POP THE CLUTCH:
THRILLING TALES OF ROCKABILLY, MONSTERS, AND HOT ROD HORROR
Edited by Eric J. Guignard
Illustrated by Steve Chanks
Dark Moon Books
Los Angeles, California
Pop the Clutch: Thrilling Tales of Rockabilly, Monsters, and Hot Rod Horror
Copyright © Eric J. Guignard 2019
Individual works are copyright © 2019 by their respective authors and used by permission.
The stories included in this publication are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and dialogue are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles.
Edited by Eric J. Guignard
Cover design by Eric J. Guignard
www.ericjguignard.com
Interior illustrations by Steve Chanks
www.stevechanks.com
Ebook Layout by Lori Michelle
www.theauthorsalley.com
First edition published in January, 2019
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018908254
ISBN-13: 978-1-949491-05-0 (hardback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-949491-01-2 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-949491-02-9 (e-book)
Dark Moon Books
Los Angeles, California
www.DarkMoonBooks.com
Made in the United States of America
(V111618)
Additional Anthologies Edited by Eric J. Guignard
A World of Horror (Dark Moon Books, 2018)
After Death… (Dark Moon Books, 2013)
Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations (Dark Moon Books, 2012)
The Five Senses of Horror (forthcoming) (Dark Moon Books, 2018)
+Horror Library+ Volume 6 (Cutting Block Books/ Farolight Publishing, 2017)
Exploring Dark Short Fiction (A Primer Series)
Created by Eric J. Guignard
#1: A Primer to Steve Rasnic Tem (Dark Moon Books, 2017)
#2: A Primer to Kaaron Warren (Dark Moon Books, 2018)
#3: A Primer to Nisi Shawl (Dark Moon Books, 2018)
#4: A Primer to Jeffrey Ford (forthcoming) (Dark Moon Books, 2019)
#5: A Primer to Han Song (forthcoming) (Dark Moon Books, 2019)
#6: A Primer to Ramsey Campbell (forthcoming) (Dark Moon Books, 2019)
Fiction Written by Eric J. Guignard
Baggage of Eternal Night (JournalStone, 2013)
Crossbuck ’Bo (forthcoming, 2020)
That Which Grows Wild: 16 Tales of Dark Fiction (Cemetery Dance Publications, 2018)
This anthology is dedicated as always, and with love, to my family—Jeannette, Julian, and Devin.
Thank you, also, to the hip cats who penned for this book.
Your imaginations are outta sight.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
by Eric J. Guignard
THE GOLDEN GIRLS OF FALL
by Seanan McGuire
SEA LORDS OF THE COLUMBIA
by Weston Ochse
TREMBLE
by Kasey Lansdale and Joe R. Lansdale
THE DEMON OF THE TRACK
by Gary Phillips
OUTLAWED INK
by Jason Starr
WE MIGHT BE GIANTS
by Nancy Holder
UNIVERSAL MONSTER
by Duane Swierczynski
DRAGGERS
by David J. Schow
THE STARLITE DRIVE-IN
by John M. Floyd
DR. MORBISMO’S INSANITERRORIUM HORROR SHOW
by Lisa Morton
HOT BABE
by Bill Pronzini
THE PROM TREE
by Yvonne Navarro
I’M WITH THE BAND
by Steve Perry
MYSTERY TRAIN: AN ARCANE INVESTIGATION
by Max Allan Collins and Matthew V. Clemens
LAB EXPERIMENT TURF WAR
by Jeff Strand
THE SHE-CREATURE
by Amelia Beamer
FISH OUT OF WATER
by Will Viharo
I WAS A TEENAGE SHROOM FIEND
by Brian Hodge
EDITOR’S REQUEST
ABOUT EDITOR ERIC J. GUIGNARD
ABOUT ILLUSTRATOR STEVE CHANKS
* * *
INTRODUCTION
by Eric J. Guignard
Welcome to the “cool” side of the ’50s . . .
