by Ronald Kelly
And that was exactly what Billy Bud took to heart now. He let the projector do its thing, displaying every gory and horny detail upon that big drive-in screen.
A loud crack like a rifle shot sounded as Rhonda Sue hauled off and slapped the shit out of Big Vern. Then she marched off to her Honda Accord, red-faced and indignant. Her ample breasts bounced beneath her Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt, jingling like Santa’s sleigh bells.
“I’m coming up there, boy,” shouted Big Vern. Rhonda Sue’s handprint blazed across his left cheek like a five-fingered birthmark. “And after I bust that projector, I’m gonna bust your sorry ass!”
Billy Bud stepped over, bolted the steel door of the projection booth, and then went back to watching the movie. The naked folks had poured the Super Slurps of blood all over a concrete picnic table, which had been turned into a makeshift altar of some kind. Marilyn Monroe had laid herself out, spread-eagled, while Nixon climbed on top of her. Billy Bud thought that was just downright wrong. It should have been the man in the JFK mask giving her a poke.
“What the shit is going on?” demanded Greg Baxter, haven woken up from his nap in the dually. “What’re you showing here, Grandstaff… pornoscopic movies? My young’uns don’t need to watch this trash!”
“I don’t mind,” said Jimmy Jack.
“Me, either,” added Johnny Joe.
“You boys get in this here truck!” Thelma Baxter said, dragging the twins off the top of the cab.
“Aw, Mama….!”
“And shut your eyes, for heavens sake!” She wrestled the pair into the back seat of the Dodge and slammed the door.
Billy Bud returned his attention to the screen. Marilyn was on her hands and knees now. A lanky, white dude with a firefighter’s emblem tattooed on his butt cheek, wearing an Obama mask, was behind her, doing it doggy-style.
Glen Oakley, the local fire chief, ground gears for a frantic moment, before speeding off, carrying the mobile movie speaker with him.
That was when all hell broke loose. Cars and pickups started taking off, one by one, slinging dust and gravel in the air. Others stuck around, anxious to see if they could identify various tattoos, moles, and scars.
Big Vern was at the projection booth door, whaling away at the lock with a ball-peen hammer.
A loud crash echoed from the far side of the lot. The mayor and the county sheriff had suffered a hellacious fender-bender, trying to be the first ones out of the exit gate.
Damn, thought Billy Bud picking up his monster magazine and hunkering down on his stool. Maybe I should have picked Heckle & Jeckle after all.
MISTER MACK & THE MONSTER MOBILE
“Come on, will you?” called Jimmy. “Get the lead outta your butt!”
Kyle Sadler pumped the pedals of his bike, trying desperately to catch up. “What’s the big hurry?”
“He said he had to hit road by three. It’s past one-thirty right now.”
Kyle grumbled to himself as they left the busy stretch of Fesslers Lane and headed into the industrial park. Sometimes his best friend, Jimmy Jackson, drove him crazy, especially when he got some stupid idea stuck in his head.
“Watch out for trucks!” he warned the boy ahead of him. “You don’t want to get run over, do you?” The industrial park was usually swarming with tractor-trailers.
Jimmy looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. “It’s the Fourth of July. Nobody’s working today, remember?”
Kyle decided to keep his mouth shut. There was no reasoning with Jimmy when he was like this. Together, they sped beneath an interstate overpass. Above, cars and trucks roared on their way through East Nashville.
A minute later, they were there. They coasted into a vacant lot choked with weeds and crushed gravel. A couple of factories stood to the right and left, but like Jimmy said, it was a holiday. They were completely deserted.
“Great! He’s still here,” said Jimmy with relief.
Kyle looked at the big travel camper parked in the middle of the abandoned lot. It was one of those expensive kinds, like the country music stars parked on Music Row downtown. It was black and gray, its windows tinted so dark that you couldn’t see through them.
“I’m not sure about this, Jimmy,” he said after they parked their bikes a few yards away.
Jimmy did that eye-rolling thing again, making Kyle want to punch him right good. “The old man’s okay, I tell you. He’s kind of like my grandpa, but alot cooler. It’s not like he’s some kinda pediaphobe or something.”
