“Uh huh,” said Mary with a smile.
Bert walked over to Gary and crouched down beside him. “Don’t worry, friend, even though I didn’t much appreciate you giving my wife the eye a while back, I’ll have Junior here make it pretty quick for you. Not like that other fella. Leo got lucky on that one; hated that little shitwad the moment he came in. And her, too,” he said, looking over at Sherri. His voice grew husky and tight. “You can take your time with that sweet thing, Junior. Oh yeah, take all the time with her you need.”
“Bert...”
“Shut up, Mary.”
“But I haf a wife,” Gary managed, his tongue flopping uselessly in the puddle of blood that had gathered in his mouth, “and a daugh’fer. Puh-p’ease...”
“Yeah, kids,” Bert said with a wide smile, “ain’t they just the best?” He stood up and stepped back. “Speaking of which...Junior?”
The hulking young man set the two shotguns in the booth next to Sherri’s and began to lumber towards Gary, the bare soles of his feet slapping the floor that lay wet and tacky with Randy’s blood. His face was twisted with unbridled glee. His massive wooden penis wagged obscenely from side to side, cutting a nightmarish smile in the air.
Gary’s wide eyes shot to the abandoned guns and then to Sherri. Grab them damnit grab them grab them now save us his eyes screamed but Sherri didn’t see. She was rocking on the cushioned bench, keening softly as she hugged her knees to her chest, her downcast eyes wild with panic and flittering like the beating wings of a tiny, caged bird.
The last thought Gary had before the steel talons of Junior’s garden claw caved in his skull and ended all his thoughts forever was his wife, and what Linda would say to their daughter in the years to come about him, about her dead father kneeling and screaming in waxy enshrinement in a rundown California diner.
Or if, unlike the coffee-and-pie crowd, she’d even care enough about him to bother saying anything at all.
Troy Taylor
HERE ARE THREE moments in my life that I will never forget. One is reading my first Laymon book. Another was finishing my first novel. The third was finding a little message board hidden in the deep dark (bloody) corners of the Internet where Dick actually posted. I watched for a little and then I left a post. I remember coming home one day and finding a response from him. I was gob smacked. In his reply he laughed and joked and he spoke (or wrote) to me as if I was his best friend. He was just that kind of guy. Anyone who has ever spoken with him will agree with me. Not only was he a fantastic writer but he was a fantastic human being. We didn’t know each other personally; we never spoke on the phone; we never met each other, but for some reason I felt like we were pals from way back.
The news of his death hit me like a brick wall. I cried for hours and I’ve never really stopped being sad about it, even when I think about it now.
I don’t think I ever really got around to telling him, but he was the one and only inspiration for my writing. I wish I had.
If there hadn’t been a Dick Laymon, then this story wouldn’t have existed.
Without his books I never would have started writing.
Dick, you died too soon. I miss chatting with you on the message board. I miss your friendliness and your great sense of humor. Most of all though, I miss just knowing that you’re out there.
Troy Taylor
HE FIRST NIGHT HE saw her he knew he had to have her. There was something about her, something unique. Her beauty called to his attention through the crowded nightclub floor. She was stunning.
He spent the night watching her, intrigued by everything about her.
She was different than all the rest.
Usually, anyone would satisfy him. Not that night, however. That night, not one woman in the entire place interested him. Except for her.
There were offers from plenty, drinks or dances. But he didn’t care. He didn’t even answer them. His mind was focused on one thing.
Her.
He wanted to go up to her, but he knew he couldn’t. What would he say? All he could do was just sit there and watch; wait for her to leave.
So he could follow.
He sat on one stool for almost two hours, not taking his eyes off her for a moment, before she finally made her way to the door.
Alone.
He was sure that she would have been with someone, even a girlfriend, but she was completely alone.
Which made things even easier for him.
Usually, if there was a friend or a boyfriend, he would just kill them. Cut a slice right up the middle of their body. One swipe did it almost every time. Then to watch the woman scream, to see the pure terror in her eyes, was an untellable pleasure.
There would be no need for that on this night. He could follow her, all the way back to her place, and quietly make his move.
He didn’t feel the same about her as he did the others. He didn’t want to hurt her at all. He wanted to love her; to have her love him. The others, they just didn’t matter. Hurting them had been fun; killing them even better. But not with this one. This one was special. This one was going to be the one.
He wouldn’t kill her. He wouldn’t even hurt her.
No, this one he would keep.
He had been looking, all these years, for the one he was going to keep. The one he was going to truly treasure. And now he had found her. Tonight was going to be the most magical night of his life. Love had finally found its way to him.
He stood from his stool, throwing down a five-dollar bill to pay for the drink he had ordered, and raced toward the exit, not caring who the hell he was knocking over in the process. He couldn’t let her get away—it would be the end of him.
Just the thought of it was making him feel funny inside. He was sure it was love. He got the same sort of feeling just looking at her; beautiful black hair flowing down her shoulders, a perfect face—something designed by God Himself. And God had sent her down, just for him.
As he neared the door, he knocked into some blonde-haired college idiot. He tried to keep walking, but the guy grabbed him by the arm and turned him around.
“What the fuck...” the college kid started.
He just didn’t have time for this. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade knife, flicking out the blade as he did. In one swift movement, the college kid’s insides fell to the floor.
He turned, hearing a mass of screaming behind him and getting a little excited, and raced out the door, hoping that he hadn’t already lost her. He got outside just in time to see her turn the corner into the main street.
Wondering why she had parked so far away from the club, he put on the pace, starting a brisk walk.
She wouldn’t get away. There was no way she could; he was right behind her now.
But she did.
When he turned the corner, she was gone. He felt like crying, but wouldn’t allow it. She was around somewhere—she had to be. She couldn’t have just disappeared.
He had spent three hours searching street after street for her. He didn’t find her in any of them. She was gone for good and the thought that he would never see her again ripped him up inside.
What sort of God would do a thing like that? Dangle love in front of someone, only to snatch it away at the last minute.
He was angry. He had thought, by that stage, that God would know not to make him angry. There were some serious repercussions.