by Jeff Strand
BLISTER
By Jeff Strand
Blister copyright 2016 by Jeff Strand
Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansen.com
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.
For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com
Also available in a deluxe hardcover collector's edition from Sinister Grin Press. http://sinistergrinpress.com
CHAPTER ONE
I'm a liar, but this is the truth.
I may let this messed up tale be published after I'm dead. Or I may not. I haven't decided yet. Right now it's just for me.
If it does get published, I want to assure you that I wrote every word of this. I'm saying that because you probably assumed that they paid some ghostwriter, or that it's one of those "as told to _____" deals where I babbled into a tape recorder and somebody organized my thoughts into something coherent and marketable. It's not. These are my words on the page. My blood on the keyboard.
I'm Jason Tray. Yes, that Jason Tray. You may already know what happened. I'd prefer that you didn't—preconceptions are a bitch. But no matter what you've seen, heard, or read, it's not the complete truth. This is. Warts and all. If you're looking for warts, trust me, I've got some lovely witch-warts for you to gape at in these pages, ladies and gentlemen!
Don't worry, I promise this isn't going to be some whiny "Oh, alas, poor, poor innocent me!" string of excuses that makes you want to shove a few fingers down your throat. I'm not looking for posthumous pity. I just want to make a record of exactly what happened, and why it happened.
I'm writing this in 1986, but for the events themselves we've got to rewind back to September of 1985, where my little story begins with two of the neighborhood kids. Greg and Dennis. School had started a couple of weeks ago, and one afternoon I looked out of my living room window and saw them standing outside of my backyard, rattling the metal links on the fence to rile up my Schnauzer. No big deal. I'd taunted a dog or two when I was ten. I went back to work.
The next day, they did the same thing. Ignatz ran back and forth, barking furiously, while the kids laughed and shouted things including but not limited to "You can't get me, you stupid dog!" Though I couldn't argue the truth of their assessment of his intelligence (Ignatz was the sweetest dog I'd ever owned, but his brain capacity was low), I decided to put a stop to this.
I came out the back door and gave them a friendly smile. "Hey, I'm gonna have to ask you guys not to tease my dog. The people next door get upset if he barks too much."
Greg gave me the finger. "Screw you, old man!" The kids ran off, laughing.
Old man? Old man? I was thirty-eight! Barely thirty-eight; I'd just celebrated a birthday last month. Little bastards. I played fetch with Ignatz for a few minutes, then took him inside and resumed drawing the day's installment of Off Balance, the comic strip I'd been doing for the past decade. The punchline to this particular strip involved Zep the Beetle having a stone gargoyle shoved up his nose, which was proving to be a more difficult artistic challenge than I'd anticipated.
On the third day, the rotten brats threw rocks. I made it outside just in time to hear a loud yip as a rock hit Ignatz in the side. Greg and Dennis ran away. Ignatz didn't seem hurt—he licked my face happily as I scooped him into my arms—but it was time to involve the parents.
If I remembered correctly, Greg's house was the red one on the corner, two blocks down. I put Ignatz inside, walked over there, and knocked on the door. A tired-looking, heavyset blonde woman answered.
"Hi," I said. "Are you Greg's mother?"
"Yes."
"I'm Jason Tray, I live in the white house about two—"
"The one with the graveyard in the front yard?"
I smiled. "Only at Halloween."
She didn't smile back. "All of October, actually."
"Right. Anyway, your son and his friend were throwing rocks at my dog."
"Maybe they were defending themselves."
"He's inside a fence."
"Maybe they were worried that it was going to get out."
I shook my head. "If they were worried he was going to get out, they wouldn't stand there and throw rocks at him. Look, I'm not one of those 'Hey you kids, get off my lawn!' neighbors."
"Uh-huh."
"Seriously, I'm not. I just can't have your son hurting my dog. So if you could have a talk with him and let him know that it's not cool to throw things at animals, I'd appreciate it."
"Why don't you keep it inside?"
"The whole reason I've got a fence is so Ignatz can be outside. I'm not asking you to keep your kid indoors; I'm asking you to tell him to quit behaving like a psychopath."
I cringed at my own comment, since parents tended to react poorly when you referred to their child as a psychopath. But this lady was starting to piss me off.
Greg's mother barely even acknowledged my comment. She sort of nodded and sort of shrugged. I stood there for a moment, waiting for a verbal response.
"Thanks," I finally said, figuring that the conversation was over.
"Okay."
I walked back to my house. I'd been tempted to mention that her ten-year-old son was giving the finger to adults, but I didn't want to be a whiny tattletale. As long as they weren't destroying stuff or harming pets, I was fine with kids being kids. I'd lived in this neighborhood for nearly three years without any problems.
The next day, I was so absorbed in my work that I didn't realize what time it was until I heard Ignatz yelp in pain. I rushed out the door just as those little shits each threw another rock at him through the fence, both of which missed. They ran off, laughing. I crouched down next to Ignatz and ran my fingers through his fur. There was a small welt on his back.
Now, I realize that I was the mature adult and they were the children, and that I should have taken the higher road. But I wasn't in a "higher road" kind of mood. I drew fast and was way ahead of deadline on Off Balance, and that made it very easy for me to take the rest of the day off to plot my revenge.