* * *
THE ’50s.
One vision of this era has gone down in history as an idyllic time in America where middle class was one of prosperity and uniformity, and most people knew their place and they stuck to it. Girls shopped for Prom dresses, and boys played ball, and men worked, and women kept house, and no one spoke up about the ills of society for fear of being labeled a Goddamned Commie.
Another vision is this, where the seedy underbelly of the nation wasn’t just glimpsed by some wayward scandal of the bespectacled elite, but rather once-and-for-all laid entirely bare and, further, flaunted by the tassel-covered chests of go-go dancers on roller skates, while Satan smoked a reefer right behind and gyrated his hips to the latest Elvis hit.
Wanna guess what vision this anthology leans toward?
Not the Cronkite or Chet Huntley broadcasts of the night, that’s for sure. Not the Happy Days and homogenization of mid-American cultural norms, oh no. And, surely, not the checkered leisure jackets and smoked pipe with your feet up on the ottoman, while Tommy and Judy play tiddlywinks at your side . . .
Not here, where the fast cars and revved-up movie monsters peel out in the night. Not where outlaw vixens and jukebox tramps square off with razorblades and lead pipes. Not where rockers rock, cool cats strut, and hot rods roar. Not where you howl to the moon as the tiki drums pound and the electric guitar shrieks and that spit-and-holler jamboree ain’t gonna stop for a long, long time . . . maybe never.
In other words, welcome to the “cool” side of the ’50s, where ghost shows still travel the back roads of the south, and rockabilly has a hold on the nation’s youth, where lucky hearts tell the tale, and maybe that fella in the Shriners’ fez ain’t so square after all . . .
Where exist noir detectives of the supernatural, tattoo artists of another kind, Hollywood fix-it men, and a punk kid with grasshopper arms under his chain-studded jacket and an icy stare on his face.
This is the 1950s of Pop the Clutch: Thrilling Tales of Rockabilly, Monsters, and Hot Rod Horror.
This is your ticket to the dark side of American kitsch . . . the fun side.
But before we descend into yesteryear, a few words further from your intrepid editor.
This is the sixth fiction anthology I’ve edited and, for many reasons, one of my favorites. Being a rockabilly-listening, tiki-collecting fan myself, this era has always resonated to me as one of the heralds of chic and the prelude to 60s-all-out-strangeness. Of strengthening Civil Rights and the mainstream rise of rock ’n’ roll. Of television sets invading every home, and space exploration turning from a wistful dream to that God-inspiring realization. Of the stories my parents told of growing up which, regardless what you say, is the sort of thing that will always leave an immutable impression in your mind for the rest of your life.
The 50s were—for better and for worse—a turning point in the nation, and they are an era which half of Americans today lived through, and the other half can only imagine.
. . . and I don’t
know about you, but my imagination can run pretty wild.
So can the authors included within.
Normally (as I’ve done in prior anthologies), I like to write a little introduction prefacing each author’s story, explaining my rationale for selecting it, or what it means to me, but that just didn’t seem to fit this time around. Because, simply put, these stories are just badass. There’s no higher ambition or lofty ideal, no need to pad around, but just to read ’em straight through, and my intermissions would probably kill the buzz, like that annoying Ovaltine commercial popping up in the middle of every Buck Rogers episode.
But I’d still feel remiss not to at least cue you in (i.e. brag) a little now about what’s in store
Seanan McGuire knocks it out when she shows us that high school cheerleaders are more than tumbles and pom-poms . . . waaay more. Weston Ochse infuses his military tradition into a tale of Korean War veterans who must rescue certain aquatic damsels at the behest of a talking fish. Joe and Kasey Lansdale, who never let a reader down, share the melancholy of an aged rockabilly musician and what happened the night his band returned to play in the home town where the band was bullied as teens.
