the smell of hot slag and brimstone burned Billy’s nostrils. He whirled and pointed the gun at the looming figure who stood in the shadows below. A smoky red glow enveloped the man, and Billy stepped back from the power of his evil smile.
“Thanks for the return trip ticket, Billy Boy. I’ve been too long in old Scratch’s Jailhouse.” The man grinned. “I’d surely rather spend my time in one of these here Cadillacs than in a little ol’ brimstone cell.” He spread his big hands, weaponless, and the song rumbled from his gut and boiled over his lips.
Stackalee shot Billy once; his body fell to the floor.
He cried out, “Oh, please, Stack, please don’t shoot me no more.”
“Not this time, you son of a bitch,” Billy said.
Stackalee threw open his coat and went for his gun, but Billy was already firing. The first shot pierced the Stetson. Blood and brain matter splattered the wall behind the black man, sticking there like gory pudding, but the Stetson stayed on Stackalee and he barely rocked back on his heels. The second and third bullets slammed into the big man’s chest, and the last hit him in the mouth.
Stackalee spit teeth, laughing. Blood pumped from the holes in his chest and dripped down his shiny black coat, pooling in his pockets and around the pointy tips of his boots. Again, he sang.
And brass-buttoned policemen all dressed in blue
Came down the sidewalk marchin’ two by two.
Sent for the wagon and it hurried and come
Loaded with pistols and a big Gatling gun.
Billy dropped the gun and wiped his bloodstained hands on his jeans; Alan’s blood mixed with the blood from the Fender Stratocaster. His eyes went from the stains to the gun to Stackalee.
Stack’s a trickster. Billy. He might use you to worm his way out of hell.
“No,” Billy whispered. “No!”
Stack nodded. “Fingerprints, Billy Boy. All yours. Powder burns on your gun hand, too.” Growling laughter, he pointed a long index finger at Billy and cocked the imaginary weapon with his thumb. “Bang bang, Billy Boy.”
Outside, sirens wailed.
Stackalee tipped his Stetson and disappeared into the shadows. His footsteps echoed through the house, keeping time for the lyrics that spilled over his bloody lips.
Now late at night you can hear him in his cell,
Arguin’ with the devil to keep from goin’ to hell.
And the other convicts whisper, “Watcha know about that?
Gonna burn in hell forever over an old Stetson hat!”
Billy Lyons closed his eyes and whispered, “Everybody’s talking ’bout Stackalee.”
Bed and Breakfast
Gene Wolfe
Gene Wolfe’s wonderful “Bed and Breakfast” takes place at a homey place located on the road to Hell where weary wanderers can spend the night. Some of the “regulars” are demons, of course, others aren’t. Just because you are on the road to Hell doesn’t necessarily mean you are planning a visit, although literature is full of those who have – fictionally or faithfully – visited Hell and returned to write of it. Dante Aligheri (c. 1265–1321) may not actually have gone to Hell, but he wrote convincingly of a journey there with the Roman poet Virgil (70 BCE–19 BCE) as his guide in his Divina commedia. Virgil himself penned the Aenid, a Latin epic in which Aeneas travels down to Dis, the underworld, and visits his father. Emanuel Swedenborg (1688–1772) claimed to visit both Heaven and Hell and converse with angels and demons. His book Heaven and Hell (1758) provided details. In 1868, Saint John Bosco (1815–1888), founder of the Society of St Francis de Sales visited Hell in his dreams, a trip he later vividly described.
I know an old couple who live near Hell. They have a small farm, and, to supplement the meager income it provides (and to use up its bounty of chickens, ducks and geese, of beefsteak tomatoes, bull-nose peppers and roastin’ ears), open their spare bedrooms to paying guests. From time to time, I am one of those
“Thanks for the return trip ticket, Billy Boy. I’ve been too long in old Scratch’s Jailhouse.” The man grinned. “I’d surely rather spend my time in one of these here Cadillacs than in a little ol’ brimstone cell.” He spread his big hands, weaponless, and the song rumbled from his gut and boiled over his lips.
Stackalee shot Billy once; his body fell to the floor.
He cried out, “Oh, please, Stack, please don’t shoot me no more.”
“Not this time, you son of a bitch,” Billy said.
Stackalee threw open his coat and went for his gun, but Billy was already firing. The first shot pierced the Stetson. Blood and brain matter splattered the wall behind the black man, sticking there like gory pudding, but the Stetson stayed on Stackalee and he barely rocked back on his heels. The second and third bullets slammed into the big man’s chest, and the last hit him in the mouth.
Stackalee spit teeth, laughing. Blood pumped from the holes in his chest and dripped down his shiny black coat, pooling in his pockets and around the pointy tips of his boots. Again, he sang.
And brass-buttoned policemen all dressed in blue
Came down the sidewalk marchin’ two by two.
Sent for the wagon and it hurried and come
Loaded with pistols and a big Gatling gun.
Billy dropped the gun and wiped his bloodstained hands on his jeans; Alan’s blood mixed with the blood from the Fender Stratocaster. His eyes went from the stains to the gun to Stackalee.
Stack’s a trickster. Billy. He might use you to worm his way out of hell.
“No,” Billy whispered. “No!”
Stack nodded. “Fingerprints, Billy Boy. All yours. Powder burns on your gun hand, too.” Growling laughter, he pointed a long index finger at Billy and cocked the imaginary weapon with his thumb. “Bang bang, Billy Boy.”
Outside, sirens wailed.
Stackalee tipped his Stetson and disappeared into the shadows. His footsteps echoed through the house, keeping time for the lyrics that spilled over his bloody lips.
Now late at night you can hear him in his cell,
Arguin’ with the devil to keep from goin’ to hell.
And the other convicts whisper, “Watcha know about that?
Gonna burn in hell forever over an old Stetson hat!”
Billy Lyons closed his eyes and whispered, “Everybody’s talking ’bout Stackalee.”
Bed and Breakfast
Gene Wolfe
Gene Wolfe’s wonderful “Bed and Breakfast” takes place at a homey place located on the road to Hell where weary wanderers can spend the night. Some of the “regulars” are demons, of course, others aren’t. Just because you are on the road to Hell doesn’t necessarily mean you are planning a visit, although literature is full of those who have – fictionally or faithfully – visited Hell and returned to write of it. Dante Aligheri (c. 1265–1321) may not actually have gone to Hell, but he wrote convincingly of a journey there with the Roman poet Virgil (70 BCE–19 BCE) as his guide in his Divina commedia. Virgil himself penned the Aenid, a Latin epic in which Aeneas travels down to Dis, the underworld, and visits his father. Emanuel Swedenborg (1688–1772) claimed to visit both Heaven and Hell and converse with angels and demons. His book Heaven and Hell (1758) provided details. In 1868, Saint John Bosco (1815–1888), founder of the Society of St Francis de Sales visited Hell in his dreams, a trip he later vividly described.
I know an old couple who live near Hell. They have a small farm, and, to supplement the meager income it provides (and to use up its bounty of chickens, ducks and geese, of beefsteak tomatoes, bull-nose peppers and roastin’ ears), open their spare bedrooms to paying guests. From time to time, I am one of those
Similar Books
