In Laymon's Terms

He also showed me the value of stripped down, minimalist prose. A lot of my early efforts at constructing horror tales were crippled by efforts at emulating the sweeping, lyrically poetic styles of the old masters. Laymon’s prose showed me another way, a way that felt like liberation. I learned to make my sentences lean, mean, and efficient. It’s a style favored by some of our best writers, from the booze-soaked ruminations of Ernest Hemingway to the hard-hitting crime fiction of people like Jim Thompson and Elmore Leonard.

Like them, Laymon was a true master.

Bryan Smith

ILL HOPKINS, PIZZA delivery guy extraordinaire, was on his last run of the night. He’d hit two of the three houses on the run already, and the last came into view as he rounded a bend on a residential road.

Hot damn, he thought, almost quittin’ time.

He was already considering the array of post-work activities that awaited him upon his return to Casa Hopkins. First, and this was absolutely non-negotiable, he’d pop open a cold Old Milwaukee. Then he’d turn on the tube and hunt down something good and sleazy. Jerry Springer, maybe. Or maybe some soft-core porn on Skin-e-max.

Oooh, yeah...

But first he had to take care of business.

Will drove past the house, made a wide, looping turn in the dark cul-de-sac just past the house, and pulled to a stop at the curb next to the mailbox.

His headlights briefly illumined the back of a van before he clicked them off.

The house was the only one on the street with lit windows. Not too many people were up late in a neighborhood like this. These were working-class people. Responsible people with mortgages and bills to pay. Will supposed he was doomed to one day inhabit a house just like this one. He would have a non-exciting job that required him to get up at an ungodly hour. He would have a reasonably attractive—but not beautiful—wife and a kid or two.

Will sighed.

It was depressing.

He didn’t want to be an “average Joe.”

He lifted the pizza off the passenger seat, swung the driver’s side door open, and got out. The strap-on Pizza Zone sign glowed dimly atop the roof of his Toyota hatchback. The cool night air felt good. A gentle breeze ruffled his shaggy hair as he walked down the driveway toward the house.

He ascended some steps to the front porch, jabbed the doorbell, stepped back, and waited for the door to open.

He heard muffled movement beyond the door. A clomp of footsteps, something that sounded like a beanbag hitting a floor, and a metallic rattle that might have been keys rattling on a ring. Or a big pile of dishes shifting in a sink. Or cutlery clinking in a tray. Knives and forks and spoons.

Will frowned.

He took an unconscious, shuffling step back to the edge of the porch. His stomach had that funny, fluttery feeling he got when something didn’t feel right. But he was in a nice neighborhood. Some boozed-up redneck wasn’t about to open the door and start giving him shit. This wasn’t a goddamn trailer park. Nor were there any predators prowling the well-lighted streets.

Well, probably not.

Shit, definitely not—there were too many other neighborhoods more conducive to the activities of petty criminals. Neighborhoods that Pizza Zone, thank God on His almighty fucking throne in Heaven, didn’t service.

He heard more movement from inside the house.

The footsteps again, booted feet, getting louder for a moment, then receding, followed by a dimmer sound of something sliding across a floor.

Will breathed an exasperated sigh. “Jesus,” he muttered. “What are they doing in there, moving furniture? Come on, peeps, I wanna go home.”

The door stayed shut.

His mind turned again to the entertainment he had planned for the evening. He was pretty sure Skin-e-max was showing a double feature of Shannon Tweed psycho-slut-from-hell movies. Thinking about Shannon Tweed’s breasts fueled his impatience, and he stepped forward to jab the doorbell again.

Then, for good measure, he banged on the door with the base of a fist.

Tell me you didn’t hear that, fuckers.

The entreaty escalation produced immediate results.

Will heard the unmistakable sound of a deadbolt being thrown back. Then there was a slow grinding sound—metal sliding against metal—as the brass doorknob turned to the left. The doorknob stopped turning, there was a freeze-frame moment of stillness, then the door edged away from the doorjamb.

Will summoned forth his brightest customer-kiss-ass smile and said, “Pizza Zone!”

But the door only opened a crack. The minute opening revealed only darkness. Someone had turned the lights out. He experienced a recurrence of the fluttery feeling in his stomach. Something funny was going on here.

Hushed voices emanated from the other side.

A guy and a gal.

Will grinned.

Because suddenly he knew what the deal was. What we have here, pimps ’n’ bitches, is a classic case of coitus interruptus.

He grinned, suddenly feeling a need to make mischief.

I’m a naughty boy.