“That’s pedophile, gerbil-brain,” Kyle told him. “Why is he parked out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Jimmy glared at him, irritated by his belly-aching. “Hey, I only brought you out here because you’re so crazy about the stuff. I mean, we can head back to the house and sit around bored out of our skulls, if you want.”
“No. No, that’s okay. Just seems awful weird, him being out here, that’s all.”
Jimmy hopped off his bike and knocked on the bus door. They stood in the summer heat for a long, expectant moment. Then the door opened with a pneumatic whoosh.
Kyle studied the man who stood there. He was in his mid-seventies, a little heavy, with thinning hair and a white beard. He wore a red Hawaiian shirt decorated with palm fronds and parrots, black shorts, and gray Crocs. Behind his eyeglasses shown kind eyes, sparkling with a youthfulness that his face had lost long ago.
“Hi, boys,” he greeted. “Glad to see you. I was afraid you couldn’t make it.”
“I had a little trouble convincing Kyle to come,” Jimmy told him. “Get this… he thinks you might be some kinda child molester or something.”
The man smiled warmly and regarded Kyle. “Smart boy. Sounds like he has a good head on his shoulders. But, hey, I’m just a retired fella, seeing the country, that’s all. You have nothing to fear from me, son.” He reached out and shook the boy’s hand. “You can just call me Mr. Mack.”
“See?” said Jimmy. “I told you he was okay.”
Kyle felt his anxiety drop a notch or two. “Jimmy said you had some cool stuff in your bus.”
Mr. Mack’s eyes twinkled. “I do… if you like horror movies.”
“Kyle lives on that stuff.” He turned to the boy next to him. “Don’t you?”
Kyle simply nodded. Despite his apprehension, he felt excited, anxious to see the treasuresthat Jimmy claimed was inside.
The elderly man stepped to the side and motioned into the bus. “Then, please, enter the Monster Mobile.”
Together, the boys climbed the steep stairs into the cab of the camper. It was deliciously cool inside the bus. The moment they reached the top of the steps, the doors shut behind them, sealing out the sun and heat of the sweltering July afternoon.
Kyle felt that squirming ball of nerves in the pit of his stomach again. If his mom knew he was doing this, she would pitch a major fit.
“Right through there, boys,” said Mr. Mack. “Take your time. There’s alot to see.”
They turned toward a black velvet curtain that separated the cab from the rest of the camper. “Come on,” said Jimmy with a big grin on his freckled face. “You’re gonna love this!”
Kyle swallowed dryly. “Okay.”
Then they stepped through the dark curtains.
The overhead lights of the camper’s interior were dim, so, at first, Kyle had a hard time seeing exactly what was there. He expected to see outside through the tinted windows, but it was as though they weren’t even there. Instead the walls of the camper were covered with a vast collection of movie memorabilia and exhibits. The kind of stuff that Kyle’s bedroom was decorated with… except this was the real deal.
Vintage movie posters of Bride of Frankenstein and King Kong lined the walls, along with framed photos of some of Hollywood’s greatest horror actors standing beside a younger version of Mr. Mack. Legends like Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney, Jr., and Vincent Price. And each photograph was personally autographed to their gracious host.
Along the length of
the camper stood rows of glass cases displaying some very recognizable movie props. The silver wolf’s head cane from The Wolfman, the Monster’s woolen vest and stacked shoes from Son of Frankenstein, one of Ray Harryhausen’sstop-motion models from Jason and the Argonaut, a little worse for wear, but still intact. There were dozens of other props, too, all from some of Kyle’s favorite monster movies.
Amazed, he walked over to a case that held a face mask and hands from The Creature From the Black Lagoon. “Is this stuff for real?”
Mr. Mack chuckled and nodded. “Everything here is genuine. I have the documentation to prove it. That’s one of the original masks that Ricou Browning wore during his swimming sequences as the Gillman. See that tiny port on the crown of the head? That’s where the bubbles escaped from the diving apparatus he wore beneath the suit.”
