In Laymon's Terms

“About done there, friend?” said Bert, still standing in place and looking bemused. “Jeez, what do you think we are—stupid? Mary, show him just how stupid we are.”

Gary craned his neck up and felt a fresh wave of hopelessness and despair roll over him as he stared into the deep, black O of his gun’s barrel projecting from Mary’s steady hand.

“C’mon, Daddy, c’mon,” Junior whined. “Let me do ’im.”

“Damnit, Junior—”

“Junior’s right, Bert,” Mary cut in. “You’re talking too damn much. Let’s just get it done, all right? We been lucky so far, but someone might drive up.”

“Nah, not this late.”

“Damnit, Bert,” she said angrily, “this fella on the floor did. Who’s to say someone else won’t?”

Bert nodded. “Okay, Mary. You’re probably right. Just so damn proud of Junior I’m letting my mouth run off. Boy never had a lick of sense, and then comes up with something like this out of the clear blue...” Bert sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Damn allergies.”

“Uh huh,” said Mary with a smile.

Bert walked over to Gary and crouched down beside him. “Don’t worry, friend, even though I didn’t much appreciate you giving my wife the eye a while back, I’ll have Junior here make it pretty quick for you. Not like that other fella. Leo got lucky on that one; hated that little shitwad the moment he came in. And her, too,” he said, looking over at Sherri. His voice grew husky and tight. “You can take your time with that sweet thing, Junior. Oh yeah, take all the time with her you need.”

“Bert...”

“Shut up, Mary.”

“But I haf a wife,” Gary managed, his tongue flopping uselessly in the puddle of blood that had gathered in his mouth, “and a daugh’fer. Puh-p’ease...”

“Yeah, kids,” Bert said with a wide smile, “ain’t they just the best?” He stood up and stepped back. “Speaking of which...Junior?”

The hulking young man set the two shotguns in the booth next to Sherri’s and began to lumber towards Gary, the bare soles of his feet slapping the floor that lay wet and tacky with Randy’s blood. His face was twisted with unbridled glee. His massive wooden penis wagged obscenely from side to side, cutting a nightmarish smile in the air.

Gary’s wide eyes shot to the abandoned guns and then to Sherri. Grab them damnit grab them grab them now save us his eyes screamed but Sherri didn’t see. She was rocking on the cushioned bench, keening softly as she hugged her knees to her chest, her downcast eyes wild with panic and flittering like the beating wings of a tiny, caged bird.

The last thought Gary had before the steel talons of Junior’s garden claw caved in his skull and ended all his thoughts forever was his wife, and what Linda would say to their daughter in the years to come about him, about her dead father kneeling and screaming in waxy enshrinement in a rundown California diner.

Or if, unlike the coffee-and-pie crowd, she’d even care enough about him to bother saying anything at all.

Troy Taylor

HERE ARE THREE moments in my life that I will never forget. One is reading my first Laymon book. Another was finishing my first novel. The third was finding a little message board hidden in the deep dark (bloody) corners of the Internet where Dick actually posted. I watched for a little and then I left a post. I remember coming home one day and finding a response from him. I was gob smacked. In his reply he laughed and joked and he spoke (or wrote) to me as if I was his best friend. He was just that kind of guy. Anyone who has ever spoken with him will agree with me. Not only was he a fantastic writer but he was a fantastic human being. We didn’t know each other personally; we never spoke on the phone; we never met each other, but for some reason I felt like we were pals from way back.

The news of his death hit me like a brick wall. I cried for hours and I’ve never really stopped being sad about it, even when I think about it now.

I don’t think I ever really got around to telling him, but he was the one and only inspiration for my writing. I wish I had.

If there hadn’t been a Dick Laymon, then this story wouldn’t have existed.

Without his books I never would have started writing.

Dick, you died too soon. I miss chatting with you on the message board. I miss your friendliness and your great sense of humor. Most of all though, I miss just knowing that you’re out there.

Troy Taylor

HE FIRST NIGHT HE saw her he knew he had to have her. There was something about her, something unique. Her beauty called to his attention through the crowded nightclub floor. She was stunning.

He spent the night watching her, intrigued by everything about her.

She was different than all the rest.

Usually, anyone would satisfy him. Not that night, however. That night, not one woman in the entire place interested him. Except for her.

There were offers from plenty, drinks or dances. But he didn’t care. He didn’t even answer them. His mind was focused on one thing.

Her.