Pulp-pro Gary Phillips pulls out all the stops as the Korea War’s first black jet ace fighter pilot returns home to race hot rods and battle a creature of the night. Thriller writer Jason Starr gives us a mild-mannered man, whose psychotic family all have something in common. Then, not everything is what is seems when Nancy Holder slyly tells of dreamboat Johnny Morris and his all-American (and beyond!) romantic escapades.
Duane Swierczynski lets loose a monster that only Hollywood could create . . . and perhaps destroy. David J. Schow gives new meaning to the term “Draggers,” where the only rule is: You die, you lose. A dimwitted sheriff comes to us by mystery author John M. Floyd, who discovers that several gruesome deaths lead to an abandoned drive-in, and its cache of old horror movies.
Lisa Morton (who can do no wrong) reminds us that those who call upon ghosts most often find them, even when mirrors and smoke are involved. Grand Master Bill Pronzini knows no limits, and nor does his mean-streaked race car driver who feuds for a mysterious beautiful woman. Yvonne Navarro delivers a quiet high school superstition where tradition meets curse (and atmospheric writing trumps shock and awe).
Steve Perry continues his forty-plus year tradition of cutting-edge fiction when the roadie of a greaser rock band gets revenge on his band's abusive lead singer, with the help of weather control. Mystery bestsellers, Max Allan Collins and Matthew V. Clemens, collaborate to create a case where the investigator is just as mysterious as the matter he’s inspecting. Comedic horror author Jeff Strand writes of the tough gang rivalries over sidewalk turf, and which of their patron mad scientists is better.
Amelia Beamer slows the juice with a beautiful, introspective view of a teen’s emerging feelings, and her place—or lack thereof—in this world. Gonzo author Will Viharo continues the legend of a certain deformed fish-man when he falls in love with a heroin-addicted burlesque dancer who’s “owned” by the jealous nightclub’s mobster owner. And Brian Hodge (master of blending humor, action, and the unexpected) closes out this book with an homage to the last greaser in a world of hippies, who deals drugs, mayhem, and his own sort of social justice.
And let’s not forget the art, the amazing illustrations electrifying each tale that take this anthology to a whole ’nother level. Steve Chanks is an ace of the inks.
So now continue on, dear reader, and leave my cube-talk behind.
It’s time to start your engine, and Pop that Clutch!
Midnight cheers,
—Eric J. Guignard
Chino Hills, California
July 15, 2018
* * *
THE GOLDEN GIRLS OF FALL
by Seanan McGuire
The Fighting Pumpkins cheerleaders walked like they owned the halls . . .
* * *
“READY? OKAY!” SIXTEEN GIRLS IN KNEE-length orange skirts and long-sleeved white sweaters struck a pose on the field, half kneeling, the other half with their arms up, forming a perfect V. Every hand held a pom-pom, half green, half orange, and every face bore a brilliant, white-toothed smile. They were the golden girls of fall and they knew it, even as the days were getting shorter and the nights were getting longer, winter claiming its territory one day and one hour at a time.
Only a few more games left in the season; only a few more turns on the field. That made practices like this one all the more important, because when it was over, it would be over for good for almost half the squad, seniors all, who would finish out the school year shaking their pom-poms at pep rallies and trying not to envy the junior varsity girls as they trained, day after day on the field, for next year’s football season.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. Football should last the entire school year. That, or cheerleading should be for all sports, not just one of them. Most of the squad would have been willing to cheer for the chess club, if it meant they got to keep doing it.
Their coach clapped her hands. The standing girls folded backward into perfect cartwheels, while the kneeling girls bounced to their feet, waving their pom-poms wildly, trying to get an imaginary crowd to stand and cheer.
If anyone could have managed it, it would have been the Johnson’s Crossing Fighting Pumpkins. Worst mascot in the district, as far as anyone with eyes was concerned, but try telling that to the cheer squad, who acted like being the living avatars of a vaguely menacing cartoon squash was the best thing that could ever have happened to them. It was surreal, to say the least, and a little bizarre, to say the most.
