Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue 039

Looking for an anthology magazine of horror, crime, and noir stories sprinkled with offensive comics and cool art that harken back to the heyday of magazines? Well, you’ve found Twisted Pulp Magazine!

We love the old magazine style, but we needed new magazine content dang nabbit—so we made Twisted Pulp. Twisted Pulp has new stories and articles by today’s authors, all wrapped up in a package made with love. Our inspirations include Argosy, old pulp mags in gerenal, Mad Magazine, Playboy, Crazy, Cracked, and more.

Alright, that’s all the pep I can handle today. If that didn’t sell it to you, well, then you’ll never know what you’re missing, will you?

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Editorial: Rest in Peace David Lynch
Incident on a Florida Highway (A Vignette) by Tyson Blue
Urns by Thomas M. Malafarina
Accidental Genius Review By Mark Slade
Going Back to the Double “R” by Mark Slade
In Memory: David Lynch
Interview with Kat Ruiz Bass
Babylon A.D. Live Lightning Album Review by Lucy Hall
Growing Up with Milt and Muck #1
Old Man Vs Cell Phone
Interview with E.S. Wynn
Interview with Southern Gothic Podcast
The Money Plot by Tyson Blue
Traffic Jam by Tyson Blue
Growing Up with Milt and Muck #2

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Editorial: Rest in Peace David Lynch

Wild ideas, free expression, boundary pushing, artistic transgressivism, fearless creativity, risky humor. These are all things that we here at Screaming Eye Press champion and, perhaps, no one artist embodied that approach more than David Lynch. While I never had the pleasure of meeting the man, from all accounts he was as warm, friendly, hopeful and inspiring as his films were cold, dark, disturbing, and nightmarish. A man who thought consciousness, awareness, imagination, and creativity could change personal, and perhaps larger, worlds.

People describe his work as being “surreal,” a very accurate word but in ways that most people might not realize. Surrealism isn’t just the weird, bizarre, dreamlike, or “incomprehensible” (a label that many have applied to Lynch’s oeuvre). Surrealism began as a political as well as an artistic movement. The word literally means “Beyond realism” and when something is “surreal” it is “beyond the real.” The early surrealists thought that, through their art, they could affect what Jungians would call the collective unconscious. They felt they could change the world.

I have no idea if David Lynch had similar thoughts about his work but it definitely went beyond what we see as real to a reality deeper and more awesome than what we see every day. And by awesome I mean that word in its original form as well where “awe” meant an experience where terror mixes with reverence and repulsion with fascination.

While some of his films (e.g., Dune, The Elephant Man, Blue Velvet, Wild at Heart, the first two seasons of Twin Peaks) have fairly straightforward narratives much of his work has more mercurial narrative structures (e.g., Lost Highway, Mulholland Drive, Inland Empire, the last season of Twin Peaks). Although I empathize with folks who are frustrated by Lynch’s work when they just want a cool story that “makes sense” I also feel a bit saddened because it is an “apples to oranges” situation and by wanting the apple so badly, they are not allowing themselves to enjoy what Lynch’s oranges have to offer (bite into one and you just might see reality warp in front of your eyes and that orange change to a donut or a cup of coffee).

Lynch’s films, like so much of surreal art (of whatever medium), is about the spaces between. Between images, between characters, between dialogue, and most importantly, between our thoughts and feelings as an audience. It’s as much about what we bring to it as it is what images and ideas he wrought.

His approach has inspired filmmakers, visual artists, poets, authors, audio drama producers, comic book writers, etc. etc. He was one of a kind and as I mourn his passing I am also elated that the people who knew him were blessed with his presence and that the rest of us were blessed with the works he created.

Rest in Peace David Lynch.

Lothar Tuppan
Editor in Chief
February 2025

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Incident on a Florida Highway (A Vignette)

By Tyson Blue

A contract killer finds himself in an unintended and explosive predicament during a routine fuel stop at a remote country store.

I was driving my rental car, a metallic blue Nissan Kicks, along a two-lane highway south and east of St. Petersburg. The sun had gone behind a cloud bank out over the Gulf, and everything had turned a dusky purple color. It wasn’t dark enough to turn the lights on yet, but I had them on anyway.

I was returning from a successful job in Miami, heading across the peninsula to the Gulf to pick up a boat to take me to Mobile, so I could catch a train back to Boston, pick up my car and head back to New Hampshire without getting too close to Georgia. Things had been a little too hot for me there for the last few years. It wouldn’t do for some cop to get a little too suspicious and wind up connecting me with Ray Vincent, fugitive contract killer and fugitive from justice.

There were only a few cars on the road, which ran mostly through farmland, fenced off lots with a few cows and horses. The farmhouses on those lots were mostly manufactured homes, the rectangular one-story brick homes that seemed to make up most of the residences in the South, or ramshackle whitewashed farmhouses with rusted tin roofs that looked as though they’d been there since the Depression.

Looking down, I noticed that the fuel had crept down below an eighth of a tank while I wasn’t looking. I couldn’t say how long it had been since I’d last seen a gas station, so I thought I’d better start looking. I was bound to run across something pretty soon; the Gulf wasn’t all that far to the West. I hoped I’d run across something before I ran out. It didn’t look like help would be along right away.

Fifteen minutes later, I hadn’t even seen a sign for a gas station. I was beginning to wonder if there were people around here — one thing for sure, if they were, they weren’t out on the road. As I continued heading west, the area became less and less populated. I knew that there was bound to be some civilization soon, but it was definitely taking its time.

There was a quiet ping from the dashboard. I glanced down and saw the stylized yellow gas pump light come on. I didn’t see those very often, but I knew it meant I didn’t have a lot of time to find fuel. The road ran straight and true in front of me, and there wasn’t a thing in sight, not even a farm. I kept going, hoping for a change.

Finally, the road curved to the right, heading slightly north, and as I came out of the curve, I saw a small sign on the right that read “Drury’s Country Store 1 Mile”. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to push the car any of that distance.

My luck was apparently in, as I passed a grove of trees on my left and shot past a small store set back off the road just past that one-mile mark. I slowed quickly and made a U-turn, pulling into the lot in front of a small wooden building, its plywood shell not painted at all, with a green tin roof that looked fairly new. A sign perched on the roof proclaimed that this was, indeed, Drury’s Country Store.

I pulled next to one of four gas pumps, none of which bore any oil-company markings. In fact, all the inner working of the machines were plainly visible. There was no credit-card slots on any or the pumps, and all were activated by pressing down chrome-plated levers, pumps of a kind I hadn’t seen since before the turn of the century.

Assuming I would have to pay cash in advance, I headed for the door leading into the store itself. Just ahead of me, a young Hispanic man wearing black jeans and a matching T-shirt pushed through the door, turning to hold it open for me, a grin revealing gapped, blackened teeth. I stepped past him, nodding thanks, and stepped up to the counter, behind which stood a man who could have been the other man’s brother.

At once, I was hit with an overwhelming smell of fuel, maybe even jet fuel. It had been awhile since I’d caught a whiff of a meth lab, but I had little doubt that there was one in the back of the building somewhere. I tried to keep the realization out of my eyes, and handed a twenty-dollar bill to the cashier.

“Twenty dollars’ worth, please,” I told him, and he nodded and muttered a reply. He turned on the pump, and I walked out the door, keeping an even pace as I walked out to the car and began filling it up. As I looked up, I saw the first man standing at the door and looking out at me. As I held the pump in place, I leaned my back against the door post and gently bumped the butt of the pistol stuck down my pants at the small of my back.

The pump disengaged and the hum of gas flowing into the tank ceased. I replaced the handle into the socket and released it. I glanced at the gauge, which showed that I had exceeded my twenty-dollar limit by about seven bucks.

I sat down in the driver’s seat and slid the key into the ignition. I left the door open. The man in the store straightened up a little in the doorway. I started the car, pulled my left foot inside the door and floored the accelerator, cranking the wheel as far to the left as it would go, spinning the car around in a sharp left turn, dust and grit spraying out from beneath the sheets. The force of the turn slammed the door shut next to me as I came out of the turn and headed for the highway.

As I ran onto the road and the tires took hold, I shot into the westbound lane, cutting off a stake-bed truck that was coming in from the west. As I squealed tires into my lane and the tires took hold, I could hear a squeal of tires from the truck and a flood of curses from the driver. Straightening out, I caught a glimpse of the man in black standing in the doorway, a machine pistol clutched in his hands. That lasted just a second, as the truck was between me and the front of Drury’s Country Store.

He yelled something in Spanish, and as I came out from behind the truck, I saw him raise the gun and get ready to fire.

“NOOOO!!” shouted a voice from inside the store.

“Oh, shit!” I muttered to myself.

I stomped the car’s pedal to the floor, continuing to accelerate away from the store as fast as I could. Behind me, I heard a loud burring sound as the man in the doorway pulled the trigger. I saw bullets hitting the road to my left, but only for a fraction of a second, then the gun’s muzzle flash ignited the thick miasma of combustible material that lay thickly in the store’s interior.

For a moment the dusky evening sky behind lit up like brightest day. I felt a shock wave push my car forward. Looking in my sideview mirror, I saw that the entire front of the store had blown out. The man in the door had become a human torch, thrown out of the building by the explosion and fetching up against the pumps.

A fireball rolled up into the sky above where the front room of the store had been, and a second later, a second explosion went off as whatever chemicals had been in the back of the building went up.

Then as I headed on down the road, the gas pumps blew up, ignited by the young gunman as he lay in a flaming heap against them. As bits of flaming debris began raining down behind me, I turned my attention back to the road before me, and continued on my way to my rendezvous in the Gulf. Behind me in rearview mirror, I saw the truck begin moving as well, getting as far away from the flaming ruins of Drury’s Country Store as he could before the arrival of the emergency vehicles that were sure to be attracted by the flames and explosions of a few moments before.

As I headed west toward the Gulf, I thought about my penchant for dropping into troublesome situations. Sometimes it seemed as though bad luck just followed me around. Most of the time, things went pretty smoothly for me. But then, there were things like unintended casualties getting in the way of jobs, or running into a cop who remembered me from a jail stay awhile back.

Sometimes there were mixed blessings, like getting broken out of jail by a gang of mercenaries, which was good, but picking up a couple of dead or injured police officers in the process, which wasn’t.

And now this — I stop in for a fill-up and land in the middle of a meth lab. I smiled to myself. At least I’d filled up before the shooting started, and I’d hadn’t fired a shot. The truck driver had gone, and anything I might have touched had gone up in flames. I hadn’t left much of a footprint, if any, unless you counted that big flaming crater by the side of the road, which I hadn’t made, if you wanted to get technical about it. As the light from the fires faded from sight, I turned right onto a dirt road and headed away from the highway to avoid any first responders, and continued on my way.

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Urns

By Thomas M. Malafarina

A habitual bargain hunter proudly brings home a $500 SUV from an auction, a surprising "great deal." However, his wife discovers two funeral urns filled with ashes in the vehicle's trunk.