“Isn’t this great?” asked Jimmy. He was peering into a case bearing Leatherface’s patchwork mask and chainsaw from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
“How did you get your hands on of all this?” Kyle asked.
Mr. Mack’s eyes gleamed. “Do I detect a hint of skepticism? Well, years ago, I used to be a make-up artist in Hollywood. You know, latex appliances and stuff like that. I learned my craft from some of the best in the business, including Jack Pierce. I retired in the early seventies and took my collection of memorabilia on the road. I reckon I just couldn’t bear the thought of this stuff being stuck in some musty old museum. I’d rather take it to the public, so fans can enjoy it.”
Kyle moved to the next case. He stared at the object hanging in its temperature-controlled case.
“What’s this?”
“That’s the original cape from the movie Dracula,” said Mr. Mack.
Kyle eyed the man suspiciously. “I thought Bela Lugosi was buried in his Dracula cape.”
The old man smiled. “That’s just an urban legend. Bela gave me that cape a day or two before he died.” He pointed to a framed photo over the case that showed a decrepit Lugosi handing the vampire cape to Mr. Mack.
“I was certain that he was buried in it,” said Kyle beneath his breath. Despite all the wonders around him, the boy was beginning to think that the illustrious Mr. Mack was a downright fake. Kyle had read everything he could get his hands on concerning the old Universal monster movies and their actors. And there was one thing he knew for sure… Bela Lugosi was laid to rest in his Dracula cape. That was fact, not rumor.
“So you’re retired?” asked Jimmy. He marveled at the gray wig, flower-print dress, and butcher knife that Anthony Perkins had made famous in Hitchcock’s Psycho. “You don’t work on any of this stuff any more?”
“Oh, I dabble in it from time to time,” admitted Mr. Mack. “It’s hard to stop once you get it in your blood, I suppose.”
Kyle suddenly felt claustrophobic in the dark confines of the belly of the bus. “Well, I think we’d better get going,” he said.
Jimmy looked at him incredulously. “Are you kidding? You haven’t even checked out half of these exhibits yet. Why do you want to leave?”
“I promised Dad that I’d help him get ready for the cookout tonight,” Kyle told him firmly.
“Sorry that you’ve gotta run so soon,” said Mr. Mack regretfully. “But before you go, let me show you something that I’ve been fiddling with in my workshop.” He started toward another black velvet partition at the back of the bus. “Just stay right here. I’ll be right back. You’re gonna love this!”
When he had disappeared through the dark curtain, Jimmy turned to his friend. “What’s the deal? I bring you out here to meet this guy because you love this monster stuff so much and you want to cut out right in the middle of it? I thought you’d have a million questions for the guy…about all those great monster movies and the ones who acted in them.”
“This guy is a big fake,” Kyle whispered, not wanted the old man to overhear their conversation. “I don’t think he worked with any of them. And I think he’s lying about being a make-up artist. I’ve read tons of books on the subject and never once came across anyone named Mack.”
“But what about all these cool props? They’re for real, aren’t they?”
“I doubt it,” said Kyle. “Oh, they’re elaborate fakes, but I don’t think they’re the real props. And those photos of him and Karloff and Lugosi… well, you can trick up any kind of photo with a computer these days.”
Jimmy shook his head in disgust. “Okay, okay! We’ll go. But, if you ask me, you’re just being paranoid.”
Abruptly the rustle of curtains drew their attention. They turned and gasped.
Behind them, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts, was a hideous monster.
At least his head was that of some horrid creature. The tanned arms and legs were still those of their elderly host, Mr. Mack. Kyle stared, startled, at the monster’s face. The skin was a glossy charcoal gray in color with knotty black veins running throughout, like the exposed roots of a tree. The eyes were bulbous and moist; yellow with a network of bulging purple veins and shiny green pupils. It was the teeth that caused his heart to race the most, though. They were small and black, but wickedly jagged and as sharp as razor blades.
Kyle had seen hundreds of horror movies, but never had he seen a creature that looked so damned real.
