. “Do you realize you’ve used that fucking line at least once in every book you’ve ever written? You’re like Richard Laymon with the word ‘rump.’”
“Well …” Keene shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but if so, then it’s funny. And so is the idea of Jack Ketchum’s dick showing up on eBay.”
“You got that right,” Lee said. “It’s fuckin’ hilarious, but don’t tell anyone I said that. I was hee-hawing like a donkey when I first heard about it all.”
“What?” Wrath yelled.
Harding peered at the newspaper article. “Hey, Wrath, it says the dogs are okay. I think Ketchum would be happy about that at least, the whole missing dick thing notwithstanding. Shit, maybe one of them even got it. Also, doesn’t anyone else think it was funny that in a story with so much puking, there was a guy named Chuck?”
“You need a drink, bro,” Keene urged Wrath. “Why don’t you have a shot of bourbon instead of that little pussy drink?”
“Fuck you, Brian. I like this little pussy drink.”
“Whatever, man. I’m just sayin’. It might help you relax.”
“I don’t want to fucking relax! The last time you helped me relax, I passed out and you posted pics of the aftermath online.”
“I should have tried selling them on eBay.” Keene grinned, remembering. “That was a funny night, though. In a sad, mou—”
“Shut up,” Wrath warned.
“Oh, and speaking of eBay, look what I just got.” Seemingly from out of nowhere, Ryan produced an old book that read “Property of Lucy Pearson.” “It’s about this woman who’s possessed by a sex demon. You guys should check it out. Your balls will be sawdust by 1936, I guarantee. I might auction it off when I’m done reading it.”
“Where the fuck did you get that?” Wrath’s anxiety was now approaching genuine panic. “And where’d you get that newspaper from? Did you take it out of the story?”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I did.”
“You guess you did? Ketchum, Gonzalez, Smith, and Nate get killed because they went into the story and you fucking took something out of it? What if something followed you out?”
Ryan scoffed. “That only happens in horror movies. Never in horror novels. Taking a damn diary out of the story isn’t the same as those guys putting themselves into the story. I wanted to know more about Lucy. I hadn’t even heard of half the depraved shit she was into. She’s my kind of woman.” He toasted Lucy.
“How the fuck is taking out a diary different? Wait a minute …” Wrath looked around. “Where the fuck are we?”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “We’re at the bar.”
“At the convention,” Lee said. “In the casino.”
Wrath clasped his head, exasperated. “What convention? How did we get here? None of this shit looks familiar. Why are we the only ones at the bar?”
“Why are you trippin’, Wrath?” Keene grinned. “You really should take a drink of this.”
“Fuck drinks! We’re in the fucking story, aren’t we? Keene! This is all your fault, isn’t it? I fucking told you I didn’t want to be in the goddamn story!”
Keene held up his hands. “I didn’t write you into the story. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Wrath looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar.
“Well, somebody fucking did. Look at me! My biceps are as big as my head, and I must be like 5 or 6 percent body fat. Look at these abs!” Wrath raised his shirt, revealing a perfectly sculpted, remarkably chiseled six pack. “I’m forty-three years old! I haven’t looked like this since 2005! And look at you, Brian. When was the last time you wore that Anthrax hoodie? You look like you do in your goddamn author photo. We all fucking do! Ryan looks like he’s fuckin’ eighteen, Lee’s man-tits are gone! We’re in the goddamn story!”
Keene glanced down at his clothing, confused.
Wrath glared at Ryan.
“Don’t look at me,” Ryan protested. “I didn’t do it.”
Everyone then looked at Lee.
“Aw, shit,” Wrath gasped. “You?”
“It had to be done, gentlemen.”
Wrath bellowed, “We’re in a goddamn Edward Lee novel!” His eyes shot wide as he looked frantically around the room for an exit. “I knew something was fucked up!”
“Relax, dude,” Keene assured. “It’s not that bad. Technically, it’s the last chapter of an Edward Lee, Jack Ketchum, Brian Keene, Wrath James White, J. F. Gonzalez, Bryan Smith, Ryan Harding, Nate Southard, and Shane McKenzie novel.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Don’t worry,” Keene said. “You look like the fuckin’ Terminator and you’re a professional fighter. Anything comes in here, just kick its ass. Anything gets by you, I’ll shoot it. Or buy it a drink. This really isn’t that bad.”
“Not that bad? Not that fucking bad? Do you know what happens to people in Lee’s novels? We’re going to get spewed on by demons, fucked in the head, have rednecks blowing their noses in our mouths, and who knows what else! I’m getting the fuck out of here!”
Just then Keene began to levitate. Some unseen entity ripped his pants off, tore his boxers in half, and bent him over the bar. As Wrath, Lee, and Ryan watched in mute horror, Keene’s butt cheeks spread, his asshole (not a pretty sight) widened inordinately, and hi
s body began to buck in midair. There could be no denial: he was being sodomized—quite vigorously, mind you—by an incorporeal erection of mind-boggling proportions. This process made a sound like someone plunging a gas station toilet, while blood, feces, and lots of bourbon poured from his bowels as if from an open sewer pipe. Keene screamed.
“I knew this would happen! I knew it!” Wrath yelled.
“Save him, Wrath!” Ryan exclaimed, pushing Wrath toward the bar.
“Me? Why me?” Wrath shook his head. “What the fuck can I do against a goddamn ghost?”
Ryan eyed him with nonchalance. “Dude, you’re a big black guy in a horror novel. You might have special powers or something.”
“This is an Edward Lee novel, not a Stephen King novel! There aren’t any magical negroes in Edward Lee novels. If I go over there, I’m gonna get raped to death too!”
“Well, if we just sit here, it’s gonna be Analrama 666 for all of us!”
“There are no exit doors!” Wrath grabbed Lee by the collar and raised him off the bar stool. “This is all your fault! What are we gonna do?”
Lee merely smiled. “What’s this we shit? I’m the last guy with the story file. Get it?”
And then he disappeared.
Table of Contents
Prologue - Edward Lee
Chapter One - Edward Lee and J.F. Gonzalez
Chapter Two - J.F. Gonzalez
Chapter Three - J.F. Gonzalez and Brian Keene
Chapter Four - Brian Keene
Chapter Five - Brian Keene and Nate Southard
Chapter Six - Nate Southard
Chapter Seven - Jack Ketchum
Chapter Eight - Jack Ketchum and Shane McKenzie
Chapter Nine - Shane McKenzie
Chapter Ten - Shane McKenzie and Wrath James White
Chapter Eleven - Wrath James White
Chapter Twelve - Wrath James White and Ryan Harding
Chapter Thirteen - Ryan Harding and Bryan Smith
Chapter Fourteen - Bryan Smith
Chapter Fifteen - Bryan Smith and Brian Keene
Chapter Sixteen - Brian Keene and Jack Ketchum
Chapter Seventeen - Jack Ketchum and J.F. Gonzalez
Chapter Eighteen - J.F. Gonzalez and Nate Southard
Chapter Nineteen - Nate Southard and Shane McKenzie
Chapter Twenty - Shane McKenzie and Bryan Smith
Chapter Twenty-One - Edward Lee, Wrath James White, and Ryan Harding