“Wow, Gina. You won’t believe the great deal I got on this car!” Anson Gross told his wife.

To say Gina Gross was unimpressed with this amazing revelation would be an understatement. She and Anson had been married for almost two decades, and if she had a dollar for every time Anson came home with an automotive “great deal,” she might not be rich, but she’d at least have a few bucks instead of the thousands her husband had lost over the years, buying pieces of junk that were “great deals.” She swore it was an illness or obsession with Anson, like his quest for the four-wheel Holy Grail.

Every time it happened, Anson would come home smiling from ear to ear, acting like he had just won the Lottery, explaining how he had just gotten one “fantastic deal” or another on a used vehicle. At first glance the car or truck usually did look like a good deal until the other shoe dropped, and Anson would say something like, “It only needs a new transmission,” or “It only needs breaks, rotors, and tires.” With Anson’s amazing deals, there was always an “It only needs” of one sort or another. You could be guaranteed that whatever that need happened to be, it would end up costing much more than the original “great deal.”

The worst part of the process was that Anson had absolutely no mechanical ability whatsoever. Despite his garage full of tools, he was worse than useless when it came to “fixing up” any car. That meant most of the time, Anson had to hire someone else to do the work. On those few occasions when he tried to do the job himself, he usually screwed up royally and had to pay someone to undo what he had done, then pay them again to do the actual initial repair. As far as Gina was concerned, his “great deals” dug a gaping pit in their driveway, where Anson threw what little extra money they managed to save.

Gina braced herself for Anson’s latest “It only needs …” but the words never came. She asked, “OK, Anson. How about you tell me all about this great deal. More importantly, tell me what else the piece of junk will need to make it road-worthy and what it’s going to cost us.”

“That’s the best part, Gina. It doesn’t need anything else. It’s good to go. Not only that, but it’s an SUV. I knew how much you wanted an SUV. I got this one at the car auction for a song.”

“How could you have gotten it for a song, Anson, when you can’t carry a tune in a bucket?”

“Haha. Very funny. Come outside and take a look, and be amazed at what $500 has bought us.”

“When the heck did you get $500? Never mind. I don’t think I want to know,” she said, knowing in Anson’s case, ignorance was always blissful. Instead, she followed her husband outside and saw his latest purchase sitting in the dirt driveway in front of their single-wide mobile home.

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she, Gina?” Anson said, pointing at the surprisingly pristine-looking 2001 Toyota 4-Runner.

Gina found herself somewhat speechless. If what Anson said was true and this baby really didn’t need anything else, he may have finally gotten the deal he had been trying to get for decades. She had been researching the cost of used SUVs for some time; it had been more of a fantasy than research, as Gina knew they could never afford the $8,000 – $20,000 price tag for such a vehicle. Yet somehow, Anson had managed to get this beauty for only $500.

“What’s the catch, Anson? There has to be a catch. There’s always a catch. You don’t get a vehicle this nice for $500. It just doesn’t happen.”

“No catch, Babe. I got this at Fred’s Abandoned Car Auction over in Simpson. It had been found abandoned on a roadside with no papers or identification of any kind. Fred got it from the police impound and drove it to the lot. He briefly checked it out, took care of making the necessary paperwork for it, and slapped a price tag of $800 on it.”

“But you said you got it for $500,” Gina questioned.

“I did, Gina Babe. Never doubt my negotiation skills.”

After more than two decades, not only did she doubt his negotiation skills, but she also sometimes doubted her own sanity for putting up with his nonsense for so long.

“So how do we know this SUV wasn’t used in some kind of robbery or murder or God knows what else?” she asked.

“Well, I suppose we don’t. But it already was checked out by the cops as well as Fred’s Auction folks, so I suppose that’s good enough for me.”

“Of course, it’s good enough for you, Anson. You never ask the important questions. You always take everyone at their word. That’s why we always end up getting screwed in all of your “great deals.” Well, I suppose we should check this gem out for ourselves.”

The pair walked around the SUV, opening all the doors and checking the condition of the interior. Gina was shocked at how well-maintained and clean the vehicle was.

“I can take you for a spin, and you can see how well it runs. I’m telling you, Gina, this was the find of the century.”

“In a bit, Anson. I want to check out the back first.”

Gina lifted the hatch and was amazed at how clean and unworn the carpeted interior of the back was. She saw there was a wooden crate sitting in the rear storage area.

“What’s with the wooden crate, Anson? Did they give you some spare parts or something?”

“What wooden crate? I didn’t notice that when I bought the car.”

“Of course you didn’t. That would have involved actually looking closely at the thing.”

“No need to get so snippy, Gina. I think you just can’t believe I got such a good deal.”

“You are absolutely correct about that, Anson. Your reputation precedes you. Let’s see what little treasure awaits us in this box of mystery.” Gina pulled the box forward and lifted the lid. She stepped back, gasped, and dropped the lid on the ground.

“What is it, Gina?”

She stammered, “I … I’m not sure. It looks like Urns.”

“Urns?”

“Yeah. Urns. Funeral urns. Two of them. The kinds of things you put dead people’s ashes in after you cremate them.”

“What the Hell are funeral urns doing in the back of our SUV?”

“Good question, Anson. What are funeral urns doing in the back of our SUV … that you bought and supposedly checked out, and which was such an amazing deal?”

“Hold on now, Gina. You can’t go blaming me for this. It was obviously some slight oversight on the part of Fred’s Auction. I had nothing to do with it. It’s not my fault.”

“Of course, it’s not your fault. It’s never your fault. It wasn’t your fault when you bought that car with the dead skunk in the trunk, either, was it? That dead skunk made the car unfit for human habitation. That was another great deal, as I recall. Now we have dead people in the back of our SUV.”

“Wait a minute, Gina. They ain’t exactly dead people. They are dead people’s ashes. That is, assuming the urns are actually full. Check to see if they are full.”

“What? I’m not checking for any such thing. First, you know how I hate anything to do with death, dead people, or dead things in general. Secondly, you bought this death mobile, this hearse, you come over here and check it out your own damn self. I don’t want no part of this disgusting business.”

“Fine, fine, fine. Let me look at these.” Anson lifted the lid on the first urn and saw it was full of ashes. He didn’t bother with the second urn; he just lifted it to see if it had any significant weight. “Yep. They are both filled with ashes.”

“That’s just disgusting! Jeezus, Anson. I feel like I wanna puke. What are we supposed to do with dead people’s ashes? We don’t even know who they are. Not that it matters. They’re freaking dead, Anson.”

“Well, let me see here. There’s probably some sort of tag or identifier on these urns.” Anson lifted one of the urns from the box and turned it around until he saw an inscription on the side. “This one says ‘Mabel T. Zeller, loving wife, mother. Brutally cut down in the prime of life.'”

“Oh my God, Anson. That’s a disturbing thing to write on someone’s final resting place, even if it is just an urn.”

“It sure is, yet also interesting. Let me check the other one. It says, “Joseph B. Zeller. May his soul rot in Hell for eternity.”

For a moment, both Gina and Anson were silent. Then Gina shook her head and shouted, “I knew it! There’s always a catch with you, Anson. If it isn’t a car that needs to be overhauled from top to bottom, it’s a good car with dead people’s ashes inside.”

“Now, hold on, Gina. This ain’t a big deal. We’ll just take these urns and dump the ashes somewhere, then we can throw the urns in the trash, and no one will ever be the wiser.”

“I’ll be the wiser, Anson. I’ll know that this stupid piece of crap SUV held the ashes of those people, and one of them is probably a murderer who killed the other. That means this car is probably haunted. How am I supposed to ride around town in a haunted SUV?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There ain’t no such thing as ghosts or haunted cars. Look at this logically, Gina. We got a great SUV dirt cheap.”

“Bad choice of words, Anson.”

“Oops, sorry. Well, we got a great vehicle, and as soon as we dump these stupid urns and their contents, we can forget they were ever there.”

“There’s no ‘we’ in this, husband. I can’t forget, and I won’t forget. You made this mess, and you’re going to have to clean it up. And after you get rid of those urns, you can get rid of that SUV.”

“What? That’s a great car. I’ll never find another one like it for that price.”

“I don’t care, Anson. I want nothin’ more to do with that. I’ve said my piece, and that’s final.”

“Fine. It’s too late to do anything about it today. I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”

“You bet you will.”

The couple walked into their house, leaving the car with its contents in the driveway. Anson was furious about having to get rid of the best deal he ever made but knew he had no choice. Gina would never relent and would make his life a living Hell until he did what she said. As he lay in his bed in the dark with his eyes closed, trying to fall asleep, he kept reviewing the past few hours, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. Those urns were an unfortunate discovery. He wished he had looked over the car more carefully. Had he found the urns earlier, Gina would have never known a thing about them, and none of this would have happened. But now it was too late.

“It’s not really too late,” a voice said inside his head.

“What? Who said that?” Anson thought.

“I did, Anson. It’s me, Joe Zeller.”

Anson had to think for a moment, “Joe Zeller? I don’t know anybody named Joe Zeller …” Then he recognized the name. Joseph Zeller was the name on one of the urns, the inscription that also suggested Joseph’s soul should rot in Hell for eternity.

“Ah, so I see you recognize me.”

“Hold your horses here for a minute. This just don’t seem possible. I’m lying in my bed, not moving my lips but having some sort of conversation with some dead guy whose ashes are sitting in a car in my driveway. I must have nodded off and am dreaming.”

“No, I assure you, Anson, you are not dreaming.”

“But how can …?”

“Don’t waste your time worrying about such trivial matters, Anson. The important thing is that you needed my help, and here I am.”

“Help? I don’t need anybody’s help, let alone from some dead ashes guy!”

“Actually, you did need my help. You love the new vehicle you bought; it was a fantastic deal. It was the kind of deal you dreamed about all your life.”

“Yes, it was. But because of your stupid ashes and your wife’s, Gina is making me get rid of my great deal.”

“I feel your pain, Anson. Sometimes, wives don’t understand and need to be taught a lesson, like I taught mine. That’s why I’m here to help you. As I’m sure you realized, I have an outstanding disciplinary track record.”

“Help me? What are you talking about? I’m pretty sure you murdered your wife. You must have been insane.”

“Well, one man’s discipline is another man’s insanity, I suppose. Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to, as I like to say.”

“Potato? Why the Hell are you talking about potatoes? More importantly, why the Hell am I dreaming about talking to a pile of ashes?”

“As I told you, Anson, you are not dreaming. You needed my help, and I came to you the only way I could. I came into your mind, and together we solved your problem.”

“Solved my problem? What are you talking about? I didn’t have any problem.” But there was no reply. The strange voice was gone.

Anson opened his eyes to find himself staring up at the barely visible ceiling in his dark bedroom. His body was coated in a film of cold sweat, and the smell of his own stench was nauseating. He also smelled a moist, coppery scent that caused every nerve ending in his body to be immediately on high alert. Anson reached over and turned on the bed lamp on a nearby end table. At first, he had trouble turning the stem on the rotary lamp switch, as his fingers felt wet and sticky. When the light finally came on, Anson saw a bloody knife lying on the end table, and his hands were dripping with blood. He wanted to scream with terror, but his voice caught in his throat.