First, I needed a fake chainsaw. Not some cheap rubber thing—I wanted one that looked and sounded totally real, but wouldn't actually, y'know, slice children in half. After a few phone calls, I found one at a costume shop that was an hour and a half away. I enjoyed the drive.
I wanted to find a phony severed head that looked as if it could belong to a ten-year-old, but I wasn't able to locate one that I could get by the following afternoon. So I went with an adult head—a really cool one with a rubber tongue lolling out of its mouth and part of the spinal column dangling from its neck.
The next day, I let Ignatz out into the yard and splashed some fake blood on my face and clothes. I looked at myself in the mirror. Nope, not enough. By the time I was satisfied, I was absolutely drenched in gore. Heh heh.
The reprehensible little creeps showed up on schedule. As Dennis pounded his fist against the fence, I burst out of the door and ran toward them, a severed head in my right hand, a roaring chainsaw in my left.
Greg and Dennis shrieked. The crotch of Greg's pants immediately darkened. They fled, screaming in terror.
Yeah, I know. I really should have left it at that. Instead, I opened the gate and chased them down the sidewalk, letting out my most maniacal laugh, which I was disappointed they wouldn't be able to hear over the chainsaw, since it was a pretty darn freaky laugh.
At the end of the block, Dennis fell, lan
ding hard. Greg just left his friend and continued running toward his house, never looking back.
I shut off the chainsaw and walked over to Dennis. He'd wet his pants, too. And his arm was bent at a funny angle.
Oops.
I had a feeling that this was going to create some problems in my life.
* * *
"Why?" asked Chuck Rhodes, my agent and publicist, sitting across from me in the upscale seafood restaurant where he always ordered barbecue ribs. "Why would you think it was okay to chase after young children with a chainsaw in broad daylight?"
"It was a faux chainsaw."
"Don't be a smartass. This isn't funny."
"A lot of people would disagree with you. I should do a strip about it."
"Jason, I'm serious. Just because the parents didn't press charges doesn't mean they won't sue. This could be an absolute nightmare."
"You're supposed to enjoy this stuff."
"No. No, I'm not." Chuck took a big gulp of his ice water. The poor guy was in his mid-forties but looked ten years older. He often tried to blame those extra ten years on me, although since he had six teenagers (three adopted) I refused to accept responsibility for his totally gray hair and plentiful wrinkles.
"I already said I'm paying for his doctor's bill. I'll even draw a few cartoons on his cast."
"Yeah, that makes up for it. Those kids could be traumatized for life."
"So they go through life with a fear of lunatics carrying severed heads and chainsaws. They should be scared. My chainsaw was fake, but the next one they encounter might not be."
"Again, not funny. Not funny at all. The fifteen through nineteen demographic might be amused by your little stunt, but most other age groups don't approve of people who break the arms of children. You could lose papers over this."
"It'll be fine," I said. "We'll make sure a really adorable photo of Ignatz goes out to the media and everybody will be on my side."
Chuck sighed. "You know, Festering Pus doesn't give me any problems. Why is it that the heavy metal band doesn't create any headaches in my life, but the cartoonist does? Did you know that they leave hotel rooms in better shape than when they got there? It's true. They leave flowers for housekeeping. But you drive me crazy. Legitimately insane."
"Sorry."
Chuck was hugely responsible for my career success, though if I'd known what the hell I was doing when I first tried to break in as a cartoonist, I probably never would've signed with him. Like me, he lived in Jacksonville, Florida, instead of working out of New York City, and he represented all manner of clients in all manner of ways, with virtually no area of specialty. But he worked incredibly hard, was a good friend, and I never thought of switching to a "real" agent, even when big names came calling. On the other hand, I'm sure there were plenty of times when he felt like giving me the boot.
Off Balance took off faster than anybody ever expected, and some money started to pour in. That's when I found out that I've got money guilt. I thought I had chrematophobia, but it turns out that's an actual fear of money, which is even weirder than my problem. When I received my first really big check, I felt sick to my stomach. Why should I be making this much for sitting at home drawing funny pictures? So I started writing checks to various charities. I did it quietly—this wasn't one of those mega-celebrity "Look at me! Look at me! I gave .0007% of my yearly income to this worthy cause!" deals.
Oddly enough, the IRS questioned the idea that I donated almost all of my income to charity. This led to some problems as I had to prove that I wasn't funneling my money to fund terrorism or something like that. Fortunately, I may have financial guilt issues, but I'm not (too) stupid, and I kept all my receipts. It then became a minor news story—the wacky successful cartoonist who gives away all his cash.
Of course, I was made out to be some nutcase living behind a Dumpster, licking dried nougat from discarded candy bar wrappers for sustenance. Chuck didn't like this. He also didn't like it when, as a result of this publicity, he got flooded with literally thousands of requests for "donations." So instead of That Weirdo Who's Ashamed of His Income, I suddenly became That Stingy Bastard Who Wouldn't Give Me Money To Remodel My Home. I tried to just keep my head down and focus on my work.
