In Laymon's Terms

People were beginning to make their way to work. More than a few passersby gave us strange looks—glances of domesticated reason I hadn’t seen since my days of psychedelic roaming. Even more cursed our impediment to their paths. High up on the building the sun was winking off the glassy surfaces of the windows. The man squinted as if he was seeking one window in particular.

“Funny thing about death, something I never in a million years would’ve guessed. Even if it’s your fault, the dead forgive you. Like it’s a rule or something, you know? When Jericho speaks with me he never mentions my mistake.”

The words speared me.

When Jericho speaks with me...

The man shook his head as if it was still unbelievable and backed down the stepladder. He folded it, gripped it sideways, and turned toward me, standing as straight as if the burdens of life had been lifted from his shoulders. His face, previously a blend of sad reminiscence and happy insanity, was now stoic with determination.

“Hold this, will you? I’m not going to be needing it any longer.”

I stood there, gripping the rough wood as he entered the building. I imagined him almost whistling as he pressed the UP button on the elevator. This stranger had solved the equation I’d spent the better part of my life trying to figure out. This man understood...as my own son understood. No longer would I ask the empty heavens why.

Two years to the date of the accident, I’d received a call from my mother-in-law. For some peculiar reason, I was sober, acid-free and only experiencing the second day of a cocaine glide—coincidence, really.

“It’s all your fault,” she’d screamed.

I thought she was talking about her daughter, again. I thought she was going to lay some more blame on me for killing my wife, but it was a terribly different message. Amidst her tears and raw rage I heard the very worst.

My son had committed suicide.

At sixteen, he was dead.

My sweet boy had taken the elevator to the fourth floor of the parking garage that had changed all of our lives and leapt to join his mother.

And now I knew why.

“Even if it’s your fault, the dead forgive you,” the man had said.

I turned, the weight of the ladder awkward against my side. Other pedestrians shuffled out of my way, no doubt wondering why a man was carrying a ladder down the sidewalk. I could see their lack of understanding in their eyes.

I was half a block away when I heard the glass shatter. A second after that, I heard screams and the fleshy impact of a body bouncing. I didn’t turn back. I didn’t have time. I had an appointment with my family...and if their souls had indeed crashed, I knew a way to be with them.

Forever.

Mark McLaughlin

ACH YEAR, WORLD Horror Con has a contest where writers compete to see who can read the grossest story. That’s the Gross-Out Contest, and it’s usually held on the Saturday of the convention at midnight. Richard Laymon was one of the judges, and that’s how I knew him. I was one of the regular competitors.

In the earlier days in the competition, I was one of the first to use character voices and act out things a bit. Every year, back when Dick was a judge, he would see me in the hall of the hotel and say things like, “Mark! Can’t wait to see what you’re going to do this year!” And of course that would inspire me to do something extra special! I didn’t want to disappoint Richard Laymon!

Mike McCarty and I have been friends for years, and I remember the first time Mike went to World Horror Con and tried his hand at the Gross-Out Contest. He read a story about a constipated cannibal, and even did a little acting—in particular, he pantomimed the part where the cannibal had to do some straining to push a delivery out the back door (so to speak). Dick Laymon was laughing so hard it made his eyes water.

For this tribute to Dick, Mike and I created a gross-out story that includes some themes from Dick’s fiction. For example, you’ll find vampires that might not really be vampires—and plenty of no-holds-barred action. We think Dick would have enjoyed it!

Michael McCarty & Mark McLaughlin

T WAS SATURDAY night and we were driving through the desert in my father’s campaign minivan, looking for some goddamn vampire cave. Let me introduce myself. My name is Tommy Wharton and I’m the mayor’s son. I’m “big-boned”—also known as overweight. But then, I come from a long line of obese politicians. My great-granddaddy was a chubby alderman, my grandpa was an overweight sheriff, and I’ve already told you about dad. I guess genetics has predetermined that I’m destined to become some public official who’s afraid to step on the scales. If that’s true, I’m going to side-step the local politico scene and become a fat-cat senator of this fair state of ours.

Of course, having a political dad and being so big-boned made me a sitting target for all the jocks. My underwear was constantly in wedgy mode. They taunted me constantly, calling me names like Tubby Wart-buns or Flabby Weigh-a-ton.