He turned quickly and saw his wife, his beloved Gina, lying next to him, looking less like a woman than a bloody, butchered slab of meat. That was when he realized what he had done, or more precisely, what Joseph Zeller had made him do. His wife was gone, murdered by his own hand, but he hadn’t really done it. They may have argued over the years, but he would never have considered killing her.

“Joseph Zeller? Where are you? How could you have made me do something so unthinkable?” Anson thought, but there was no reply. He was trembling and weeping.

Anson was overwrought with grief at what he had done, also realizing there would be no way he would ever be able to convince anyone that a ghost of some dead murderer had entered his body, taken control, and done this horrible deed. He would spend the rest of his life in jail or in some insane asylum, and neither option was a good one. Plus, he knew he could never live with the guilt of killing Gina, even if he believed it was not directly his fault. As he lifted the knife slowly up to his throat, Anson did the only thing he still had the wherewithal to do. Through the searing pain and warm flowing of his precious lifeblood down his neck, soaking his shirt and joining Gina’s blood on their bed sheet, Anson felt satisfied that he had done what had to be done to atone for his sins. He neither knew nor cared what would become of the urns or his car. Instead, he felt a numbing relief as the room around him slowly darkened to a total, all-encompassing blackness.

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Accidental Genius: An Oral history of The Room

Book by Andrew J. Rausch

Book Review by Mark Slade

Cult films seem to have a longer shelf life than even some of the best reviewed and most successful films at the box office. I don’t think anyone can really explain why that is. Maybe it’s the flaws of the films that ring truer to a viewer than an almost perfect one. But I’m not even certain of that. To be honest, I can’t even explain to people what a cult film is. I used to try, then get questions: well, this certain movie is listed as a cult film, yet it’s popular with most of the viewing audience.
So I gave up and just shrugged, told them I didn’t know the answer. Which is true.

According to Wikipedia:
“A cult film or cult movie, also commonly referred to as a cult classic, is a film that has acquired a cult following. Cult films are known for their dedicated, passionate fan base which forms an elaborate subculture, members of which engage in repeated viewings, dialogue-quoting, and audience participation. Inclusive definitions allow for major studio productions, especially box-office bombs, while exclusive definitions focus more on obscure, transgressive films shunned by the mainstream. The difficulty in defining the term and subjectivity of what qualifies as a cult film mirror classificatory disputes about art. The term cult film itself was first used in the 1970s to describe the culture that surrounded underground films and midnight movies, though cult was in common use in film analysis for decades prior to that.”

Take from that what you will, but Tommy Wiseau’s 2003 film The Room fits every bit of that description. A new interview book examining Tommy Wiseau, The Room, and the experience of making that film is nothing short of a brilliant story told through conversations with cast, crew, and the man behind the film.

This splendid book by Andrew J. Rausch is also a laugh riot.

From the interviews in the book, seemingly, no one likes the man before, during, or after filming ended. The tall, creepy, dead-eyed Wiseau has an ego the size of Jupiter, speaks with an eastern European accent, and never figured out that not only was the film the butt of jokes, but so was he. Wiseau argued and fired cast members and went through several crews during the shoot. Wiseau penned the screenplay with Greg Sestero. Sestero used the experience of making the movie as the basis for his book The Disaster Artist, co-written with Tom Bissell. The book was adapted in 2007 for the film of the same name that starred and was directed by James Franco.

Wiseau and Sestero met in acting class in San Francisco. After getting kicked out of the class, Wiseau decided to make his own film, casting Sestero as Mark, he as the main character, Tommy.

Script supervisor Sandy Schklair was a stalwart, working with the actors, trying to make sense of a nonsensical script, did his best to keep things level, only to leave a few weeks before the film wrapped. Later, when The Room had success as a cult film, Schklair would claim he actually directed the project.

Why would anyone want credit for a film as bad as The Room?

Because of the notoriety, I assume, and being hidden away as a script supervisor does not get the attention a film director does. Schklair even admits how awful it is.

People are not interested in the film because it’s a masterpiece. It’s because Wiseau is an enigma. No one knows where he’s from, though he says he’s from New Orleans. The source of his wealth cannot be traced. He not only financed the whole production, he also bought the equipment, paid for a huge billboard with a strange photograph of himself, and campaigned for an Oscar.

Readers also find out from Rausch’s book of an accidental ground roots campaign. The Room acquired a following via USC students who called their friends, and by word of mouth brought more attention that led to a write-up in Entertainment Weekly.

You also glean from Rausch’s book how the first showing at a midnight movie theater, viewers start throwing plastic silverware whenever framed photos of spoons appear on screen.

Several storylines weave in and out through the collected interviews, as well as differing P.O.V.’s that give the story of The Room a Rashomon account of the film and Wiseau. The amount of research Rausch put into this book and finding the interviews is impressive. I’d rather pat Rausch on the back for this accomplishment than Wiseau and Sestero for milking a creation that even Ed Wood might find it hard to say something nice about.

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Going Back to the Double “R”

By Mark Slade

What happens to a small town when the Homecoming Queen is murdered? If it is a David Lynch film, all kinds of strange and kooky things happen.

With the news of David Lynch and Mark Frost bringing back Twin Peaks for Showtime, I couldn’t help traveling back to 1990 and watching the pilot episode. It’s not horror, you say? I beg to differ. Wasn’t Twin Peaks just a fad and a soap opera? Yes, and yes. It did last about as long as a wart on Lynch’s ass, but that doesn’t mean it was any less brilliant, weird, and it helped shape TV that exists today. But let’s dip back into the Double R for a cup of coffee and a damn good piece of pie so I can prove to you that Twin Peaks was much more than a fad and a soap opera. More importantly, it was a great piece of horror captured on film.

It opens with that iconic first scene. Josie Packard (Joan Chen) humming to herself, applying black lipstick to her lips while enjoying her own visage in the mirror. Josie owns the lumber mill in Twin Peaks and lives with Pete (Jack Nance) and Pete’s wife Katherine (Piper Laurie) (who was Josie’s very wealthy husband). Pete is up early to go fishing. In just one instant, we can tell this marriage between Pete and Katherine is a loveless one. The stern look she gives Pete when he playfully touches her cheek is all the info the audience needs. Just as Pete is walking along the beach to his pier, he sees something by the water. Something wrapped in plastic. He gets a little closer before he realizes it is a body wrapped in that plastic, and it’s a woman. Furthermore, Pete knows who the woman is.
“Harry,” Pete says into the phone. “It’s Pete Martell…she’s dead…”

There are scenes with Bobby Briggs in the Double R, chatting up Shelley (Mädchen Amick) and Norma (Peggy Lipton), the owner of the café, but Bobby is supposed to be at football practice. Instead, he is there to carry on his affair with Shelley while her boyfriend Leo is on the road. He takes her home, and they see Leo’s truck in the driveway. In the meantime, Laura’s mother (Grace Zabriskie) discovers Laura isn’t home and desperately calls Bobby’s parents. They decide Laura must be with her father, Leland Palmer (the prodigious Ray Wise). The scene shifts again back to the beach where the body is, and Sheriff Harry S. Truman (played by Michael Ontkean), a Deputy Andy (Harry Goaz), and Doctor Hayward (Warren Frost), Donna’s father, are examining the body. Deputy Andy is supposed to take pictures, but emotions get the better of him and he has a problem with breaking into tears any time he is faced with a dead body. They turn the dead girl over and, of course, it is Laura Palmer (that iconic image and sad music in the background has made this clip infamous—Sheryl Lee wrapped in plastic with beads of sand on her forehead).

News of her death travels fast. At school, people weep with heavy hearts (especially the principal), except her boyfriend, Bobby, who is hauled into the station for questioning. They learn that another high school student, Ronette Pulaski, is also missing. Sheriff Truman has a case on his hands bigger than he expected. The mill shuts down because of the terrible news, in spite of co-owner Katherine’s gripes.

The scene shifts again and Ronette Pulaski is found walking across a bridge and train tracks. The girl is bruised and bloodied, her clothes torn, and from her wrists dangle threadbare ropes. She’d obviously been tortured.

Now we cut to motorcycle bad boy–good guy James (James Marshall) and his Uncle Ed (Everett McGill) at Ed’s gas station. The conversation is minimal and to the point. “Laura is dead,” James says. Ed quips, “Yeah…I heard.” The conversation is interrupted by Ed’s not-so-sane wife Nadine, who also wears a patch over her eye. “Ed! They said those drapes would be ready by 10 a.m.! I want those drapes hung by nightfall!” All through the pilot and first season, Nadine (Wendy Robie) is obsessed with discovering noiseless drape runners.

Now enters the most famous and main character of the series: Special FBI Agent Dale B. Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan). Riding along a winding road in his rented car, Cooper talks incessantly into a tape recorder to his secretary (?) Diane. He tells the tape recorder what he had for lunch, the price of it, and of course (another running gag in the series) “Cherry pie. Damn good cherry pie.”

Next, Sheriff Truman and Cooper see Ronette in the hospital. Apparently, this became a case for the FBI because Ronette had walked from outside the Canadian border back into American soil. Ronette is suffering from shock. It appears that she was raped several times. It turns out the only connection between Laura and Ronette was that they were in the same high school. Not being able to question Ronette because of possible neurological damage, Cooper examines her fingernails. Ronette begins to talk while unconscious. She whispers, “Don’t go in there…don’t go in there…”

The one-armed man shows up in the hallway of the hospital while Cooper and Truman are waiting for the elevator to go to the morgue. As does kooky Dr. Jacoby (Russ Tamblyn), Laura’s psychologist. Jacoby reveals that Laura’s parents didn’t know she was seeing him as her patient. Right away, Cooper suspects Jacoby. In the morgue, the lights start to flicker as Cooper examines Laura’s body. Cooper discovers something under her fingernails and asks the M.E. to leave the room. In strict confidence, he shares his findings with Truman. Under the ring finger, the killer left the letter “R.”

Cooper reads Laura’s diary. She mentions she hates asparagus and wonders: “Does that mean I will never grow up?” The last entry reads, nervous about meeting “J” tonight. He also discovers white residue on the diary and a key to a deposit box. The residue is more than likely cocaine.

A weepy Deputy Andy calls in to say they found the location of the crime, where Laura and Ronette were tortured: an abandoned train car. He also tells the operator to tell Truman he didn’t cry.

During the interview with Bobby, we come across the golden eye of the film, the pearl. There was a video of Laura while she was alive. She and her best friend Donna are having a picnic with the mysterious “J.” Bobby didn’t shoot that video. The camera pans in very close to Laura’s eyes. There in the pupil is the reflection of a motorcycle. The “J” is the bad-boy good-guy James. Cooper sees it, and so does Bobby.

