“Unflinching and uncompromising, tough and talented, Shane McKenzie stands at the forefront of the next generation of horror writers.”
—Bentley Little on Shane McKenzie
“McKenzie’s prose strikes like a sledge-hammer to the belly and a baseball bat to the crotch.”
—Edward Lee on Shane McKenzie
“Of all the new writers busting out on the scene, Cesare’s the young guy with the greatest encyclopedic gorehound know-how, blistering cinematic pace, unquenchable love of both fiction and film, and hell-bent will to entertain.”
—John Skipp on Adam Cesare
“When it comes to entertaining, throwback, film-centric horror, Cesare has invented his own subgenre. It started with Tribesmen, but Video Night pushed it to a new level while simultaneously establishing its author as one of the most talented and engaging voices of horror fiction’s newest wave.”
—HorrorTalk on Adam Cesare
“Pierce is one of the weirdest, most imaginative writers around.”
—Lloyd Kaufman on Cameron Pierce
“Before he goes gently into that weird night by spontaneously combusting, Pierce seems hellbent on writing his fill of Bizarro lit. His tales include many standard tropes, like pickles and pancakes falling in love, or ass-shaped goblins who abduct children for slave labor and eating, or flying Biblical sharks. It’s a scene.”
—Cracked.com on Cameron Pierce
A Broken River Books original
Broken River Books
10765 SW Murdock Lane
Apt. G6
Tigard, OR 97224
Copyright © 2014 by Cameron Pierce, Adam Cesare, and Shane McKenzie
Cover art and design copyright © 2014 by Matthew Revert
www.matthewrevert.com
Interior design by J David Osborne
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Where the names of actual celebrities or corporate entities appear, they are used for fictional purposes and do not constitute assertions of fact. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-940885-12-4
Printed in the USA.
For Mark Jones and Simon Oré
A rainbow streaked across the sky, the air still heavy and moist from the recent downpour. The sun poked its face out from the center of a mass of inky clouds like an ultraviolet egg yolk in a frying pan. At the base of an old, twisted oak tree, the rainbow ended. The tree’s branches were bare of any leaves, and its bark was the color of ashy elephant flesh. Pinned to the bark was a flamboyant poster, copies of which were stapled to other nearby trees as well.
“What’s this then?”
The leprechaun waddled out from the doorway at the bottom of the tree which led to his underground lair. His hand—large in comparison to the rest of him, the fingers equipped with long, dagger-like nails encrusted in a mossy green film—ripped the poster from the tree. His nails punctured the paper as the ancient wee-person held the poster at arm’s length and read, his green pupils darting from left to right, left to right.
His thick, oily lips pulled back, revealing the rotten, jagged teeth beneath. A low growl rumbled from his throat and he balled up the poster in his fist, then strode back toward the opening he had just emerged from.
The leprechaun entered his lair, and with a wave of his hand, the door slowly shut behind him. As he trudged down the spiral stone steps, he opened up the ball of paper in his hand and glared at the flyer once more.
“Try as they will. Try as they might,” he said as he took the steps slowly, his scowl now pulled into a tight, hideous grin. “If you think you’ll get away with this, you’re high as a kite.”
He trudged across the den on his stubby legs, which were wrapped tightly with green striped spandex, his feet tucked into his shiny black shoes with golden buckles. The pot of gold sat safely in its niche, protected by a prison of thick tree roots. The leprechaun pressed the backs of his hands together, and then pulled them apart slowly. The roots stretched and parted, just wide enough for him to plunge his fingers into the tub of gold coins, let the cool metal slide over his palms. A whimper trickled from his throat and he licked his lips, whispered to the gold and giggled.
“Hello, my delicious little pretties,” he said, kissing each coin and chuckling. He counted them, as he did each morning, and his grin stretched wider when the hundredth coin dropped back into the pot. “All present and accounted for.”
He plucked the golden flute from amongst the coins and played a tiny tune before replacing it, running his fingers over its surface lovingly.
The leprechaun waved his hands once more and the roots writhed into an impenetrable cage, shielding the gold from prying hands. He faced the old wooden wall on the opposite side.