At least they were all good girls. The coach looked out upon the bouncing, cheering squad, and didn’t see a single teased hairdo or slouched sock. When someone caught a group of girls behind the gym smoking or talking with boys, was it her Pumpkins? No sir, it was not. Good girls one and all, who had chosen healthy athletic outlets for all those buzzing hormones and confused teenage feelings.
She blew her whistle. “All right, ladies! Time to hit the showers and get back to class!”
Laughing and waving their pom-poms, the Fighting Pumpkins cheerleading squad turned and trotted for the locker room. One of them—Andrea, who was in the running to be team captain after Iris graduated—turned and blew their coach a cheeky kiss. Then they were gone, vanishing as quickly as they’d come.
The coach sagged, a sudden wave of exhaustion sweeping over her, and barely managed to catch herself on the bleachers before she fell. It wasn’t fair, really. These girls got younger every year, and she was still expected to keep up with them.
Every year.
***
“I THINK YOU MIGHT have hit her too hard, Andrea,” said Iris, stripping out of her uniform sweater and stuffing it into her locker before digging out her blouse. “Be careful, okay? We don’t want to break in a new coach because you broke the old one.”
“Literally,” said Laura, and giggled vapidly. Laura did everything vapidly. It would have been annoying if she hadn’t been so good-natured about it, and if she hadn’t had good reason. Earth didn’t have enough oxygen for her. No matter how much she inhaled, she was basically half-giddy from suffocation all the time.
Not that a little suffocation was going to get her to go back to her home planet, no sir. She had come here for a high school education. They all had, and by whatever dark and terrible gods they happened to follow, they were going to get one.
Andrea rolled her eyes and took another swig from her thermos. “Lighten up, okay? I know how hard it’s safe to push. I’ve never broken a Renfield, and I’m sure not going to start with the coach.”
“Is she really your Renfield, though?” asked Mary, digging the grease from under her nails with a file. “I mean, does she drink your blood?”
Andrea looked abashed. Mary’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” she said. “How . . . ?”
“She always leaves her lunch in the t
eachers’ lounge fridge, and it’s not like the door locks, and anyway it’s easier to keep her in thrall if she’s a little bit mine, okay?” Andrea hunched her shoulders defensively. “It’s not my fault if she looks sort of confused sometimes. This school is confusing.”
“Says the girl who keeps coming back for another stay,” said Iris. “Mom says hello, by the way, and wants me to remind you that you never returned her biology notes.”
Andrea rolled her eyes. “That was twenty years ago.”
“Yet still the notes go unreturned.” Iris pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her locker and tucked it under the strap of her bra. “You girls ready to get back to skipping class?”
As it turned out, they all were.
The Fighting Pumpkins cheerleaders walked like they owned the halls. Sixteen girls in white blouses that were just a trifle too tight, in short pants that were just a trifle too short—baring calf more than halfway to the knee, well, their mothers would never, even though every single one of their mothers absolutely would have, absolutely had, according to the fashions and standards of their own sweet, bygone days. Youth was like a school year: it seemed like forever when you were standing at the start, but before you blinked, it was homecoming, it was prom, it was graduation. It was standing on a stage, clutching your diploma, and asking yourself what you were supposed to do now.
For most people, anyway. Teachers looked away when they saw Andrea Lomax coming, staring at walls or other students or anything at all to keep themselves from thinking, I know her, why do I know her? Knowing how they knew her would mean admitting that things like her were real, could really exist. So much about the world would have started to make sense if they’d been able to do that. So much about the world would have turned instantly, eternally inimical.
Better to be a little confused, to look a little foolish, than to admit that they had seen that girl before in graduating class after graduating class, her hemlines bouncing up and down like basketballs as she shifted herself to fit the times, but her smile—always a little bit too full of sharp white teeth—remaining always, awfully the same. Better to live in the sunlight than to admit that they had seen a glimpse of the things that owned the shadows.
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