For the sake of space here, I’ll have to cut some characters (Twin Peaks has so many characters, it’s not funny). But some have become closely connected to the show. Albert (who doesn’t appear in the pilot, but in the next few episodes, is played by Miguel Ferrer), the FBI’s pathologist; Benjamin Horne (Richard Beymer), who owns the Great Northern Lodge and is Leland’s business partner; and there is Hawk (Michael Horse), the American Native deputy. There’s also Audrey Horne, Ben’s daughter, who ends up being a prominent character in the show, and it made Sherilyn Fenn a star. Another figure from the show that seeped into pop culture is the Log Lady (Catherine Coulson). Supposedly, David Lynch invented this character while filming Eraserhead.

At the abandoned train car, Cooper and Truman see the dank and dark area is covered in blood. There are pieces of plastic with what looks to be (I could be wrong) torture devices wrapped up and possibly flesh. There is also part of a heart locket lying in a mound of dirt. Below that is a torn piece of newsprint with a message written in blood: “Fire—walk with me…”

Twin Peaks has just as many scenes of kookiness as there are bizarre and poignant ones—sad and frightening. The kooky one that stands out, which isn’t as iconic, is with Ben’s other child—the mentally challenged young man Johnny. Johnny is wearing an Indian chief outfit, banging his head continuously on a dollhouse. You see, Laura was his tutor. Johnny doesn’t understand that Laura will never tutor him again. This character would have been great to explore. If I’m not mistaken, Johnny made his only appearance in the pilot film.

Inside the deposit box, Cooper and Truman find ten thousand dollars and a dirty magazine. There is a page marked, and they find a picture of Ronette Pulaski circled. Below that is a blurry picture of Leo’s semi, with someone standing in front of it. Leo finds two different brands of cigarettes in an ashtray. He questions Shelly and threatens her. The phone rings at Ed’s gas station. Ed answers, and Norma is on the line. Apparently they are seeing each other in secret.

There was a lot of that in the show. That was the soap-opera aspect of the show. Nevertheless, this was a David Lynch show. The finish of this film is the horror aspect.

Laura’s mother is lying on the couch, dozing, when she sees a vision of hands digging in the ground to take the gold locket that James and Donna had buried.

The character of Bob, who as the series moves on, is evil embodied. He has such a strong presence that he can push people, from a spirit point of view, into doing horrible things. However, Bob does not appear in the American telecast of the pilot, and the actual vision Laura’s mother sees is of Bob in Laura’s room. That footage was used for Episode 2 and the original ending to the European version. Set decorator Frank Silva played Bob in the show. Lynch has said there was a mistake when Silva was caught on film. When he viewed the rushes, Bob was created, and it seemed all the pieces fell in place to make a different kind of TV series that to this day networks still try to recapture. Just think: If ABC had not taken a chance on Twin Peaks, there would be no Seinfeld (a quirky sitcom), no Breaking Bad (main character is a meth dealer), no X-Files (quirky, supernatural, alien-related stories), and the rip-offs such as Picket Fences and Northern Exposure (both of which lasted longer than Twin Peaks).

Lynch made Fire Walk with Me, the sequel feature film, without Frost (not sure why that happened). That film is typical weird Lynch, but no less a decent film. I’m always curious to see the deleted footage from that. I’m not sure anyone in their right mind would have sat through a five-hour film of Twin Peaks. Maybe Mark Frost was somewhat Lynch’s editor in script stages, possibly a better film would have transpired. Who knows? Now, in 2016, Kyle MacLachlan will be back, along with Sheryl Lee and Ray Wise, and Sherilyn Fenn. I’m sure most of the cast will appear in Showtime’s “Third Season.” I have to say, I can’t wait.

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In Memory: David Lynch

By Mark Slade

To say David Lynch changed the way I saw things is an understatement. I had heard of surrealism before I found Lynch’s work. It was more in line with art, not storytelling.

My introduction to Lynch as a filmmaker was Blue Velvet. Actually, I didn’t get to see the film at that time. I had rented it from our local drugstore. Brought it home, but had to go to work. My mom put it in and, from what I heard, promptly ejected the tape after being subjected to a string of “fuck” words screamed by Dennis Hopper.

A few years later, 1990, I was living with my family in a somewhat desolate area. I was out of school, out of a job, out of money. Times were tough, but there were still books to read, dreams to dream, and of course, there was television.

If I’m not mistaken, on a Sunday night, possibly Easter week, my parents were in the living room watching Jesus of Nazareth, I think. I was in the sitting room. The house we lived in had rooms like that. Modern family dwellings had by that time been reduced to less. But there was a TV there. Earlier I had seen a curious ad for a TV show.

I might be wrong, but I think there wasn’t any dialogue except a voice-over saying, “She’s dead,” and a slow panning, swooping camera shot across the woods. Maybe I saw a woman’s face overlaid on the trees?

I tuned in, not expecting much.

Boy, was I wrong.

Right from the start, the theme song, at the time, I thought was a guitar, but now I know it was synth bass, pumping out thick puffs of cotton; the credits that seemed to go on forever; and that opening scene that was to haunt me and change my life forever.

A middle-aged man ambled outside to discover a body wrapped in plastic on the cold beach. He peeled the plastic back and saw the face of Laura Palmer. He rushed back in to call the sheriff.

“She’s dead,” Pete muttered into the receiver.

And that was the beginning of my obsession, not only with Twin Peaks but David Lynch.

So much emotion in that TV show that, along with Wiseguy and Seinfeld, changed the landscape of television. So many things can be found: horror, comedy, mystery, drama, nighttime soap opera, filmatic scenes… characters being goofy, characters screaming—wailing, and of course the strangeness—the overabundance of surrealism… questions asked, never answered.

Except who killed Laura Palmer.

They answered that one.

Unfortunately.

Soon, I had my entire family watching the show.

Interest in Twin Peaks, David Lynch, hit its peak that year and a half.

But mine didn’t.

I went out and watched everything he made, read as much about him, and to this day, still think Wild at Heart is the most perfect film committed to celluloid.

RIP David Lynch, a damn fine artist, filmmaker, and, like rock ’n’ roll, a true American original.

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Interview with Kat Ruiz Bass

Born and raised in the vibrant city of Hialeah, Florida, Kat Ruiz Bass discovered her artistic calling early on, inspired by her late father’s vision and passion for architecture. Her love for art has flourished into a multifaceted career—pinstriping, painting custom helmets, illustrating for CARtoons Magazine, and designing one-of-a-kind Kustom pieces.

Hi Kat. Thank you for doing this interview.

Thank you so much for having me!

What is your background?

My background is a little spicy 🙂 My parents are Cuban and Colombian. I’ve taught my kids to be so proud of their heritage, embracing our culture and love the fact that we look different in a crowd. My artistic background varies in categories. My early teen years I started to doodle in MS paint bucket, but after High school I attended SCTI in Sarasota Fl and received 177 hours in AutoCAD and drafting. I worked for a woodworking and engineering firm in Orlando as a draftsman, kick started my love for digital design. I started to dig a little deeper and taught myself Photoshop & Illustrator.

Where did you grow up?

Born and raised in the “305”, Hialeah, Florida. I was very lucky to be surrounded by the art culture in South Florida. In my ol’ high school days I was friends with the B-Boys/Taggers/Graffiti artist, (whatever you want to call ’em) would pick my friend up around midnight and took him to different spots he wanted to tag (Graffiti) in Hialeah and downtown Miami. Tho, I technically was the Uber but I watched in awe, yelling from the driver side door to put “KAT up there too!”

What inspired you to be an artist?

My Father. I lost him when I was a little girl. He was an artist and an architect. My earliest memories with him are just sitting in a restaurant drawing the cups, forks and condiments that were sitting in front of us. Along with some really cool dad tricks like making straw paper roses. That’s what started me off with some basic knowledge of art & grasping basic concepts like shadows & proportions. I hold on to those memories very dearly to my heart & made sure to share that with my kids too.

What got you into comics?

Sunday comics were my all time favorite. Calvin & Hobbes, Garfield, Family Circus, Dilbert, Baby Blues, Cathy, so many to list! But being an 80’s baby I grew up watching the Tracey Ullman Show and The Simpsons pretty much raised me. In my teen years I was obsessed with MTV’s animated shorts Liquid Television, Aeon Flux, The Maxx, Daria, Ren & Stimpy, Beavis & Butt-Head.

What books, or comics for that matter, did you like to read as a youth?

My youngest memories reading comics was stealing my cousin’s Calvin & Hobbes comics and admiring the art.

What was your first published work?

My 1st publication was in Kustom Kulture Magazine Issue #73 in 2019. I was so excited to hear the news. I later found out that issue was being sold in Indonesia & was taken aback that my art was being looked at in that part of the world!

How did you get your work in CarToons magazine?

Marc Methot reached out to me via Facebook asking if I was interested in doing live videos on their page, along with a 2 pager in the magazine as frequently as I wanted. I said HECK YES. He had seen my work online and really liked it; he thought I would be a great addition to the magazine. I was super excited!

How did you get involved with car culture art?

I got pulled into the Kustom culture world by my love of classic cars. I was posting my art on Fb and IG a lot. Some clients reached out to me about rendering vehicles & designing car show flyers. Of course, I super lowballed my talent, was doing $40 a car when I just started out. After that, it was a whirlwind of commissions 3 years straight (I started to care a little more). I’ve reached some incredible milestone that I never thought I would accomplish being an artist. Unfortunately my son was in a bad auto accident last year and I put all my art on hold to focus on my kids and family. No one ever told me how difficult it was going to be for a woman in the car industry not having any extra help at all in raising kids and juggling an art career. I really do wish it was different, my passion for art is so strong and having to choose to stop for a bit wasn’t easy.

You do a live video doing art, do you feel pressure to get things right?

The Live videos were fun. I had to pick art that would take at least an hour to do in one session but sometimes I took longer & sometimes I had to wait till next week to finish. I didn’t stress about it. Sitting at my desk, chit chatting with viewers about the magazine & small talk is what made it super exciting. I looked forward to the live vids every week.

What techniques did you use to hit a deadline?

I am one of those people that has to have a to-do list and a calendar in front of me at all times. Pretty punctual but sometimes it just doesn’t happen. I’ve learned the hard way not to say yes all the time. Making reasonable deadlines and crossing them off is the way to go for me. And sometimes you just have to say no. I’ve burned bridges that way but my children have always been #1.

What other areas of art are you involved in?

In my 40’s I finally picked up a spray can. Sprayed large scale murals in Fort Walton Beach & Pensacola area. Spray paint murals are by far my favorite medium so far. In the beginning I had it in my head that I wanted to try all the art mediums I can. 3D Design, Digital design, painting, drawing, murals, face & body painting, painting caricatures on wine glasses for wedding parties, tattooing, permanent make-up, kustom shoes…so much more.

What projects are you working on now?

