The Sick Stuff Read online

  The Sick Stuff

  By Ronald Kelly

  Smashwords Edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2010 by Ronald Kelly

  Foreword © 2009 by James Newman.

  The Sick Stuff © 2009 by Ronald Kelly.

  Diary © 1990 by Ronald Kelly First appeared in Cemetery Dance Magazine #3.

  House Warming © 1991 by Ronald Kelly First appeared in Eldritch Tales#25.

  Mass Appeal © 2009 by Ronald Kelly Original to this collection.

  Pins and Needles © 2008 by Ronald Kelly First appeared online at ronaldkelly.com.

  Old Hacker © 1990 by Ronald Kelly First appeared in New Blood Magazine #7.

  The Abduction © 2009 by Ronald Kelly Original to this collection.

  Mojo Mama © 2009 by Ronald Kelly Original to this collection.

  Afterword © 2009 by Ronald Kelly.

  LICENSE NOTES

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your vendor of choice and purchase your own copy.Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  ALSO BY RONALD KELLY FROM CROSSROAD PRESS

  Novels & Novellas

  Hell Hollow

  Timber Gray

  Flesh Welder

  Collections

  Dark Dixie

  Dark Dixie II

  Cumberland Furnace & Other Fear Forged Fables

  The Sick Stuff

  Unabridged Audio

  Flesh Welder

  Try any title from CROSSROAD PRESS -- use the Coupon Code FIRSTBOOK for a one time 20% savings!We have a wide variety of eBook and Audiobook titles available.Find us at:http://store.crossroadpress.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  FOREWORD

  DIARY

  HOUSEWARMING

  MASS APPEAL

  PINS AND NEEDLES

  OLD HACKER

  THE ABDUCTION

  MOJO MAMA

  AFTERWORD

  FOREWORD

  Gonna get right to it, tell y'all about my first encounter with Ron Kelly's fiction. An encounter that almost never happened (cue melodramatic music here: dum-dumm-dummmmmm!)....

  Back in the early- to mid-nineties, I used to frequent the horror section of my local Books-A-Million. This was when the big franchise bookstores still had a horror section, if anyone can remember that bygone era. Those were the good ole' days -- as if I have to tell you -- for a kid like myself, who devoured any and all horror literature, while simultaneously harboring dreams of one day seeing his own name on a few of those mass-market paperbacks.

  Around that time, I remember seeing one title that sat smack-dab in the middle of the horror section every time I visited Books-A-Million. Like an old, friendly, familiar face, it was always there. That book was Ronald Kelly's Fear. I must have picked it up a hundred times, skimmed the synopsis on the back. It sounded pretty cool. The picture on its cover depicted the ominous black mouth of a cave; inside that rocky maw a human-shaped figure hung upside down, wrapped tightly in a cocoon of spider webs.

  Problem was, I refused to buy this particular book. I put it back on the shelf every single time.

  Why? Well, for one thing, my book-buying budget was a meager one back then. It's not exactly a gargantuan fund today. Since I had no choice but to be picky, it was Fear that went unread for the longest time by me, and I'm here to tell you now what a fool I was.

  I'm ashamed to say my reasons for returning that novel to its place on the shelf again and again and again was due to nothing more than a classic case of (literally) judging a book by its cover.

  I'm a walkin', talkin' cliché, folks.

  You see, because of that cover of Zebra Books' 1994 paperback edition of Fear, I assumed for years that this Ronald Kelly fellow's novel... was nothing more than a blatant, second-rate rip-off of Stephen King's It.

  No kidding. Simple as that. Pretty stupid, huh?

  Obviously, however, this story has a happy ending. I wouldn't be here, writing this lil' intro, if it didn't...

  Eventually, I came to my senses. I had read just about everything in Books-A- Million's horror section (except the Anne Rice novels), and I needed something new. So, better late than never, I finally plopped down my hard-earned $4.50 (I know, it sounds like crazy talk, but paperbacks really did cost less than a five-spot once upon a time!). And, whaddaya know? Fear turned out to be not only anything but a rip-off of King's massive tome about a child-killing-spider-from-outer-space (in fact, the two had very little in common, save for a bloodthirsty creature in a cave); it proved to be one of my favorite horror novels of the 'nineties. More importantly, it turned me on to a phenomenal writer of Southern-fried horror who has since become not only one of my greatest influences as a fellow storyteller of the macabre, but also -- I am proud to say -- a damn fine friend.

  Who woulda thunk it?

  My rambling tale does have a point. I promise. And that point is... history does repeat itself (yep, I'm full of clichés tonight).

  What do I mean by that?

  Once again, I have misjudged. I've made unfair assumptions, and I should have known better!

  When Ron asked me to write a foreword to the book you now hold in your hands, I balked a little, at first. Only a little, mind you. And don't get me wrong -- I was very, very honored. Yet... I couldn't help feeling a tad hesitant. Of course, I didn't tell my good buddy Ron that I wasn't 100% keen on the idea (although, I suppose he knows now!)