He glared at the poster, his fists trembling as he studied it. “It’s not nice to steal the copyright from a leprechaun.”
His hands rubbed together as if trying to keep warm, and as he pulled them apart and toward his chest, the wall began to rumble and warp. The wood reshaped as if made of putty, pulling out into a low shelf.
The leprechaun approached, and when he reached it, he hopped once, stomping his feet. A round stump rose from the floor like a wooden zit, glistening with sap, and the wee man took a seat, the shelf at belly-level.
He slapped the poster down on the desk, smoothed it out.
“A musical they plan, my character the star. I’ll toss their nuts in a pickling jar.”
The razor-sharp nails slid across the wood in circular motions, tapping and scraping. Small bumps began to rise from the surface like square pustules, making a creaking sound as they pushed themselves out. Tiny symbols burned into the surface of each key.
The leprechaun cracked his knuckles, shook his hands out until green sparks ignited from his fingertips. He made a square shape with his thumbs and forefingers, and when he pulled them apart, a bright green screen appeared on the wall just in front of him.
“Time for a little research.”
He placed his fingertips to the wooden keyboard and began typing.
As the images and articles scrolled across his magical screen, the anger inside of him began to boil—his eyes ignited into a blinding green light. He curled his lips and widened his nostrils as he read.
An instant cult classic, one article called it.
Promises not to disappoint.
Surely a must-see for all Lep fans!
The leprechaun growled and slammed his fist against the desk.
The ghastly films were bad enough, but the leprechaun had no choice in the matter. He had been bound by magical law. The filmmakers had found his gold, had demanded their wishes.
Six films, they wanted. Six films using the leprechaun’s likeness. And their wish was granted—it tore the leprechaun apart to see his kind mocked, to see what a joke he had become (though he had to admit he got a kick out of the Hood films. He had even tried picking weeds around the forest, stuffing it into his pipe, but never got the effect portrayed in the movies).
But this?
“They had no gold, they had no wishes. And now I’ll kill those sons of bitches.”
As he cackled, hopping up and down with glee at the thought of ripping those thieves apart and
swimming in their entrails, the floor rumbled again.
“What…what’s this?”
The leprechaun went weak in the knees and collapsed onto his back. He could feel his powers draining from his body, as if he were a sponge being squeezed dry.
No…no!
He managed to sit up just far enough to watch his pot of gold fade in and out of existence behind its wooden prison. He reached his clawed hands out, his teeth chattering, and when the gold fizzled away into nothingness, he tilted his head back and shrieked. He shrieked until the back of his throat gurgled green blood.
“They stole me property! They stole me gold! I won’t stop until their blood runs cold!”
Once again, the cardboard Impala had burst into flames. Opening night was Friday, but their corn syrup blood was still too pink, their props malfunctioned half the time, and their leprechaun couldn’t act.
Or sing.
Simon ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He hung his head in disappointment and disgust. Three weeks on the set of Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical had ruined him, not to mention his cast and crew, who were all in as bad a shape, if not worse. Three weeks. That’s how long it took to destroy Simon’s greatest dream. His directorial debut was going to be a total disaster.
“Do you want to try that scene again?” The voice belonged to Marvin Brinks, the only midget actor Simon had been able to afford in Portland. Simon had posted Craigslist ads in cities throughout the Pacific Northwest, but no one wanted to play the part for free. Except for Marvin, a fan of the Leprechaun franchise with no acting experience.
Byron, Simon’s best friend and the musical’s hip hop star, extinguished the flames from the burning Impala as the rest of the cast stood around with crossed arms and sour faces. Byron’s character was the man in charge of facing off against their pint-sized villain. The Impala fell facedown, half-devoured, smoking.
“We could always run through some of the musical numbers,” Byron said.
Simon shook his head no. “Call it a day. We’ll meet up tomorrow at noon. This time, we’ll have two Impalas, in case something goes wrong.”
“You mean when something goes wrong,” somebody muttered, but Simon couldn’t catch who.
Everyone rushed off without a word. Everyone except for Byron and Marvin. They remained onstage, his rapper and his leprechaun, left staring down at Simon from the stage of the empty theater.
