Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant by Ramsey Campbell, Peter Rawlik, Mary Pletsch, Jerrod Balzer, John Goodrich, Scott Colbert, John Claude Smith, Ken Goldman, Doug Blakeslee Page B
Authors: Ramsey Campbell, Peter Rawlik, Mary Pletsch, Jerrod Balzer, John Goodrich, Scott Colbert, John Claude Smith, Ken Goldman, Doug Blakeslee
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He would call it “The Dark Ride,” and have Jerry Maxon get devoured by a creature from the Outer Darkness. Or maybe have him swallowed whole by the huge cunt of his lesbian sister. Then she would drink bleach and die, and Bert’s revenge would be complete. He would publish it in one of the fifty or sixty blogs and online journals he kept, and his fans would know of the horrors inflicted upon him by his enemies. That would be a sweet revenge, indeed.
Let her give that story a bad review, if she dared. He would show her he was capable of writing a truly frightening tale, worthy of his literary heroes. Not even Lovecraft or Poe could describe such a horrifying end for the asshat and the cunt.
Who cared about grammar or spelling, or the restrictive conventions of so-called literature? His work was unbound by the formulas of lesser writers, a new style that was beyond the petty concerns of plot, characterization, or theme. Only Bert Granchi was the true successor of the masters of his genre, and only he could tell the terrifying tale of his unearthly vengeance.
Bert shaped the gruesome demise of the Maxons in his mind as the big Ford Crown Victoria hurtled on through the night. He had gotten to the point where Jerry was being engulfed by the vast vagina when the car slewed around and stopped suddenly, slamming him against the back of the trunk, jolting the exquisite prose out of his mind and replacing it with the fear of what would come next.
Bert Granchi, heir to the grand tradition of Lovecraft and Poe, wet his pants.
The lid opened, framing his tormentor in the light of the full moon behind and above his rangy frame. Bert blinked until his eyes adjusted. Two other figures moved into view, one of them holding a flashlight. The hands of these others reached in, dragging him over the edge and dumping him on the grass, where his nose was assaulted by a horrific stench. He gagged behind the duct tape, and thrashed against his bonds.
Maxon reached down and wrenched the gag away from Bert’s mouth. Bert screamed at the pain of losing a healthy portion of his skimpy mustache and beard to the adhesive.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Bert,” Maxon said. “Did you enjoy the ride?”
“Fuck you, asshat,” Bert said. One of the others kicked Bert in the ribs. He sucked in a big lungful of putrid air, then retched on the ground.
“I don’t think he cares for the way old Bossie smells, Jerry,” a voice said.
Bert wriggled away from his vomit. He saw a dark mass on the ground ten feet from where he lay. It looked like the carcass of some large animal. He spit the last of the puke from his mouth and said, “What is that? A cow?”
Jerry Maxon laughed. “Of course, you idiot. Why do you think we call her ‘old Bossie’?”
“She stinks.”
“Well, naturally. Bossie’s been dead for, oh, a week or so.”
“All right, fucker. I’ve smelled your fucking cow. Cut me loose and go away.”
“Cut you loose? Why would we do that?”
“Because you have to, asshat. You can’t just leave me tied up out here in the fucking country, next to a dead cow!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Bert, old pal. We’ve got something a little more interesting in mind.”
Laughing, Jerry’s friends picked Bert up by his elbows and dragged him closer to the rotting carcass. He tried to puke again, but there was nothing left.
“Don’t you hate the dry heaves?” the man on his right said. “I know I do.”
The other one agreed. They stopped beside the cow. Maxon reached down and pulled on its ribcage. It opened up like a giant clamshell.
“We cleaned your new home out as much as we could,” Maxon said. “You won’t have to move in with a bunch of guts and such. Just well-seasoned beef. Does that suit you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about, you cock-sucking uncle-fucker?”
Maxon grabbed Bert by the face. “I’m talking about sewing you up in the corpse of this fucking cow, you son-of-a-bitch. I’m talking
He would call it “The Dark Ride,” and have Jerry Maxon get devoured by a creature from the Outer Darkness. Or maybe have him swallowed whole by the huge cunt of his lesbian sister. Then she would drink bleach and die, and Bert’s revenge would be complete. He would publish it in one of the fifty or sixty blogs and online journals he kept, and his fans would know of the horrors inflicted upon him by his enemies. That would be a sweet revenge, indeed.
Let her give that story a bad review, if she dared. He would show her he was capable of writing a truly frightening tale, worthy of his literary heroes. Not even Lovecraft or Poe could describe such a horrifying end for the asshat and the cunt.
Who cared about grammar or spelling, or the restrictive conventions of so-called literature? His work was unbound by the formulas of lesser writers, a new style that was beyond the petty concerns of plot, characterization, or theme. Only Bert Granchi was the true successor of the masters of his genre, and only he could tell the terrifying tale of his unearthly vengeance.
Bert shaped the gruesome demise of the Maxons in his mind as the big Ford Crown Victoria hurtled on through the night. He had gotten to the point where Jerry was being engulfed by the vast vagina when the car slewed around and stopped suddenly, slamming him against the back of the trunk, jolting the exquisite prose out of his mind and replacing it with the fear of what would come next.
Bert Granchi, heir to the grand tradition of Lovecraft and Poe, wet his pants.
The lid opened, framing his tormentor in the light of the full moon behind and above his rangy frame. Bert blinked until his eyes adjusted. Two other figures moved into view, one of them holding a flashlight. The hands of these others reached in, dragging him over the edge and dumping him on the grass, where his nose was assaulted by a horrific stench. He gagged behind the duct tape, and thrashed against his bonds.
Maxon reached down and wrenched the gag away from Bert’s mouth. Bert screamed at the pain of losing a healthy portion of his skimpy mustache and beard to the adhesive.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Bert,” Maxon said. “Did you enjoy the ride?”
“Fuck you, asshat,” Bert said. One of the others kicked Bert in the ribs. He sucked in a big lungful of putrid air, then retched on the ground.
“I don’t think he cares for the way old Bossie smells, Jerry,” a voice said.
Bert wriggled away from his vomit. He saw a dark mass on the ground ten feet from where he lay. It looked like the carcass of some large animal. He spit the last of the puke from his mouth and said, “What is that? A cow?”
Jerry Maxon laughed. “Of course, you idiot. Why do you think we call her ‘old Bossie’?”
“She stinks.”
“Well, naturally. Bossie’s been dead for, oh, a week or so.”
“All right, fucker. I’ve smelled your fucking cow. Cut me loose and go away.”
“Cut you loose? Why would we do that?”
“Because you have to, asshat. You can’t just leave me tied up out here in the fucking country, next to a dead cow!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Bert, old pal. We’ve got something a little more interesting in mind.”
Laughing, Jerry’s friends picked Bert up by his elbows and dragged him closer to the rotting carcass. He tried to puke again, but there was nothing left.
“Don’t you hate the dry heaves?” the man on his right said. “I know I do.”
The other one agreed. They stopped beside the cow. Maxon reached down and pulled on its ribcage. It opened up like a giant clamshell.
“We cleaned your new home out as much as we could,” Maxon said. “You won’t have to move in with a bunch of guts and such. Just well-seasoned beef. Does that suit you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about, you cock-sucking uncle-fucker?”
Maxon grabbed Bert by the face. “I’m talking about sewing you up in the corpse of this fucking cow, you son-of-a-bitch. I’m talking
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