As of right now, I am on a lil hiatus from art. Currently I am a graphic Designer for a sign company designing monuments and 3D renderings for our clients. Tho, my personal art has stopped for now since my son’s accident & my youngest’s Autistic diagnosis, my full time job has kept my art & creativity alive. I hope in the near future I can get back to where I left off. I hope to get back into spray paint murals again.

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Babylon A.D. Live Lightning Album Review

By Lucy Hall

What makes for a successful live album is when great moments are captured in time by musicians who can breathe new life into familiar songs, while vividly delivering an atmosphere of sound that gives their listeners a sense that they are part of the live concert experience. Live Lightning is a perfect example of this type of live album which has captured the very essence of Babylon A.D.’s high-voltage energy in concert.

Culled from shows at The Empress Theater in Vallejo CA, and Swiss Park Music Hall in Newark CA, Live Lightning delivers fourteen smashing tracks that include three of the band’s biggest classic hits, “Hammer Swings Down”, “Kid Goes Wild”, and “Bang Go The Bells” from their debut album. Also, Live Lightning incorporates a dynamic array of Babylon A.D. hits from every preceding studio album including their last release Revelation Highway.

Babylon A.D. has been the sound of L.A. hard rock, since its formation in 1987 and through a variety of changes and musical directions. Kicking around the L.A. club scene, the band gathered a lot of attention and it’s easy to see why Ron Freschi and John Matthews were killers on guitars, James Pacheco was an amazing drummer, and they had a great rhythm section, and Derek Davis is one of the best singers you’ve ever heard or seen. They continue to deliver that same quality today because good music ages gracefully like fine wine and Babylon A.D. is proof of that. After a hiatus, the group is back as powerful as ever with this third live album.

Babylon A.D. is indeed an amalgam of hard rock’s finest and is known for its powerful live performances and catchy songwriting skills. If you go back and dissect their first major release and then review their preceding discography you will get a good idea of their variety of sound. They can be melodic at times and also play a hundred miles per hour at times, they are a bit of everything you want out of a hard rock act.

The final word is that this latest release is an essential collection of standout performances from one of rock’s greatest lineups with a nice variety of songs. More specifically, here is exactly what you’ll be missing if you don’t buy this live album, a high-quality, well-mixed album from a group that has not lost its edge throughout a lengthy career. It is worth a second look and listen and you certainly do not want your record collection to be devoid of a very important addition. A rock-solid package of music. Pick up your copy today from Perris Records and be on the lookout for the band’s upcoming tour plans to support it.

BabylonAD.com

PerrisRecords.com

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Stories, Struggles, and Success: A Chat with E.S. Wynn

Uncover the unique experiences and diverse influences that have shaped the literary and creative legacy of this prolific storyteller.

E.S. Wynn is a remarkably prolific author with over seventy published books, including the cyberpunk Pink Carbide series, the sci-fi thriller The Cygnus War series, and the writing-focused Modern Creative Writer’s Workbook series. An experienced editor, Wynn owns and operates two fiction magazines while also providing editing services for authors, scholars, and businesses since 2005. Wynn’s articles and stories have appeared both online and in print, including the California Freemason Magazine. Beyond writing and editing, Wynn is also known as “The Voice” of the Dark Dreams Podcast, the Blackout City Podcast, and a series of mystic heathenry meditations, demonstrating a creative range that spans multiple genres and media.

Where are you from? What is your background?

I was born in a rural part of California, but I didn’t stay there. I’ve been all over the state, and even lived in Oklahoma for a time. My background has always been a mixture of survivalist, gothic, and academic. I have been a sword salesman, a pilot, a tutor, a paralegal, and a full-time author during the course of my life.

What inspired you to become a writer?

I learned when I was very young that I can’t draw well. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t replicate the skill of the other kids who were creating amazing things in charcoal and crayon. When I discovered that you could show people pictures without drawing them, though—that’s when I started writing. That’s when I fell in love with it. I still can’t draw very well, but I’ve definitely spent a lot of time creating pictures with words as a writer.

What was the first thing you remember reading at an early age?

I think the first books that I fell in love with were science books, specifically the ones that were packed with colorful 1970s sci-fi art. We had a handful of Terran Trade Authority books at the school library, and I couldn’t get enough of them. The first really substantial book I dug into, though, had to be Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park. I think I read that book ten times over one summer between fourth and fifth grade.

Jurassic Park Michael Crichton — Terran Trade Authority Books

What performer or artist/writer inspires you the most?

I think the late, great Storm Constantine has been the biggest influence on me and my writing as far as artists and writers go. Her work is as edgy as it is decadent, and I feel very privileged to have been able to have written three books and a handful of short stories side by side with her in her Wraeththu universe before she passed away.

Wraeththu- The Enchantments of Flesh and Spirit- by Storm Constantine — Storm Constantine Photo by Wdarling

What other areas of art are you involved in?

I do a lot of design work in AutoCAD, most of which I put up for free on Thingiverse or sell through my site Punkin’ Figs. I still can’t draw for love or money, but I can create three-dimensional objects that I’m pretty proud of. Almost everything I do creatively has an element of writing to it, and even when I do battle reports for wargames I’ve played, I always end up writing a short story, or a series of short stories, about what happened during the playing of the game. Those are typically posted on my wargaming blog, Fistful of Valkyries.

Do you think your environment, where you live, has an effect on the type of art you create?

I think growing up in a very Lovecraftian shade of rural California has definitely influenced not only my writing style, but also my perspective and the kinds of things that I write about. Living in the Central Valley of California now maybe forces me to look at the county I grew up in with an outsider’s eye, but then again, I just finished the draft for a new book that happens entirely in Sacramento, so maybe it has more of an effect than I’ve been willing to accept up until now.

What long-term goals do you have?

Happiness is my main goal and always has been. Contentment, and as much of it as I can set aside for myself. Following my passions, creating what I’m most inspired to create in the moment, and just sort of rolling with the creative urges as they come. Becoming the next Michael Crichton would be nice too, but I’m not letting my happiness hang on something like that.

What do you think popular culture will be like in ten years?

If you’d asked me that ten years ago, I would have given you an answer that would have been totally wrong today, so I’m not even going to hazard a guess. What I can say is that I live by a maxim given to me by a radical old philosophy professor in college twenty years ago. “The pendulum swings both ways.” Society goes to one extreme, then swings back to another. Where a given extreme lies, well, that’s for hindsight to determine. History, as they say, never repeats, but it does often rhyme. With AI and Disney tying up everything, though, it’s really anybody’s guess where popular culture will be in ten years. I think there will be more of it, and it’ll get easier and cheaper to share, but other than that, I wouldn’t even try to guess.

What’s the strangest thing you’ve been asked to do in your profession?

Writing erotica. I didn’t have to write anything particularly gross, but I am glad those days are behind me. Funny thing is, I have nothing against erotica—I’m just all about the art, and when I’m writing a piece of art, I rarely find a place to artistically include erotica in a way that makes the story stronger and more beautiful. Instead, I tend to find beauty in desperate human interactions, even those that look like they’re about to turn into erotica, only to fall apart at the last minute because the characters have unresolved struggles they’re dealing with. Character healing and bonding is, to me, way sexier than sex scenes, especially when most erotica just reads like a poorly written car chase.

What projects are you working on now?

I have more writing projects than I can count. I just finished the working draft of a fiction book tentatively called Express Blue that focuses on a queer, pagan paralegal prepper caught up in what looks like a huge viral apocalypse. The book’s focus tends to be around this concept of what an apocalypse really is, and if you would really know when you’re in it, or if you might think you’re in one, only to discover it’s all just in your head. It’s a departure from what I usually write, which is almost exclusively science fiction. As such, I have five books in various stages of completion that are all set in my Cygnus War universe that I’ll probably start getting back into next week. In terms of personal projects, I’m also working on creating an entire Level IV of ComStar units for a game called BattleTech. That’s a big project, involving the assembly and painting of about 216 individual miniatures for the game. It has no real practical use for gameplay, and it’s more of a passion project, but I’m still working on it.

Would You Like to Know More?

ESWynn.com

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Interview with Southern Gothic Podcast

Southern Gothic delves into the haunting legends, folklore, and ghostly stories of the American South. Co-created by siblings Brandon and Bryanne Schexnayder, the show combines immersive storytelling, meticulous historical research, and expertly crafted audio soundscapes to bring these eerie tales to life. From the infamous Bell Witch of Tennessee to the haunted halls of Waverly Hills Sanatorium, each episode uncovers the darker side of Southern history in vivid detail.

Where are you from? What is your background?

I am New Orleans born and raised, but then moved up to Tennessee for college and started out my career as a recording engineer in studios up on Music Row. Between all them ghost stories I heard growing up down in the swamp, and all the storytelling songwriters I met up here in Nashville, I got educated pretty quick on not only how to spin a good yarn but also entertain folks while doing it.

Bryanne Schexnayder — Brandon Schexnayder

What inspired you to do podcasting, specifically about historical subjects, folklore, and ghosts?

First and foremost, I am an audio engineer. That is the craft I have been obsessed with since I was in my teens. Then, when podcasting became a thing, I knew it was a space for me to get extra creative and push storytelling boundaries. As for the ghosts, well, it has just been a longtime interest—so when it came time to podcast, I knew it would be a good fit.

What was the first thing about ghosts you remember seeing or hearing about?

I was absolutely obsessed with reruns of the old TV show In Search Of. It had everything from the Loch Ness Monster to poltergeists in it, and I ate it up! Probably wasn’t even ten years old when I first started watching that. By the time I was in middle school, I got really into Anne Rice—which looking back now is way too young, ha!

What performer or artist/writer inspires you the most?

When it comes to podcasting, no show will ever beat the early episodes of Radiolab. They were so experimental and well done, it was absolutely groundbreaking.

What other areas of art are you involved in?

I still do a lot of music. In fact, I do about 90% of the music and sound effects for Southern Gothic. Also, in the past year, I have moved into storytelling live in front of an audience. Haven’t added in any visual elements yet, but the experience of interacting with folks in that way has absolutely changed the way I tell stories.

Do you think your environment, where you live, has an effect on the type of art you create?

Absolutely, hands down! The entire vibe of my show comes from my roots down in New Orleans. I’ve always wanted it to feel like you are entering a swamp when you listen to Southern Gothic, and that really comes from my own sense of place.

How much research goes into every episode?

It depends on how complex a story is, but it is a pretty tedious process, as we always try to find something new to add to a story that hasn’t been found before. That being said, I think an average show requires about 15–20 hours of research.

What do you think popular culture will be like in ten years?

Oh man, I’m about to turn 40 and I already feel lost! Judging by the way trends seem to go in circles though, I bet kids start dressing like they were on Saved by the Bell or some ’90s retro stuff, haha.

What other things would you like to explore as a podcast?

I have a million ideas for how to tell stories in a new and creative way, but honestly, right now I am really focusing on what I am doing with Southern Gothic and trying to polish that into the best it can possibly be. In the past, I have gotten a little too idea-happy and would make things “good enough,” then jump ship before they were great. I think this project is worth sticking with for a little longer.