  Thing is, I was worried. Ron explained to me that The Sick Stuff was a collection of "seven disgusting tales... sorta (his) own personal People Are Strange."

  Sounds cool, right?

  But I didn't want that.

  I didn't want splatterpunk from Ronald Kelly. Or extreme horror. Or hardcore siction. Whatever the kids are calling it these days.

  Because that wasn't my Ron Kelly. It wasn't what I knew. This didn't sound like the wonderfully moody, dripping-with-Southern-atmosphere Ron Kelly fiction that I had adored for the last fifteen years. I mean this is Ron Kelly we're talking about here, not Edward Lee (not that there's a damn thing wrong with Lee -- I'm a huge fan).

  You get the picture.

  Once again, though, Ron proved me wrong. Surprise! I read these stories -- tore through them in record time, in fact, and found myself unable to turn the pages fast enough to find out what atrocities would occur next -- and I wanted more. More!

  And that's the mark of a truly great writer, isn't it? When said writer can work outside of his "comfort zone", if you will (I'd be willing to bet that the kind, soft-spoken, church-going gent we're talking about now went farrrrr beyond his "comfort zone" with the stories contained herein), and the results are still undeniably his. And they still kick ass.

  Which these stories are. And they most certainly do.

  Enjoy, folks. You're in for a treat. Of course, that's a guarantee with anything Ron Kelly writes.

  Meanwhile... Ron, old pal, I owe you an apology. Again.

  I assumed... and you know what they say about ASSUMING.

  Now I find myself wondering what else Ron might have up his sleeve. Lord knows my days of "judging a book by its cover" are over and done with.

  Hey, Ron... you've done Southern horror, "the sick stuff", and even a bit o' sci-fi (Flesh-Welder). How about a children's book next? I'd sure love to see it. I'm sure my nine-year-old would too. And if anybody could pull it off, I'm sure you could...

  Keep 'em coming. Meanwhile, I'll keep reading. Anything and ev
erything you write.

  And when there's no new Ron Kelly to read, while you're hard at work on your next one, I'll just crack open my old, dog-eared copy of Fear for the two- or three-hundredth time. And smile when I see your heartfelt, personalized inscription inside that book I almost never bought.

  James Newman

  Hendersonville, North Carolina

  December 2008

  DIARY

  August 21

  They want to know why I killed those people in Tennessee. They want to know why a no-account bum like Jerry Weller crossed paths with the All-American family and systematically tortured, raped, and slaughtered them, one by one.

  They seem very insistent for answers. But I give them none. I only counter their questions with questions of my own.

  Why did Satan drive me to commit such atrocities?

  Why did God allow such atrocities to take place?

  They think they have me pegged. They brand me a violent psychopath and spout their psychiatric crap, but they're still missing the point. If they weren't so damned stupid, they would be able to look into my eyes and see the squirming, maggot-infested soul that lies decaying within.

  You see, perversity is my forte.

  It is normality that drives me insane.

  August 29

  My parents didn't tell me for a very long time that I once had a twin brother. When they did, they only said that he had died shortly after birth. I knew they were concealing all the gory details. Eventually, they told me the whole story... and, boy, was it a doozy!

  It seems that there were once twin brothers named Jerry and Jamie. Shortly after their arrival home from the hospital, Mom and Dad went out for a night on the town, leaving the little ones in the care of teenaged babysitter Caroline. An hour later, Caroline's beatnik boyfriend, Rodney, showed up with a big bag of goodies. There was much drinking and pot smoking and airplane glue sniffing. Soon, Caroline and Rodney had gotten wildly high and thought it would be incredibly funny to put little Jamie in the kitchen oven. They chug-a-lugged vodka and reds as they turned the flame to the max and cooked the squalling infant like a meatloaf.

  Supposedly, I witnessed the whole thing, but I don't remember. Hell, I was only three months old at the time.

  Those freaking junkheads had the right idea, but they made one mistake.

  They baked the wrong gingerbread boy.

  September 5

  How about a nice bedtime story?

  Once upon a time there was a clean-cut, All-American family. They never fought with one another, they attended church regularly, and lived by the Golden Rule. They lived in a cozy, suburban home, drove a Volvo, and sent their children to public school... just like

  those perfect television families of the fifties and sixties -- the Nelsons, the Cleavers, the Brady Bunch.

  One summer, this family decided to take a trip to Smoky Mountain National Park. They took snapshots of the sights, watched the Cherokee Indians do their rain dance, and found a secluded campsite so they could commune with nature and enjoy the great outdoors. They sang songs, roasted marshmallows over the campfire, and swapped ghost stories. They had a wonderful time.

  Then the man showed up out of nowhere, wearing a friendly smile and a stolen park ranger's uniform.

  September 12

  When I was six years old, I would visit my grandmother. She had this sweet, little canary named Penny. Penny would fly right out of its cage in the corner of Grandmother's sewing room and land in the palm of your hand. It would sit perfectly still and sing you the most beautiful song.

