Jacks Magic Beans (13 page)

“No!”

“Coward! Pussy! You limp dick mother-fucker! Do it, or I’ll find someone else here who will!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

It’s like she’s hypnotized or something! All of them are! What the hell happened while I was asleep?

On stage, what appeared to be a masked ball scene was underway.

“You have questioned him to no avail!” Elvis’ voice rang out through the hall, echoing over the mingled cries of pain and ecstasy. He was addressing the actors, but at the same time, the audience as well. “Time to unmask. All must show their true faces! All! Except for myself. For indeed, I wear no mask at all!”

As one, the crowd picked up their knives and began to flay the skin from their faces. Some laughed as they did it. Others helped the person sitting next to them. Finley turned, just as Kathryn slid the blade through one cheek. A loose flap of skin hung down past her chin.

“Kathryn, don’t!”

He grabbed for the knife and she jerked it away. Before he could move, she slashed at his hands. Blood welled in his palm as he dodged another slice. Then he slapped her, leaving a bloody handprint on her cheek.

“That’s it baby!” she shrieked. “Let me finish taking my mask off, and then I’ll help you with yours.”

“All unmask!” Elvis boomed again, and Finley turned to the stage, unable to look away. The King removed the Pallid Mask concealing his face, and what he revealed wasn’t Elvis. It wasn’t even human. Beneath the mask was a head like that of a puffy grave worm. It lolled obscenely, surveying the crowd, then gave a strange, warbling cry.

Kathryn’s skin landed on the floor with a wet sound.

The thing on stage turned toward Finley, and then he saw.

He saw it. He found it.

Roger Finley screamed.

“Excuse me?” The bum shuffled forward.

“Just ignore him, Marianne. If we give him money, he’ll hound us the whole way to the harbor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas,” the woman scolded her husband. “The poor fellow looks half starved. And he’s articulate for a street person!”

The bum shuffled eagerly from foot to foot while she reached within her purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill. She placed it in his outstretched hand.

“Here you go. Please see to it that you get a hot meal, now. No alcohol or drugs.”

“Thank you. Much obliged. Since you folks were so kind, let me help you out.”

“We don’t need any help, thank you very much.” The husband stiffened, wary of the homeless man’s advances.

“Just wanted to give you a tip. If you like the theatre, you should take your wife to see
Yellow
.”

He pointed at a nearby poster. The couple thanked him and walked away, but not before stopping to read the poster for themselves.

Roger Finley pocketed the five dollars, and watched them disappear into Fell’s Point, in search of the Yellow Sign. He wondered if they would find it, and if so, what they would see.

***

This is, of course, a tribute to Robert W. Chambers’ classic of the same name. But you already knew that because you’ve read the Chambers’ story, right? Nope. I’ve got twenty bucks that says half of you have never even heard of Robert W. Chambers. And that, my friends, is just wrong.

True story. Thirteen years ago, at the first Horrorfind Weekend Convention, J. F. Gonzalez and I were approached by a young man; probably in his early twenties. He shook our hands and said nice things about our books, and called us inspirations. How the hell we, two of the lynchpins of the so-called gangsta horror movement, were inspirations is beyond me, but hey, the kid was sincere enough to buy Jesus (which is J.F.’s real name) a beer and me a shot of tequila. We started talking about writing, and we were trying to give him some advice. The conversation turned to the masters of the genre, and we were horrified to learn that this kid had never read Chambers, never read Hodgson, never read James, never read Machen, and had only a dim knowledge of Lovecraft. The final straw was when we moved to the more modern era, and the kid admitted that he’d never heard of Karl Edward Wagner.

Once I’d removed J. F.’s hands from around his throat (“How can you not know who Karl Edward Fucking Wagner is?” he screamed while throttling him), we sent the young writer on his way and proceeded to grumble about “These damn kids!” for the rest of the day.

If you don’t know those names I mentioned above, you need to correct that. Now. Horror fiction has a rich history, and it is your heritage as a fan, as a reader, and especially if you’re a writer. Seek it out. Learn from it. M. R. James. William Hope Hodgson (one of my favorites). Lord Dunsany. Arthur Machen. Clark Ashton Smith. Edward Lucas White. Ambrose Bierce (another one of my favorites). Hell, explore the modern era, with John Farris and Robert Bloch and so many others. And for God’s sake—learn who Karl Edward Wagner was so that J. F. Gonzalez doesn’t throttle you next. Seriously, go look for this stuff. Read it. You’ll be glad you did.

As for the story itself, I got the idea while walking around Fell’s Point in Baltimore. At the time, I was still shocked that the kid had never read Robert W. Chambers. Things came together and the story came out in one sitting. It was originally published in one of John Pelan’s
Darkside
anthologies and was reprinted in my out-of-print short story collection
Fear of Gravity.

BRIAN KEENE is the author of over twenty-five books, including
Darkness on the Edge of Town, Urban Gothic, Castaways
,
Kill Whitey
,
Dark Hollow
,
Dead Sea, Ghoul
and
The Rising
. He also writes comic books such as
The Last Zombie, Doom Patrol
and
Dead of Night: Devil Slayer
. His work has been translated into German, Spanish, Polish, Italian, French and Taiwanese. Several of his novels and stories have been optioned for film, one of which,
The Ties That Bind
, premiered on DVD in 2009 as a critically-acclaimed independent short. Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as
The New York Times
, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com,
Publisher’s Weekly, Fangoria Magazine
, and
Rue Morgue Magazine
. Keene lives in Central Pennsylvania. You can communicate with him online at www.briankeene.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/pages/Brian-Keene/189077221397

or on Twitter at www.twitter.com/BrianKeene

AVAILABLE FROM AMAZON.COM

“Brain Cheese Buffet” Edward Lee
- collecting nine of Lee’s most sought after tales of violence and body fluids. Featuring the Stoker nominated “Mr. Torso,” the legendary gross-out piece “The Dritiphilist,” the notorious “The McCrath Model SS40-C, Series S,” and six more stories to test your gag reflex.

“
Edward Lee’s writing is fast and mean as a chain saw revved to full-tilt boogie.”

-
Jack Ketchum

AVAILABLE FROM AMAZON.COM