What projects are you working on now?

I also do the audio production for a few other podcasts like One Strange Thing and Southern Fried True Crime. Between those and Southern Gothic, I’m pretty damn busy.

SouthernGothicMedia.com

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The Money Plot

By Tyson Blue

On a peaceful balcony overlooking the Erie Canal, Walter Parker listens to a client’s story of hidden cash, laundered bills, and a family secret unearthed in a rose garden.

I was sitting at a small iron table on the balcony of Mulconry’s Irish Pub in Fairport, New York, east of Rochester, watching boats make their way under the town’s famous lift bridge, which carried traffic over the Erie Canal. I was nursing a Guinness while I talked with Ron Case, the client who had hired me to take care of a small problem for him.

“I trust the services were performed to your satisfaction?” I asked, taking a sip from my glass.

“They were,” he said with a tight smile. “I assume the fee was satisfactory as well?”

I had verified that the funds had been transferred to my account, from which they would be moved to a more secure account shortly.

“It was,” I told him, setting the glass down. “Perhaps we can do business again sometime.”

“I hope I won’t need them again anytime soon, Mr. Parker,” Case said with a wry grin. He knew me well enough to hire me to do his dirty work for him, which entitled him to know me as Walter Parker, but not well enough to know me as Ray Vincent.

I finished the stout and set the empty glass on the table, watching strands of foam trickle slowly to the bottom of the glass. I reached for my wallet to leave a tip, preparing to get up. Case waved a hand to stop me.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” he said, reaching for his own billfold. He reached in and pulled out a bill. He glanced at it and froze. I looked at it.

The bill was a ten, but it didn’t look like any ten-dollar bill I’d ever seen.

It was pale and yellowed, with dark stains across it. The paper was thin and flimsy. From the printing, it looked like an old silver certificate, but not like any circulated bill I remembered. Case glanced at it, then up at me.

“Didn’t know I had that with me,” he said, sliding the bill back into his pocket, not in his wallet but loose.

“What’s with that?” I asked him, “It’s not counterfeit, is it?”

“No, it’s legit,” Case said, “but it’s got a pretty interesting history. If you’ve got a few minutes, I can tell it to you.”

He gestured at the seat I’d just vacated. I shrugged and slid back into the seat. Out on the canal, a bell began to clang. After a second, the bridge began to lift straight up to let a boat pass through. And while that went on, Case proceeded to tell me the history of the bill in his pocket, just as I’m telling it to you.

Back in the early ‘70s (Ron began), the summer after my wife and I were married, we went with the rest of her family to spend a week in Canada at their cabin in the Kawartha Lakes country, near Peterboro and Bobcaygeon. On the way, my wife told me a story.

When they were young, she said, they would make this same trip up to Canada every summer. They would prepare for weeks, and late at night when the kids were all supposed to be in bed, her parents would go down into the washroom in the cellar, where there was a big sink filled with a mix of bleach and water.

In the water were dozens of pieces of paper, soaking in the smelly mixture, the smell of which seared their noses as they crouched at the head of the stairs in the nightclothes and watched as their parents plucked the dripping bills from the sink, their hands encased in rubber gloves. They’d run their fingers down the bills, wiping the excess water off them, and then hang them on lines strung around the room.

When the lines were full and the sink empty, they would drain the sink, pull off their gloves and go upstairs. The kids had crept off to bed while the cleanup was going on, and the parents never knew that their kids had any idea what they were doing. But the kids had ideas.

They had seen stories on the news and on television shows about counterfeiters, and although they had no idea how fake money was made, they knew that the papers that were hanging up in their cellar to dry looked kind of like money, except that they weren’t quite the right color.

Maybe, they figured, their parents just weren’t very good counterfeiters. And maybe that was why they always took the bills up to Canada to spend them, since Canadians had their own funny-colored money and didn’t know as much about what American money was supposed to look like.

And maybe that was why their father was always so nervous going through Customs, telling the kids not to say a word unless someone asked them something. Maybe he was afraid that one of them would say something, and their car would be pulled over and searched, and they would find the funny-looking money and they’d all go to jail for smuggling counterfeit money out of the country.

This had gone on until about five of six years ago, when all the mysterious preparations and strange smells down in the cellar had ceased. No explanation for the practice had ever been offered.

“Well?” I said when she had finished.

“Well, what?” she asked.

“Why don’t we ask them what it was all about?”

She thought that over, a smile slowly spreading over her face. She turned to me.

“Why don’t we?”

And so, on the second night we were there, everyone was gathered around the fireplace in the cabin’s large main room, watching logs snap and pop and fill the room with a pleasant warmth and the smell of wood smoke. As everyone drowsed in their places, my wife leaned forward.

“So, Dad,” she said, causing her father to wake from his semi-doze and shift in this recliner to look her way. “There’s something we’ve all been curious about for a long time, and we want to know what it’s all about.”

“What’s that?” he said, cocking his head and giving her a baleful side-eye.

My wife let the moment draw out, savoring it a little before going on.

“What’s the story about all that money you were washing in the cellar when we were getting ready to come up here? What was up with that?”

Her father glanced quickly at his wife, who suddenly found something particularly fascinating in the crocheting project in her lap, and pretended not to hear.

“What money?” he said. “We just went to the bank to get money,” he began. “You know, you went with me to the bank to get it—”

“Not this year,” she interrupted, waving her hand back and forth as though shooing away cobwebs. “I mean back when we were kids. It happened every year.”

“How did you find out about that?” he asked indignantly, trying to gain control of the conversation. “You kids were asleep!”

“No we weren’t,” my brother-in-law said.” That damn bleach stunk up the whole house, and we snuck down to see what the smell was. We saw you taking all those funny-looking wet bills out the laundry sink and hanging ‘em up to dry. I remember you wouldn’t let anybody go down there during the week or so before we left for Canada.”

“Yeah,” chimed in my sister-in-law, from her seat to my right. “We all thought you were counterfeiters, and you brought the money up here to spend because you weren’t very good at it, and thought people in Canada wouldn’t notice it didn’t look right.”

A log in the fireplace gave a loud pop, and my father-in-law gave a shout and jumped about a foot off his chair. He’d been a bomber pilot in World War II, and sudden loud noises often provoked that reaction. But as he settled back in his chair, he began to laugh.”

“Well”, he said, “you got part of it right.”

That made everyone quiet down for a second, trying to figure out which part they’d gotten right—being counterfeiters, not being very good at it, what?

And then, my father-in-law told us the story of the “laundered” money.

During World War II, a lot of products were needed for the war effort by what was then called the War Department—things like rubber, steel, paper, gasoline and oil and foodstuffs like sugar and dairy products. Allocations for the civilian population for these products were restricted, and they were rationed.

Because there was always a greater demand than there was available supply, a thriving business evolved for those products which were in short supply—for the right price. In a word, bootlegging.

When someone says “bootlegging”, the first thing that leaps to mind in alcohol—Al Capone, fedoras, machine guns, Eliot Ness. But my wife’s uncle, Lloyd, was a bootlegger of a different stripe.

He ran a dairy, and had a lucrative military contract to produce dairy goods for the Armed Forces. And he produced a commodity that many people in the Rochester area wanted, and which was in very short supply due to rationing, and those who could afford to were willing to pay a pretty penny to get it.

Ice cream.

For most of the war, Lloyd ran a lucrative bootleg ice cream business out of his dairy, selling surplus product after hours to those who could afford it. It might not have been the kind of money he could have brought in selling liquor, but the Feds weren’t watching it nearly as hard and no one was likely to rat him out—not if they wanted to keep having those little dishes of chocolate or vanilla for dessert, that is.

And it still generated plenty of money, all of it in cash, and all of it decidedly under the table.

That created a problem, namely, what to do with it. Lloyd couldn’t put it in the bank, since he’d have to account for it. He could spend it, but it would have to be done discreetly, a little at a time, so as not to draw attention to him, and lead to questions about where it came from.

The answer lay in his back yard.

Lloyd’s wife had planted several elaborate rose gardens in the back yard, and over the years, Lloyd had sealed the cash in tin cans and buried them at night in the rose gardens. He had kept a map showing how many cans there were and where they were located. The map was kept in an envelope taped to the underside of the desktop in his study.

And years later, lying on his deathbed, Lloyd had called my father-in-law to him. With only the two of them present, Lloyd had told his younger brother the secret of the rose gardens, a plot of land that would yield a mighty cash crop. He told him about the map, and where it could be found. He told my father-in-law to take it with him and to guard the secret with his life. And he had done just that.

Lloyd soon shuffled off this mortal coil, and one night not long after, armed with the map, shovels, and two small flashlights, my in-laws had scuttled into Lloyd’s back yard and retrieved the cans, loading them into boxes in the back of their car, and moved them to their home a few blocks away. The rose garden had been restored as much as possible to its original state.

On arriving home, my in-laws had opened the cans and found that they had a problem. Over the intervening years, the cans had corroded and begun to leak. Water, containing minerals from the dirt, as well as chemicals from fertilizers and plant food, had gotten onto the bills and stained them considerably. In this condition, they could not possibly have been circulated without arousing a lot of questions that would be hard to answer.

The solution was to literally launder the money—to soak it in a mixture of bleach and mild detergent to try to get as much of the stains out as possible. This succeeded in getting most of the stains out, but it also took out some of the dyes in the ink, and left the bills looking strange and discolored. Passing them in stores would still raise some eyebrows.

More thought gave rise to a possible solution. The highlight of every summer for the family was the annual trip to Canada. In another country, which had its own money, but which gladly accepted American currency, they could hopefully spend the cash, a little at a time, without arousing as much curiosity and unwelcome attention.

They decided to try this at once, on this year’s trip, and to their surprise, it had worked perfectly. When anyone questioned the discoloration of the money, my in-laws blamed it on washing the bills along with clothes, a chemical spill, or simply shrugged and said that’s how it looked when they got it.

Over the years, the money had been brought up to Canada a little at a time, and had been successfully spent throughout the Kawartha Region of Ontario, a little bit here, and little bit there, and no one ever the wiser.

As the boat passed under the elevated lift bridge, the bells began to clang and the roadbed lowered until it was back in place. The barriers lifted and traffic began to hum across it once again. Case had fished the bill out of his pocket again, and regarded its mottled face as it nestled in his palm.

“Some of the money was so spoiled it had to be burned,” he explained. “But except for one or two pieces they kept as souvenirs, the bulk of it was spent in Canada.

“So you see,” Ron looked back up at me and concluded, “my in-laws weren’t counterfeiters, they were money-launderers. They also violated the Internal Revenue Code by not reporting it as income, and probably a handful of other laws I don’t know about, but it’s all done now, and the statute of limitations has probably run on most of it, so who gives a shit?”

He snickered and put the bill back in his wallet, which he slid into his pocket. We both stood up again, and I held out my hand. Ron grabbed mine and we shook.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” I said. “And thanks for the drinks—and the story.” I walked off the balcony, went down a short flight of stairs, turned and headed through the crowded bar area and out the front door.

