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  LIKE A CHINESE TATTOO

  Compilation copyright © 2008 by Bill Breedlove & John Everson.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book contains works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information on this and other Dark Arts Books titles, visit www.darkartsbooks.com or e-mail [email protected].

  All stories are printed or reprinted here with permission of the authors.

  Cover art and book design copyright © 2008 by John Everson.

  “Introduction” copyright © 2008 by Bill Breedlove.

  “Tomorrow, When the Demons Come” copyright © 2008 by Cullen Bunn.

  “Remains” copyright © 2008 by Cullen Bunn.

  “Granny Kisses” copyright © 2008 by Cullen Bunn.

  “Purfleet” copyright © 2008 by Rick R. Reed.

  “Moving Toward the Light” copyright © 1998 by Rick R. Reed.

  First appeared in The Crow: Shattered Lives and Broken Dreams (Del Rey Books, 1998).

  “Stung” copyright © 2008 by Rick R. Reed.

  “The White Room” copyright © 2008 by David Thomas Lord.

  First appeared in Feral Fiction Online, 2005.

  “The Great White Ape” copyright © 2008 by David Thomas Lord.

  “Da’s Boy” copyright © 2008 by David Thomas Lord.

  “The Confession” copyright © 2008 by JA Konrath.

  “The Necro File” copyright © 2008 by JA Konrath.

  “Punishment” copyright © 2008 by JA Konrath.

  Photo of Rick R. Reed © 2007 by mikesmarro.com

  Cover photo of Jade Paris © 2006 by MinkyBlink

  First Dark Arts Books Printing, March 2008

  e-Book Edition, January 2012

  Acknowledgments

  This one is for JimmyZ Johnston for last minute proofs and long-standing support; Shawn Lee for being one helluva a script-writing cohort, especially when deadlines were tight; and, as always, Cindy for the kind of encouragement a lot of other people only dream about.

  – Cullen Bunn

  Thanks to James O’Barr, Ed Kramer, the Red Lion Pub (and Tina Jens), Bill Breedlove, John Everson, and Jeanne Cavelos. All of you played a part in bringing the stories in this book to life.

  – Rick R. Reed

  All stories have an origin, a conception. Therefore, every story owes, if not thanks, at least acknowledgement to those who – knowingly or not – contributed to the inception or continuation of its life. And so, I’d like to acknowledge and thank:

  My family, especially the girls who called me “Da;” Karen, who slept while I wrote “Da’s Boy,” but woke up to critique it; The Glimmer Train sisters, Linda and Susan, who said that story was special; and, Jane Castle, who made me feel it was. Bryan Buchemi, who first requested “The White Room;” Martin Mundt and Lawrence Santoro, who first published it; and, For telling me it was special, Mort Castle, who has taught me so much, just by being my friend.

  – David Thomas Lord

  These stories are for all of my fans. Both of them.

  – JA Konrath

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Acknowledgments

  BILL BREEDLOVE:

  Introduction

  CULLEN BUNN:

  About Cullen Bunn

  Tomorrow When The Demons Come

  Remains

  Granny Kisses

  RICK R. REED:

  About Rick R. Reed

  Purfleet

  Moving Toward The Light

  Stung

  DAVID THOMAS LORD:

  About David Thomas Lord

  The White Room

  The Great White Ape

  Da’s Boy

  JA KONRATH:

  About JA Konrath

  The Confession

  The Necro File

  Punishment

  OTHER TITLES FROM DARK ARTS BOOKS

  Introduction

  The number one question we get from folks is “Why do you guys do these odd little anthologies?” (Actually, that’s not true, the number one question is easily “WTF were you thinking with that ‘Babies is Smart’ story by Martin Mundt???” – but that is neither here nor there.) I guess the supposition is that people have been hearing for so long how anthologies don’t sell, and major presses won’t do them, and, for all practical purposes, short stories are a dead market anyway, so why even bother? It is doubtful anyone would argue that at least the first two of those are largely true. Of course, one could quibble with the definitions of “sell” and “major,” but that’s probably even more depressing than just conceding the point.