Until I organized a letter-writing campaign against a few newspapers that censored my weeklong series of strips where Zep thought he found God living in his goldfish aquarium. Chuck didn't like me doing that. Neither did my editor. But I thought the strips were funny and harmless. In retrospect, I really shouldn't have started the campaign (which was, I must say, quite successful) but, hey, I was angry.
I also threw a cherry Slurpee at a reporter who asked me if Charles Schultz's influence on the world of cartooning was overrated. That wasn't so cool, I guess.
And I suppose there were other incidents, but that's not what I'm here to write about. Overall, I think the past couple of years had gone fairly smoothly, until that one time when I covered myself with fake blood and chased some kids with a chainsaw.
"You need a vacation," Chuck told me. "Just escape from everything for a while. The stress is getting to you."
"I'm really not under that much stress," I said.
"Well, I'm under stress, and it stresses me out even more to think that your dumb ass might talk to journalists. I'm sending you to my cabin."
"The one in Georgia?"
"No, the one in Iran. How many cabins do you think I own? I want you to drive up there and stay for a couple of weeks until all this blows over, or until you get your goddamn subpoena."
"I don't like cabins."
"Do you know what I don't give? A shit. Stay up there and catch some fish. Just stay out of my face while I try to clean up your mess."
"All right, all right, I'll go." Hanging out on a lake for a few days actually sounded like fun. It might provide the inspiration for some cabin-themed strips. "Just between you and me, though—the kid breaking his arm was kind of funny, wasn't it?"
Chuck just glared at me.
CHAPTER TWO
It took about two days for cabin fever to set in. This surprised me, because it wasn't as if Chuck's cabin was even a real cabin. It had a big-screen television with a satellite dish, a fully stocked bar, and a pinball machine. The only inconvenience was that the hot water in the shower ran out after about five minutes, and if I'd known that prior to lathering up, I could have prepared accordingly.
I did some fishing the first day, while Ignatz happily splashed around near the shore. I didn't know what kind of lure worked best in this lake, so I went through Chuck's tackle box and just picked the biggest one. After an hour of no bites, I switched to a flashy orange one that seemed to have twelve different moving parts. I gave up on that one after my second cast. The third lure was stolen from me by the thick underwater weeds, at which point I decided that fishing was not having the desired calming effect.
Kayaking worked, though. I must've been out there for nearly three hours, slowly gliding along the lake's surface, enjoying the peace and solace. I peered down into the clear water and watched hundreds of fish that had avoided my attempts at capture. Oh, sure, I still chuckled to myself every time I remembered the expression on those demon kids' faces when I burst out of my back door, but the serenity of the lake made me wonder if I really had been stressed out and ready to snap and simply not realized it.
The cabin had a microwave and a convection oven, but I decided to rough it and make a campfire. Dinner consisted of burnt hot dogs, burnt marshmallows, and way too many sour cream and onion-flavored potato chips.
But by the evening of the second day I started to get antsy. Which is ironic, because the life of a cartoonist pretty much just involves sitting at home, being anti-social. Not a lot of human contact. Still, I felt this incredible need to get out and socialize, so I brought Ignatz inside and then drove to a small bar about five miles from the cabin, which had caught my eye because the real sign was covered by a handwritten banner that said "Doug's Booze Wasteland."
There were about six people in the bar, all guys. It was not a tidy place.
"Somebody messed with your sign," I told the bartender, as I sat down on a stool.
He nodded. "Been that way for the past two years. It was a prank, but business improved after it went up, so I left it."
"Fair enough." I ordered a beer and looked around. Two guys were seated at a table, having an animated discussion, while two kids in their early twenties played pool. An old man sat alone in a booth, drinking hard liquor and looking depressed. I eavesdropped on the table conversation for a moment until I realized that it was about Reagan, then took my beer and approached the billiards table.
"Can I play the winner?" I asked.
"Sure thing," said the first kid, who wore a baseball cap and a plain blue t-shirt. He missed a ridiculously easy shot and cursed under his breath.
"I'm Jason Tray," I said, shaking both of their hands.
"Jason Tray...Jason Tray..." The second kid frowned. "Why does that sound familiar?"
"Do you read the daily comics?"
"Nah, the only good one is Garfield. Jason Tray...Jason Tray...oh, I know, you're Susan's new boyfriend. The zookeeper."
"Sorry, no."
A quick round of introductions and small talk let me know that I was hanging out with Louie and Erik, both of whom worked at an auto repair shop. Erik was on the prowl for hot chicks, and Louie was unhappily engaged. I explained my romantic situation, which involved a marriage at twenty-one and a divorce at twenty-nine, followed by several years of occasional but never serious girlfriends. My last one was six months ago. Penny. I broke up with her because I thought she never seemed to have time for me, and she happily accepted the breakup because she'd been seeing at least three other guys the entire time we were dating.
"I need another beer," said Louie, missing another easy shot.
"This round's on me." I ordered a couple more beers and handed them out, winning instant friends. Louie and Erik both continued to suck at pool as they outpaced my drinking by about three-to-one. An hour later, they were sloshed and I was buzzed as I tried unsuccessfully to explain some of my funnier comic strips, which are never funny when I describe them.