I paused a moment to allow a man wearing shorts and a t-shirt and playing a set of bagpipes to stroll past me, then crossed the street, heading into the parking lot to find my car. It was a long way back to New Hampshire from here, and I was anxious to get started.

🔗

Traffic Jam

By Tyson Blue

A lone assassin with a strict code of conduct, is hired to eliminate a human trafficker operating out of Boston’s Conley Container Terminal.

The Conley Container Terminal is the only container port in New England. It is located in Boston Harbor, just south of the runways for Logan International Airport. I was sitting in my car in a parking lot across Farragut Road from the facility. A small, rusty freighter was tethered to one of the docks, swarthy crewmen scuttling around its decks.

Through my binoculars, I could make out the faces of the men on the dock. None of them was the man I was here for, so far.

My name is Ray Vincent. I am, for want of a better name, a hitman. Right now, I live in a little one-room hunting cabin tucked away in the woods down an almost-a-dirt-road in Grafton, New Hampshire. My nearest neighbors have fur and antlers — beavers, deer, black bear, foxes.

About once a week, I drive out to a convenience store on the highway for provisions. If I’m feeling really extravagant, I drive a little further, to Cricenti’s Market in New London. And while I’m out, I check online to see if anyone wants to hire me.

No, I don’t have a Facebook page or anything like that. But I am on the Dark Web, and recently, on one particular day, I found the message that led me to this deserted part of Boston Harbor on this quiet night in July, waiting for my target to show up.

His name was Henry Shaheen, and officially, he was the proprietor of Shaheen Trucking, a mid-size regional shipper who primarily operated in the New England states, with occasional forays into New York and New Jersey, even into Canada, mostly Quebec and Ontario. But what had brought him to my attention, and onto my target list, was his side job.

Mr. Shaheen was into human trafficking. He had mob connections who would round up young girls, hook them on drugs and pack them into containers which were then brought here, to the Conley Container Terminal, where they were loaded onto ships that would take them across the Atlantic, then across the Mediterranean and through the Suez Canal to various Arab countries, where they were auctioned off to various wealthy perverts who would do with them what they would until they were used up, when they would simply disappear.

Most of these girls had come from poor families who lacked the resources to trace them or try to buy them back. And there was no parent with “a certain set of skills” to follow them down the pipeline and rescue them. But one of them had been different; he had money, and had been able, if not to find his daughter, at least to track down who was responsible. He did that with private detectives. And he had tried to bring him to justice, but he had found that there was a difference between knowing something and being able to prove it in a court of law.

And while most people would have stopped there, this girl’s father had the resources and perseverance to appeal his case to the Court of Ray Vincent. And while he knew that, given the amount of time that had passed, it was too late to get his daughter back, it was not too late to get back at Shaheen for his daughter.

We had communicated indirectly, and my fee had been electronically transferred to the first of several stops on its way to my account. After several days spent reviewing the information the detectives had gathered on Shaheen, I was here in Boston, waiting for him to show up.

While I waited, I unzipped the soft case beside me and assembled my sniper rifle. Although normally a brushed-steel weapon with a silvery finish, this one had been blackened to make it blend in with the darkness. A large scope sat atop the barrel, and it had already been sighted in. A precision flash and sound suppressor had been fitted over the muzzle. I wanted the extra time I would gain to get away while the people around Shaheen wondered where the shot had come from.

I looked at my watch. It was 1:14 a.m. All my information indicated that Shaheen should be here before two. I settled in to wait. At about 1:26, I heard diesel sounds coming from the south, to my right. They grew louder, and finally a small truck came into view, “Shaheen Trucking” painted on the door. It was carrying a small container, covered with graffiti and numbers that probably meant something to someone.

As I watched, the truck turned right into the terminal. A gate opened automatically, clacking along on rollers, and the truck drove through before it closed behind it. The truck continued on until it came to a halt near the crane which waited on its spindly steel legs to haul the container off the truck and deliver it to the freighter.

While this was going on, I had slid from the car, the rifle clutched in my right hand. The dome light had been switched off, and I closed the door gently behind me, bumping it shut with my hip so there would be no slam to alert anyone, even if there had been anyone close by.

I rested the barrel of the rifle on the hood of the car and peered through the scope, adjusting the focus so I could see everything. The driver’s side door opened, and a man dropped down to the ground. He had a bullet-shaped head, covered with a thick fuzz of dark hair. He was in his mid-thirties, and was definitely not Shaheen. Just a driver.

I moved the scope back to the cab of the truck. As I did, the passenger opened the far door and hopped down. He was shielded from me by the body of the truck, but the quick glimpse I had caught as he climbed out revealed the grizzled pompadour of Henry Shaheen.

A couple of the men who had been milling around on the pier walked over, and Shaheen reached out to shake the hand of the older of the two. A sharklike grin creased his face, and his eyes glinted under his horn-rimmed glasses. I was sure this was Shaheen. There was no point waiting.

I centered the crosshairs on Shaheen’s temple. There was no breeze. I eased off the safety and took in a soft breath. They couldn’t have possibly heard me from this far away, but I was quiet anyway.

There were four or five men looking around the area, but none of them were looking in my direction. I finished sucking in the breath and held it. The gun was as steady as I could make it.

I squeezed the trigger. The gun made a loud pop. The subsonic high-explosive round rocketed toward Shaheen and hit him in the temple just about in the center of my target area. The top two-thirds of Shaheen’s head exploded into a fine red mist that settled on the two men closest to him.

Shaheen’s near-headless body stood there for a second or so, and then he collapsed to the ground. The two men standing closest to him when the bullet hit stood there for a second. One had been facing him, and his eyes shone bright white through the mask of vaporized blood and brains that coated his face. He instinctively poked his tongue out to lick his lips, then looked at the other man, who had been turned to one side and was only half coated, then glanced down at himself and began backing up, wiping at his face and his clothes, trying to clean himself off but only smearing things around.

Then he gave an inarticulate yell and spun toward the harbor, pulling a handgun from his jacket and firing indiscriminately around the area.

On the freighter, crewmen ducked down behind the rails and began scuttling around. The crewmen on the dock cast the lines off from the pier and raced up the gangway, which began to be hauled in. On the flying bridge, one man, presumably the captain, raced through a door, and a few seconds later, the engines came to life and the ship began to move slowly out into the harbor, gathering speed as it went.

His gun wasn’t silenced, and its sharp cracks rolled around the harbor, bouncing off the buildings around the terminal. I slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. It wouldn’t take long for the sound of those shots to attract attention, and I needed to be out of the vicinity before the place was crawling with police cars. I turned right out of the parking lot and headed south, alert for the first sight of any flashing blue lights.

As I drove by the terminal entrance, I could hear muffled high-pitched screams coming from the container atop Shaheen’s truck. It was probably filled with girls, who were to have been shipped out to Arab nations on the freighter that was now churning its way out of the harbor to the open sea.

“Not my problem,” I muttered to myself, thinking that Shaheen wasn’t going to be worrying about it anymore. It was the last thing on his mind, which was all over his friends’ faces.

I had been hired to take care of Shaheen. My job was done. I had a long way to go to get back to my little cabin in the woods. The truck and its contents were not my concern. Shaheen’s goons could just leave them there and haul ass. They’d be found and released. Also not my problem.

But they could talk, I thought. They could tell where they were from, and where they’d been taken, and that might lead the authorities to Shaheen’s operation, which could cause big problems for whoever took over the business. Also not my problem.

But it was worse than that, I realized.

They were in a truck with Shaheen’s fucking name on the doors; the girls didn’t have to say a word. All the evidence they needed was right there. They had to get the truck and its cargo out of the area before the cops arrived and found all the evidence they needed to put the whole operation out of business permanently.

Not my problem.

And it was even a worse problem than that. They had a truckload of girls and nowhere to sell them. They were just a big liability.

Not my problem. I did my job, and now I just had to get home. It was the only rational business decision. But I kept hearing those muffled screams in my head as I drove.

Not. My. Problem.

But I kept hearing those screams.

No.

Something about those screams.

No. Not my problem…

Those high-pitched screams.

Shut up! Concentrate on your driving!

Too high for women’s screams…

Stop it!

Girls…

No!

Young girls…

God damn it!

Little girls.

A shiver like cold water went down my spine.

Those God damn fucking perverts wanted little girls, and Shaheen was providing them. And now they needed to be gotten rid of.

But it’s not my problem, the voice in my head said.

And if you get involved in this, you might have an even bigger problem. A getting caught kind of problem; a prison problem; a lethal injection kind of prob —

I KNOW THAT! I shouted down the voice.

I gritted my teeth and slowed the car, cranking the wheel to the left.

“Shit,” I growled, and repeated it each time I grabbed the wheel to complete the turn, heading back the way I had come.

“Shit…shit…shit…SHIT!”

I couldn’t believe I was doing this. The only good thing about it was that since I was heading toward the trouble zone, any police cars that came up on me wouldn’t think I had anything to do with it.

As I came up on the terminal, I saw the truck heading the same direction I was, about a quarter-mile ahead. I fell in behind them, keeping them in view, but not getting so close as to attract their attention. In my rearview mirror, I could see the first blue lights coming up behind us. They turned into the terminal entrance, a conga line of police cars one after another.

I wondered how much of a mess Shaheen’s guys had left behind for the cops. I wondered if they’d had time to bring Shaheen’s body with them, because even in his present headless condition, he’d be an arrow pointing straight to his company’s operation in New Hampshire.

In the meantime, I followed the truck, staying four or five lengths back, as we made our way to an on-ramp for I-93 North, which would take us up into New Hampshire. And somewhere along the way, the two men in the truck were going to find someplace nice and deserted and do something to the sources of the screams I’d heard.

Or at least that was what they thought they were going to do.

The traffic on 93 was light this time of night, but it was there, which helped me tail the truck without them knowing it. I blended in and out of the pattern, letting other cars and trucks get between us; I didn’t have to worry about losing them, since the top half of the container was almost always visible.

We had left Boston far behind, along with any worries about the police stopping us. Neither of us was breaking the flow of traffic, which is the one thing you can do to attract the wrong kind of attention. Well, shooting guns would probably do it, too, but you know what I mean.

We crossed over into New Hampshire, and the truck slowed down and took the exit for Londonderry, New Hampshire. I laid back and followed them. No one else got off, so I turned off my headlights and navigated by the fog lights. At the bottom of the exit ramp, the truck headed east, into a wooded area full of lakes and camp houses. It was also a large, wooded, undeveloped area where the men could do what they had to do without significant risk of being heard or seen or surrounded by houses. I had doused my lights completely and moved a little closer.

We drove along a narrow two-lane highway with a canopy of limbs overhead. Finally, the truck turned right down a rutted dirt road. I pulled over, dousing even the fog lights, and watched the truck’s taillights fading down the road. When they went around a corner, I turned the fog lights back on and eased down the road.