  But, indulge me for a moment, and let’s take a short trip back in time…

  Many years ago, when I was a little kid hanging out in libraries reading everything I could get my hands on (and, where if you wanted to find out where something was in the library, you went to this strange contraption called a “card catalog” and opened little drawers and thumbed through carefully typed and numerically ordered index cards to hopefully locate what you were looking for. Really. I am not making this shit up.), I stumbled upon a book that would forever change my life.

  It was a stark black book with what looked like blood dripping on – and off – the cover. The title said Alfred Hitchcock’s Monster Museum, and in addition to the dripping blood there were a couple of small black and white photos of Mr. Hitchcock’s disembodied head staring out at the reader. Holy Toledo!

  In addition to the selection of stories, there were also, what I guess would today be called “multimedia” illustrations which were sort of collages of photographs interspersed with drawn art and, of course, plenty of that dripping blood. (You can actually view a couple of them here: http://trickrtreat.blogspot.com/2007/06/alfred-hitchcocks-monster-museum.html. Never mind the card catalog, the Internet is a great thing!)

  If the images weren’t trippy enough, the stories were absolutely amazing. The one I still recall to this day (and, apparently, so do many other people) is “Slime” by Joseph Payne Brennan. It’s pretty much The Blob, but a lot more like the 1980’s nasty film version than the Steve McQueen movie. Mr. Brennan doesn’t skimp on his descriptions of exactly what the oozing menace does to its various animal and human victims. Holy Toledo redux!

  A subsequently procured copy of Monster Museum soon became one of the most read, re-read and re-read again books I owned. And, those weirdo illustrations gave me the willies plenty, too.

  One of the good things about that card catalog was that the numerical system meant that similar books were grouped together, so soon enough I was able to get my hands on most of the euphemistically captioned “Alfred Hitchcock’s stories for younger readers” lineup: Alfred Hitchcock’s Ghostly Gallery, Alfred Hitchcock’s Haunted Houseful, Alfred Hitchcock’s Supernatural Tales of Terror and Suspense, etc. etc. As well, I was also able to find out there were more “grown up” volumes also available, with provocative titles like Stories to Be Read with the Door Locked and Stories Not for the Nervous.

  Alas, none of the other books had retained the services of the illustrator from Monster Museum, but the amazing breadth of the stories contained within them more than made up for it. In addition to the “usual suspects” one would expect (Bradbury, Sturgeon, Stout, Ellison, Dahl,
Wellman) there were stories guaranteed to permanently stick in a young mind like “In a Dim Room” by Lord Dunsany, “The Distributor” by Richard Matheson and “The Bronze Door” by Raymond Chandler(!).

  There was a particularly nasty story I read in one of the books that involved a not very pleasant scientist who lands on a small island and discovers it is populated by giant, man-eating snails. That’s bad enough, but the remainder of the story is the grim – exceedingly grim – flight of the scientist from the inexorable giant snails who chase him VERY slowly, but just…keep…coming.

  For many, many years I kept that story tucked away inside my head, only remembering the implacable progress of the snails as they pursued the doomed scientist. Thanks to the aforementioned miracle of the Internet (and, more specifically, eBay), I was able to find a copy of that particular book (Alfred Hitchcock’s Supernatural Tales of Terror and Suspense) and discover – much to my surprise – that the “snail story” was not only properly titled “The Quest for ‘Blank Claveringi’” but that it was written by none other than Patricia Highsmith, also the author of Strangers on a Train and The Talented Mr. Ripley (among many, many others).

  In fact, the number of “non-genre” (for desperate want of a better term) authors whose work was found between the covers of those hoary old Alfred Hitchcock books was truly amazing. Because of my exposure to their work, I returned to the card catalog and went on to read many of the writers, both “horror” and non-horror. (Even if, as in the case of Ms. Highsmith, somewhat inadvertently.)