“Man, you gave us a start!” said Jimmy, finally catching his breath. “That mask just about made me crap in my britches!”
Mr. Mack chuckled. It came out as a soft, wet, bubbling noise.
Slowly, Kyle began to back toward the front of the bus.
“Don’t tell me that you’re still spooked!” laughed Jimmy. He turned back to the man in the Hawaiian shirt. “Great mask, Mr. Mack. But how did you make it? You haven’t lost your touch. I really like how you make the veins throb like that.”
Mr. Mack said nothing. He simply started forward… grinning…. with those jagged, black teeth.
“Let’s get out of here!” urged Kyle. He suddenly smelled a strange odor in the air of the bus. A stench sort of like the marigolds in his mother’s flower garden.
“What?” asked Jimmy. He seemed disoriented, as he stared at his pal. “What’s that terrible stink?”
“It’s coming from him!” Kyle wondered if he should have said it.
Jimmy began to follow his friend, but his face grew strangely pale and he began to gasp for breath. “I… I don’t feel right,” he said. “My legs…”He collapsed under his own weight. “They… they aren’t working.”
Kyle tried his best to reach the curtained partition at the front of the bus, but, he too, was beginning to feel weak and out of kilter. His nasal passages began to sting and his tongue grew numb. “What’s happening?” he muttered thickly, then fell into the aisle between the display cases. His arms and legs began to twitch and convulse involuntarily.
Mr. Mack started toward them, tiny teeth grating one against the other.
“Oh God,” whimpered Jimmy, unable to move now. “He is a pediaphobe.”
“Pedophile,” corrected Kyle sadly. His voice was barely audible, even to himself.
The boy lay on his back staring at the recessed lighting of the ceiling. Then there he was. Mr. Mack… or what masqueraded as Mr. Mack. He stared at Kyle for a long moment with those bulging yellow eyes. Then he bent downward and, with no effort at all, lifted Kyle into his arms.
“No,” whispered Kyle. “Please.”
“Don’t worry,” he was assured in that wet, guttural voice that had replaced the elderly man’s kindly tone. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
Mr. Mack turned and, almost tenderly, began to carry him toward the chamber at the back of the bus.
As Kyle’s consciousness began to fade, panic suddenly spiked in the ten-year-old’s brain. What’s he going to do to me? his thoughts screamed. Rape me? Kill me? He stared up at those sharp little teeth, gnashing in festered gray gums. Eat me?
With the last, lingering bit of energy he could muster, he reached out with his right hand and clawed
at the man’s left arm. The skin with its liverspots and coarse white hair came away in his hand. Latex. Underneath was the same wet, gray flesh that covered the face that leered horribly down at him.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Mr. Mack soothingly. “Trust me.”
Then Kyle was carried through the folds of the black curtains and into a much deeper darkness.
* * * *
Phillip Mitchell checked his paperwork and nodded grimly. Then he opened the door to Room 439 and knocked quietly. “Mind if I come in?” he asked.
Betty Sadler looked up from a romance novel she had been reading and smiled. “Hi, Dr. Mitchell.”
“How’s my favorite patient today?” he asked. He took Kyle’s chart from the foot of the bed and checked it. He took a pen from the breast pocket of his white coat and made a few necessary notes.
“He seems less agitated,” said the boy’s mother. “He’s resting better than he did yesterday.”
“I suppose he just had to regain his bearings… after what happened,” the doctor told her. “So, how are you doing?”
Betty closed her book and shook her head. Tears bloomed in her eyes. “I don’t know. Frankly, I’m not sure how to feel. I’m sorry… I’m having a difficult time with this.”
Mitchell laid a reassuring hand on her trembling shoulder. “Kyle is going to be okay. You have nothing to worry about.”
The woman wiped away her tears, but her fear remained. “Doctor… did that bastard… did he…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “The tests yesterday… the examination?”
Doctor Mitchell crouched down until his face was level with hers. “I’m going to be blunt, Mrs. Sadler, but only for your own peace of mind. No, we found no evidence of sexual abuse. And there was no trace of semen whatsoever.”