The lights illuminated the dust stirred up by the truck as it passed down the road, and as I drove, I lowered both the front windows, listening for any sounds the truck made as it went.

Finally, I heard doors slam ahead of me. Without pulling over, I stopped, put the car in park and extinguished the fog lights. I grabbed the rifle and put in a full magazine, then opened the driver’s side door and slipped out. Easing the door shut without a sound, I headed down the road, my crepe-soled shoes making no sound.

The road turned gradually to the right, and I slowed down and crept forward. Ahead of me, the truck was parked. The two men were behind it, standing at the container doors. One of them was working at the door, trying to open it. The other stood behind him, covering him with a pistol. Finally, the door opened with a low metallic groan. The man who had been opening the door drew a pistol from behind his back and backed up to stand next to his partner.

“All right,” said the one closest to me. “Out you go,” he gestured with his gun, adding, “All of you, come on.”

No one moved. The other man waved his gun impatiently.

“Come on,” he snarled, “move your little asses!”

High-pitched squeals and crying came from inside the container.

The man nearest me waved his gun.

“You there!” he barked. “Yeah, you. Get out here and see if you can get them out.”

As I watched, a young woman, about nineteen or twenty, came to the door of the container. She squatted down and jumped to the ground. She was barefoot and wearing a slip that had seen better days.

“Go on,” the man close to me said. “Get them to come out.”

“I’ll try,” she said in a meek, scared voice. She turned to the door and motioned for the other people in the container to come to the door.

I decided I had waited long enough. I eased myself to the ground and raised the rifle. I put my eye to the scope and focused on the man closest to me. I made sure the woman and the other man were out of my line of fire, took a breath and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud pop and my target’s head vanished in a dark mist. The headless body stood there for a second, then his legs folded and he pitched forward to the ground.

A chorus of squeals came from the open container. The woman and the remaining man backed up aimlessly, both looking frantically around to see if they could figure out where the shot had come from. He was moving around so quickly and chaotically that I couldn’t draw a bead on him.

He reached out and grabbed the girl by the left arm, pulling her toward him and stepping behind her. He placed the barrel of the pistol against her head.

“Hey out there!” he shouted, turning his head back and forth in an effort to see me. “Drop the gun and step out where I can see you right now, or this bitch gets it!”

I didn’t say anything, and stayed where I was.

“You think I’m kidding here?” he said, the pitch of his voice rising higher. He eased the gun away from the girl, waving it around a little before placing it back against her head.

“What’ll you have to bargain with if you shoot her?” I shouted back at him. I knew I wasn’t visible — there was too little light. The girl was looking from left to right too; I could see her eyes moving.

“Are you kidding?” the guy said. “After I shoot her, I’ll pop one of those kids every minute or two until you come out.”

A brilliant plan, I thought to myself.

“They’re not my kids,” I told him. “Do what you want.”

He hadn’t expected to hear that. He had to stop and think about that for a second. And while he was occupied doing that, I squatted down, hoping my knees wouldn’t pop. My hand found a pine cone lying on the ground. I picked it up, then threw it overhand as hard as I could.

It rattled through the branches behind the pair, sounding like something or someone moving rapidly through the brush behind him. He turned to look behind him, and as he did, I stepped into the light and caught the girl’s eye. I jerked my chin sharply downward, then stepped back. I saw the puzzled look in her eyes shift from questioning to knowledge as she realized what I was thinking. She gave a short, sharp nod.

As she felt the man start to turn, the girl gave a small leap, pulled both knees up to her chest and dropped on her butt. At the same time, the man turned back to me. I put three into his center mass, and he fell onto his butt next to the girl. The two of them looked like kids listening to a story. He bounced slightly when he hit the ground, then tipped over to one side and lay still.

The girl sat there for a moment, then jumped to her feet and ran over to me, hugging herself to my chest, her breathing rapid. I patted her hair with my free hand.

“That was all of them,” I told her. “You’re gonna be okay now.”

After a few minutes, she eased back and looked up at me.

“Can you drive this truck?” I asked her.

She looked at it, then back at me.

“Yeah,” she said and nodded. “I don’t have a CDL, but it’s not a stick, so I’m sure I can.”

“Okay,” I told her. “Just follow that dirt road. It’ll bring you out to the main road, and you should be able to call for help from there.”

She looked back at me.

“Can’t you drive us?” she asked.

“It’s not a good idea for me to get involved answering questions from the police,” I told her.

She stepped back, looking alarmed.

“You’re not with—?”

“No, no,” I said. “I’m not with them. I was hired to get rid of them. But the police wouldn’t take kindly to me and the way I…handle things.”

The girl nodded, glanced behind her and back at me. She nodded in understanding. I squatted down and rummaged through the men’s pockets. I found a cell phone and handed it to her.

“Here you go,” I said. “Just give the police a call when you get back to the road, and they’ll come and help you out.”

She juggled the phone in her hand for a moment, then walked up to me. She put her hands on my shoulders and, standing on her tiptoes, leaned in and kissed me lightly on the corner of my mouth.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She stepped back and squatted down to go through the pockets of the man who had held her hostage. She came up with a set of car keys in her hand, pointed a fob at the truck and pressed it. There was a soft clunk from the door and the lights blinked twice.

“I’m gonna let the kids out to pee and settle them down before I head out,” she said. “We’ll be okay. You can be on your way. Doesn’t sound like you want to be around when the cops get here, right?”

I nodded and turned to head back to my car.

“You’re sure?” I asked her.

She smiled and nodded.

“I’m sure.”

I turned and headed up the dirt track to where I’d stopped my car. I got in, started it, did a K-turn and headed up to the highway. I’d pick up 93 again, headed north, until I reached Concord. There, I’d pick up I-89 to New London and make my way back to my cabin in the woods near Grafton. I’d get there before the sun came up, and the only ones likely to see me had paws and fur.

I made it almost back to the 93 on-ramp when it hit me. I stopped dead in the road.

“Dammit!”

Another K-turn later—that sure was my night for them—and I was headed back the way I came as fast as I dared. I couldn’t afford to be pulled over at this point. I found the dirt road and turned in, killing my lights. I grabbed my rifle and headed back down the road, trying not to make any noise.

As I approached the truck, I could hear them. The little ones were screaming and crying, and the girl was standing at the back of the container, one of the dead men’s guns pointed into the interior.

“Get on out here, all of you!” she shouted, brandishing the pistol at them.

“You don’t want to mess with me,” she warned them. While she was doing this, I raised the rifle and took aim. The sound suppressor was still working pretty well, considering how many times it had been fired tonight.

The high-explosive round was right on target, catching her right smack in the wrist, just below the hand holding the gun. Hand and gun fell to the ground. The girl jumped and spun to face me, clutching her bleeding stump to her stomach, her eyes questioning.

“You knew which one had the keys,” I told her, stepping forward. “You knew the truck wasn’t a stick.

“You’re the groomer,” I went on. “The one whose job it was to lure the girls in and keep them calm back here long enough to get everybody out on the open sea.”

Her lips worked, as she started to speak.

“Go ahead,” I told her. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it’s all a big mistake.”

I stepped around her, stooping to pick up the pistol as I walked up to the back of the container and looked inside.

In the back of the container were about a dozen young girls, ranging from toddlers to teenagers. They were all clutching each other in terror.

“Hi, kids,” I said, in as gentle a voice as I could. “My name’s Bill, and I’m going to take you to a place where you can get some help. I’ve got to close this door so you won’t get hurt. Don’t be scared, okay? This will all be over soon.”

Before they could say anything, I closed the door and threw the latch.

I walked over to the girl and stood over her. She was clutching her ruined arm to herself and glaring at me. She didn’t look anything like the innocent young thing who’d climbed out of the back of the truck just a few minutes ago.

The keys were on the ground near her, and I bent to pick them up while watching her closely. Even with one hand, she could still be dangerous. I picked up the cell phone I’d given her from the ground as well, and put it in my pocket.

“What about me?” the girl asked.

“You’ll be okay, if you don’t bleed to death before the police get here,” I told her as I threw in my rifle, climbed into the cab and started the truck. I rolled down the window and looked back at her.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” I said, and shifted the truck into gear and eased forward. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” I repeated, half to myself. I rolled forward a few feet and slammed the brakes on.

“Like Hell I’m not gonna hurt you!” I said, then shifted into reverse and backed up. There was a big jounce as the tires rolled over her. Then I shifted into first and did it again.

I drove down the road until I reached my car. I got out of the truck, leaving the lights on to make it easier for the police to find them. I pulled a wet wipe from a box on the passenger seat and wiped down the interior of the truck with it, then took my rifle and stepped down. Wiping off the door handle, I walked over to my car, climbed in and started the engine.

When I reached the highway, I put the car in park and turned off my lights. Using the dead man’s phone, I dialed 911.

After a couple of rings, a bored voice sounded in my ear.

“911 Center, what is the nature of your emergency?”

I gave them a fake name, and told them where I was located. They could locate me by the phone’s GPS anyway.

“Down that road,” I continued, “you’ll find a container truck loaded with kidnapped girls who were about to be trafficked out of Boston to someplace in the Arab Nations. They’re mostly young girls, and they’re scared, so hurry up.”

“Yes, sir,” the operator answered. “And—“

I interrupted.

“And further down the road, from the truck, you’ll find three of the people who were responsible for it. Two men and a woman. The guy who was the leader of the whole operation is down at the container port in Boston. They’re all waiting for you.”

“Cars are on their way,” the operator said. “Just stay where you are.”

“Right,” I told him.

“How do you know they’ll all be waiting for us?”

I smiled grimly.

“Because I happened to them. They’ll all be waiting for you.”

I hung up, then wiped the phone down from end to end with the wet wipe and dropped it out the window by the side of the road. Then I put the car back into gear, turned left and headed back up the road toward the I-93 on-ramp and home. I had to pull into someone’s driveway and turn off the car once, so a string of New Hampshire State Police cars and two emergency vehicles could whiz past, sirens and blue lights going strong.

They were going to need a lot more ambulances and rescue vehicles, I thought to myself.

I let them all fade away down the road, then I started the car, backed out of the driveway and headed on toward the on-ramp. As I drove, I thought about all the trouble I could have saved if I’d just kept going back in Boston. I’d be safe at home, not out here on the road running the risk of being pulled over by the States and having to explain what I was doing with a sniper rifle loaded with high-explosive rounds in my car in the middle of the night, and why I was wearing black clothes to boot.

But then I thought about all those young girls in the back of that container truck, and the horror they would have endured for the rest of their lives in some hot Middle Eastern shithole. Maybe that was worth taking a few risks to prevent.

Just then, another State Police car rocketed past me, blue lights strobing. I pulled over to the side of the road to let them go on by. They didn’t turn around, so I figured it was safe to keep on going.

I reached the on-ramp and turned right, and soon I was humming along on the northbound side, headed for home. I thought about the girls some more. I hoped they’d be safe, and nothing this bad would ever happen to them again.

“Must be getting soft in my old age,” I muttered, and drove on.

🔗