  Flash forward a few years, and it was another group of anthology books that put the final piece in the puzzle of where my primary interest would lie. Already a big Stephen King fan, especially of his short-story collection, Night Shift, I talked my mom into buying me a paperback that contained, among another 20 or so stories, a Stephen King tale. That book was titled Nightmares, edited by Charles L. Grant.

  Presumably, if you’re reading this book, you are well aware of Charles L. Grant’s work as both a writer and an editor. (If not, then carefully place a bookmark here, set this book down and go educate yourself by reading as much of both as you can get your hands on, and then return.) As I type this, I still proudly have exceedingly well-worn paperbacks of Terrors, Horrors, Fears and Shadows on my bookshelf, the very same ones I laboriously acquired from the local Kroch’s & Brentano’s though using a combination of allowance and paper-route money.

  Nightmares has not only that Stephen King story, but also introduced me to the work of writers like Bill Prozini, Chelsea Quinn Yarbo, William Nolan, etc. And, to this day, whenever I need to be reminded of what may be the most perfect horror short story ever written looks like, I fetch that copy of Nightmares and open it to page 187, where “I Can’t Help Saying Goodbye” by Ann Mackenzie commences, and am appropriately humbled.

  So, probably right now you are rolling your eyes (having returned from that suggested break to brush up on your Charles L. Grant) and saying “What on earth does all that have to do with this book and the original question about anthologies?”

  As it turns out, quite a bit. It’s no secret that the attention span of the average adult in our culture is shrinking rapidly. A one-second delay when the light turns from red to green by a car in front of us glues many peoples’ hands to the horn. If the shopper in front of us has an item with no price and the cashier has to look it up manually, there is more melodramatic sighing from the people in line than in a whole slew of romance novels. If a webpage takes more than one second to load, the exasperation approaches apocalyptic levels.

  And, as one can see from the bookshelves in stores ranging from Target to Borders, increasingly if your name isn’t King or Grisham or Cornwell, there isn’t room for your novel. And, even if there was, who has time to read A. Whole. Novel? And, if there is “no market” for short stories, how can readers find new voices to encourage them to read (and buy) more books?

  So, in addition to the fact that we love short stories here at Dark Arts, there is also the lofty hope that perhaps people will read some of these stories and be inspired to look for more from their favorites. For the happily unsuspecting reader, the commitment – money, time, patience – is small, and yet the potential payoff is so huge.

  As with our previous volumes, we’ve tried to capture a range from each author – short fiction, longer fiction, “serious” stories, “humorous” stories, and, especially, “weird” or “disgusting” stories that might not fit anywhere else.

  So, from JA Konrath, who is primarily known for his excellent “mystery” novel series featuring Lt. Jacqueline “Jackie” Daniels, we have “The Confession,” a particularly nasty story told only in dialogue, “Punishment” which seems like a fairly traditional tale of torture and revenge until its shocking conclusion, and “The Necro Files,” one of the most riotous, laugh-out-loud-in-disgust novellas I have ever had the pleasure of reading.

  I’ve been a fan of Rick R. Reed’s work since he was one of the first authors to be published in Dell’s Abyss line of horror fiction. His visceral writing style combined with his desire to peel back the layers of even the most outré segments of society have given him a niche all his own. Whether the subject matter is disparate as rough vengeance in “Moving Toward the Light” or a new look at one of the most pervasive horror scenarios in “Purfleet,” his take is always riveting, and for those of you unfortunate enough to never have encountered one of his (many) brilliant tales of the ongoing scandalous misadventures of Amelia, we have included a sample herein, “Stung.”

  From David Thomas Lord, who writes some of the most hauntingly beautiful prose in any genre today, we have three stories which truly showcase not only great writing, but an astonishing range of technical skill – whether it be the pitch-perfect dialect in “Da’s Boy,” the mounting careful construction of a nightmarish metaphor (or is it???) to a shocking conclusion in “The White Room,” or – in the longest piece of his here, “The Great White Ape” – an oasis of his trademarked sumptuous descriptive abilities combined with unbearably-building suspense.

