Except it wasn’t.
Cooper said, “It’s the big guy’s face.”
There was more.
Two bloody orbs that had to be eyeballs had rolled into the corners of the box.
Roth couldn’t suppress what happened next. He upchucked all over the box and coffee table, tainting a shitload of evidence and soiling his new suit. He tendered his resignation later that afternoon.
Will Hopkins’ body wasn’t discovered in a ditch or ravine.
He was very much alive—more alive than ever, in fact.
He rode off into the night with “Starlene” (whose real name turned out to be Nicole), Crystal, J-Dog, and a woman in a nightgown they jokingly renamed Patty.
As in Patty Hearst.
The gang had many adventures together in the coming years.
Will avoided the dreaded fate of a life in mundane suburbia.
And they all lived happily ever after.
The same could not be said for some of the people they encountered on the endless highways and byways of the land of the free.
Kimberley Hill
HO KNEW THAT Richard Laymon would become an intricate part of my life? The first time I saw one of his books was in junior high school. It was a worn and battered copy of The Cellar and I didn’t own it. After reading the back, I coveted that book until I could obtain my own. I don’t remember much after that since I never did get a chance to get my own copy. Years later I met my future husband, Richard. Imagine my delight when I found out that he owned the book and had, in fact, done a book report on it in high school. Albeit, a much edited book report!
Both of us ended up being huge Richard Laymon fans. We sought out used bookstores and anywhere else we could find to complete our ever-growing collection of Laymon titles. Then, the magic of the Internet entered our lives. Richard Laymon was one of the first names I looked up on the information highway and the Richard Laymon Kills site was a jewel of a find. Through the sites, the Laymon e-mail list, eBay, and some other bookstores, we were able to get our beloved collection to the point it is today.
I’ve met some wonderful people that are also Laymon fans and will now be friends of mine for life. On top of that, I’ve spoken to Mr. Laymon himself via e-mail. It was so electrifying to be actually corresponding with such a talented and undeniably nice person. At first, I couldn’t believe that he would want to write me back, but over time (and a short time at that) I found out what a truly amazing person he was.
In August of 1999, I was hospitalized for a while and was very sick. After my return home, I got a card one day with no return address. It was very odd because it was a solid black envelope with a Dracula stamp. When I opened it I almost fell off of the sofa because inside was a card from none other than Richard Laymon himself. The card was fashioned like a book cover of The Stake, one of my favorite books. Inside it read, “Dear Kim, Paul Legerski told me you recently had an operation. I hope it all went well and that you’re feeling a lot better now. I don’t like it when my loyal readers get cut up...that’s only fun for make-believe characters in the books. All my best to you and Richard. Sincerely, Richard Laymon.” That card has been framed ever since and hangs in our dining room with our most special sentimental items.
On February 14th I was having a bad day already. I’d gotten a nasty e-mail from a professor and was just having a hard day overall. When I opened my e-mail, my day got worse. I read how Richard Laymon had died of a massive heart attack. I couldn’t believe someone so kind and wonderful had been taken from us so soon and without a warning at all.
I will never forget what a special person Richard Laymon was. He’s still in my heart and the hearts of all his fans. One day I hope to meet him in person.
Brett McBean
N THE NIGHT IT BEGAN...
I was sitting at my computer, nothing but a basic idea, a novice seeing if he could actually write a full-length novel.
About two hours later I saved what I had written, turned off the computer and grinned like a nymphomaniac at a fifty-percent-off sale at a brothel.
I learned two things that night.
1. That I loved writing. More than anything I had previously undertaken. I decided I wanted to make it my career. Well, have a bloody good try at it. And—
2. That I owed it all to Richard Laymon. I found out that not only was I emulating (badly) his unique style of writing, his freakish ability to get inside a character’s head, and his stark black humor, but that the reason why I even attempted to write a novel that night, over two years ago, was because of the way his had affected me.
From the very first novel I read—Beware!—right up until No Sanctuary, no author has made reading so damn exciting. But by helping me choose my career goal to be a published author, Richard Laymon has become more than just a great author. He is responsible for my current path of life. I have never felt so fulfilled, happy and excited as I am when creating. And like many people have said before me—I owe it all to Dick.
Thanks mate.
Brett McBean
IMON SLIPPED THE key in the front door. It was his fourth attempt. “There! Finally got it.”
Sherry chuckled behind him. “About time, darling.”
Simon pushed open the door and stepped inside. The house was in total darkness, so he slammed his hand to the left of the doorway and ran it clumsily along the wall until he found the light switch. He flicked it and the hallway lit up.
Sherry slipped past him, and Simon watched her ass as she walked down the hallway. The slim, tight blue dress hugged her round behind perfectly.
Feeling himself begin to go hard, Simon broke his gaze and slammed the door shut. He wandered down the hall and stumbled into the bedroom, where Sherry was sitting on the bed, taking off her shoes.
Simon smiled and threw the keys onto the mattress. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Make sure you’re naked when I return.”
Sherry giggled as she flung the second shoe to the ground. “What makes you think you’re getting any, mister?”
“Two reasons. One, we’re both drunk. And two, I don’t know about you, but I’m horny.”
Sherry laughed. “Where’re you going?” she said.
“To take a leak. Where else?” Simon turned and left the bedroom. He walked slowly down the hall and headed for the bathroom. His bladder was full with so much bourbon. He had lost count how many he’d downed after the fifth drink.
Great restaurant, though, he thought.
And it had also been a great surprise. Sherry had met him at his work and had taken him to a new restaurant, an Indian place not too far from the city, where they ate divinely, and, of course, had a little too much to drink. He had initially been worried that he’d forgotten their wedding anniversary, or perhaps Sherry’s birthday. But she had smiled and reassured him that it was simply because she wanted to. Simon had left it at that.
Simon switched on the bathroom light. The bright glare hurt his eyes. He squinted and soon got used to the harsh glow. Simon staggered over to the toilet and lifted the lid. He urinated forever, flushed the toilet, then turned to his left and headed into the small laundry room. He flipped on the switch and staggered over to the deep stainless steel basin.
“Fuck!” he screamed.
He stumbled back and fell over his legs. Simon crashed to the hard floor, knocking his head on the tiles with a dull thud. A sharp explosion shot through his skull and he saw flashes of bright light dance before his eyes.