  One day, while Grandmother was out working in her flower garden, I slipped into the sewing room and opened Penny's door. It flew out of its cage and lit lightly in my hand.

  "Sing me a song, Penny," I said, but it remained silent.

  I took a straight pin from Grandmother's sewing basket and shoved it into Penny's little, black eye. It pierced the bird's tiny brain and emerged out the other side.

  Penny sang me a song then, a very loud and frantic song... but not for very long.

  September 23

  Bedtime story. Part Two.

  The park ranger said hello, sat down beside the fire, and drank a cup of coffee offered to him. As pleasant conversation was exchanged, he studied the All-American family. Father, mother, gray-haired grandmother, and two children, a boy and a girl. He enjoyed their company for a while, as long as he could possibly stand it. And then that damned urge crept into his demented mind...

  October 7

  They sent me to reform school when I was seventeen for cutting off my girlfriend's breasts with a pocket knife. After all these years, I still haven't figured out what my true motive had been. Maybe someday I'll call her up at the state asylum and ask her if she remembers why I did such a horrible thing.

  October 14

  Bedtime story. Part Three.

  Father went first.

  The friendly park ranger took a hunting knife from his belt and, with an upward thrust, drove the point up under Father's jaw. The razor-honed blade sliced effortlessly up through his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and into his tender brain. He fell forward into the campfire and burnt his face off while the ranger rounded up the rest of the All-American family...

  October 19

  My attorney wanted me to go for an insanity plea. I fired him and got myself another lawyer with a less attractive track record.

  I keep telling them what I want, but they don't seem to take me seriously.

  I want to fry.

  I want the juice to surge through my body until my veins pop and I begin to sizzle like a slab of raw meat on a hot griddle.

  October 31

  Bedtime story. Part Four.

  My, Grandma, what big eyes you have... lying in the palm of my hand.

  November 4

  Boy, do I miss, Nam. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep, I miss it so.

  I volunteered to go, you know. Not because I was patriotic, but because I heard there was a lot of weird shit going on over there. Some of the other grunts thought I was nuts for signing up, but they didn't understand. They all hated the Nam, while, for me, it was pure paradise.

  The first day there, the platoon sergeant took us cherries out behind a quonset hut. There were four dead gooks lying in a ditch, riddled with bullet holes and flies. The sarge made us get down into that ditch and kick them in the head. He said it was to drive the squeamishness out of our systems before he turned us loose in the jungle. He made us kick and kick and kick until their skulls split open and their brains covered our combat boots.

  Some of the guys puked their pussy guts up. I would have been down in that ditch all day if they hadn't pulled me out.

  Be all that you can be...

  November 8

  Yesterday, some big guy named Alfonso tried to pull a caboose on me in the jailhouse showers. I was all lathered up and too fast for him, though. I backed him into a corner and, finding him to be an attentive audience, did one of my favorite impressions to entertain the sonuvabitch.

  By the time the guards got there, poor Alfonso was lying on the wet tiles of the shower stall, clutching at himself as he bled to death. Me, I just stood there and watched with a bloodstained smile as they searched for the missing part of Alfonso's anatomy... one that they will never find.

  You know, I do a lot of neat impressions -- Bogart, Cagney... the Donner Party.

  November 11

  Bedtime story. Part Five.

  Hey, kids, let's pretend that it's Christmas time!

  That pine tree over there can be the Christmas tree and we can decorate it, too... with pieces of dear, old Mom.

  We can use her fingers for tinsel and her organs for ornaments. It'll be lots of fun, just you wait and see.

  Deck the halls with bowels of Mommy...

  November 28

  After coming back to the World, I spent some time in Mexico, smuggling drugs and wetbacks across the border. The money was good and kept me in tequila and cheap whores. Th
en I met up with this guy and we started making movies.

  We would lure some chick off the street and take her back to our motel room. We would get her half drunk and give her a snort of coke laced with Spanish Fly. By the time my partner had his camera set up, she would be hot and ready.

  Then I would come out of the bathroom, naked except for one of those weird, leather bondage masks. I would then proceed to make love to her. When she opened her mouth to scream in ecstasy, I would take the linoleum knife and, reaching between our heaving bodies...

  I had that snuff film stashed somewhere in my van with all my other scrapbooks and trophies, but I didn't have an 8mm projector to watch it with. I once considered taking it to a Fotomat to have it transferred to DVD... but I chickened out at the last moment.

  December 1

  Bedtime story. Part Six.

  How about a nursery rhyme for the children?

  This little piggie went to the market.

  SNAP!

  This little piggie stayed home.

  CRACK!

  This little piggie ate roast beef.

  SNAP! CRACKLE! POP!

  December 13

  I robbed a gas station in Tuscon once and made the attendant eat a turd out of the men's room toilet, promising to spare his miserable life if he would only perform that one, simple act.