  I first heard Cullen Bunn read one year at a Gross-Out contest at the World Horror Convention. For the uninitiated, the Gross-out Contest is where writers attempt to one-up each other by writing and performing the most vile, disgusting, hideous, nasty stories they can come up with, and the winner is judged by the fiercest measure possible – applause from an audience comprised of both fans and their fellow writerly colleagues. After the levels of depravity had (or so I thought) been plumbed to their limit, Cullen stepped to the mic, and in quiet, measured tones proceeded to plumb depths that had not even been hinted at previously. Before the winning applause stopped ringing in my disbelieving ears, I knew that one day, if anyone was foolish enough to allow me the opportunity to publish stories, I would have something by Cullen Bunn. What’s most impressive, though, is the stories included here that aren’t designed to make people run from the room with their hands covering their mouths. The gradually building horror of a novella like “Remains” couldn’t be less like the unrepentant, joyful (and hilarious) foulness of “Granny Kisses.” (You have been warned.)

  It is our hope with this book (and our other Dark Arts titles) that you will be able to discover some talented authors you may not be familiar with, or to perhaps find another, hitherto unknown side of one of your favorite writers. In any case, we sincerely hope you enjoy these stories.

  – Bill Breedlove

  Chicago, Illinois

  February 2008

  About Cullen Bunn

  Cullen Bunn grew up in rural North Carolina, but now lives in the St. Louis area. The first collection of his noir/horror comic, The Damned, was published in 2007 by Oni Press. The follow-up, Prodigal Sons, will be released in 2008. His fiction and non-fiction have appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies. Somewhere along the way, he founded Undaunted Press and edited the small press horror magazine, Whispers from the Shattered Forum. All writers must pay their dues, and Cullen has wor
ked various odd jobs, including Alien Autopsy Specialist, Rodeo Clown, Professional Wrestler Manager (during which time his rivalry with Jim Cornette grew to epic porportions), and Sasquatch Wrangler.

  Visit his website at www.cullenbunn.com.

  Tomorrow, When The Demons Come

  By Cullen Bunn

  “What we do today doesn’t matter,” Marco said, the preamble to a mantra I had heard time and time again. “Nothing matters. For tomorrow, the demons come.”

  “Don’t tell me that.” I tried not to let pain show in my voice. “I don’t want to hear that. I don’t believe it…and neither do you.”

  A smile played across his lips. He looked at his hands for a few seconds, and the smile slipped away, leaving in its wake a hint of disgust. Disgust at me? I wondered, pathetically, hating myself for feeling so doubtful and weak, like a schoolboy in the thrall of a crush. Or was he disgusted with himself? He pressed his palms against his chest. Wiping his hands on his tee shirt, he pulled the wash-worn fabric tight against the muscles of his chest and stomach. Crimson patterns stained the shirt at the passing of his fingers, the bloody outline of his hands smeared down his belly, melting towards his crotch.

  “Is that it?” I asked. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

  Still, he ignored me, tilting his head curiously from side to side as he examined the blood on his shirt and the pinkish discoloration of his hands, the bright veins of red running through the creases of his flesh.

  “How do you do it?” I pleaded.

  The smile returned, and he looked up, held me in place with his stare.

  “Is it that important to you?” His voice was little more than a whisper. “Do you really need to know my every secret? Do you really want to know how it is that I live with myself?”

  A snake of fear uncoiled in my belly. He was turning my own words against me, taking my curiosity and twisting it into something sad and pitiful, needy and obsessive.

  He reached out for my cheek, and I jumped at his touch. I had barely noticed him move across the room. His fingers seared my skin. The smell of his body – rich and meaty and delicious – washed over me. I turned my mouth towards his hand, but he pulled away.