“I can get this right,” Marvin pleaded. “Just give me another shot. Let’s go one more time.”
“You’ve had your shot,” Byron said. “Opening night is Friday.”
Simon held up a hand to silence them. “I need a fucking beer. Anyone oppose?”
Nobody did.
The Lovecraft Bar was deserted except for a goth couple sitting in a corner booth. Onstage, a DJ spun apocalyptic folk music.
“I’ll buy the first round,” Simon said.
Kay was tending the bar. She was a bleach-blonde punk girl with the complexion of a porcelain doll, eyes as green as emeralds. “How’s the musical going?” she asked.
“I’ll consider it a success if we don’t burn the theater down,” Simon said.
Kay laughed and asked what he’d be having.
He ordered three Pabst Blue Ribbons on draught.
She grabbed three frosty pint glasses out of the fridge. “You can sit down,” she said. “I’ll bring them over.”
“Do you want me to leave a card with you?” Simon said, reaching for his wallet.
“On the house,” she said, smiling.
Simon thanked her and shuffled to the booth where Byron and Marvin sat. He wondered if Kay was flirting with him or simply taking pity. He’d wanted to ask her out for months. Once Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical was out of his life, it’d be the first thing he’d do.
“You cannot sincerely believe Jason X is a better film than Leprechaun 4: In Space,” Marvin was saying as Simon sat down. Simon noticed that the man hadn’t even washed off his leprechaun makeup. They didn’t have professional prosthetics, just some spirit gum and paint, but in the dark bar he almost looked like Warwick Davis reprising his famous role.
Byron sighed, tired of this old argument. “All I’m saying is: Jason X is scary. You’re afraid for the people on the spaceship. Leprechaun 4: In Space isn’t scary. It’s just fucking weird. Straight-to-video, too. Jason X was theatrical.”
“Fear is in the eye of the beholder. And it doesn’t bow to budgetary constraints. Now if you don’t peep down, I’ll burn ye eyeballs out,” Marvin said, in an almost-convincing leprechaun voice.
“Hey, that’s not bad. It doesn’t rhyme, but it’s not bad,” Simon said. “Why can’t you bring that voice to rehearsal?”
Marvin slumped against the bench and stared sadly at his hands. His chin barely reached the tabletop between them.
Simon already knew the answer to his question. Marvin suffered from stage fright. He’d memorized every Leprechaun film by heart. He’d mastered the subtleties of the character, but he’d done it by himself, out of loneliness and boredom, so that when he stepped in front of a crowd, his secret talent vanished. His obsession came unraveled.
Kay brought over their beers, interrupting their reverie. As she turned away, Simon caught a glimpse of the freshly tattooed Crass logo on the back of her neck. He made a mental note to inquire about it later.
“Cheers, guys,” Simon said, raising his beer. They clinked glasses. “To the Lep in the Hood.”
“To the Lep in the Hood,” Byron and Marvin repeated.
“Now what I really want to discuss are the musical numbers,” Byron said. “I feel like ‘Bitches Be Spooky’ still needs a lot of work.”
“We’ll get to that,” Simon said, “but first we need to figure out what we’re doing with the Impala scene. It’s arguably the most critical scene in the entire musical, and right now it falls flat.”
“Way flat,” Byron said.
Simon glared at him, warning him not to interrupt again, before continuing. “Let’s run through this step by step. Marvin, when the gangster enters stage left, driving the hydraulic Impala across the stage, you’re lowered down from the rafters. The gangster slams on the brakes inches from hitting you. The car keeps bouncing. You say, ‘Bumpin’ ride, lad,’ then you use the Spider-Man web sprayer full of lighter fluid to blast him away. Lightning will flash, some thunder sound effects will play, and the audience will understand that you’ve just killed the gangster with lightning. He’ll go up in flames and you’ll hop into the hydraulic Impala. After that, it’s cake. You’re just on a road rampage, running over people in your bouncing car.” Simon paused for a slug of beer. “The problem we’re having is with the fire. You’ve got to shoot straight with the web sprayer. If you hit the cardboard car, then the car is liable to go up in flames when the gangster secretly sets himself on fire. You follow me?”
Marvin nodded in earnest even though they’d been over this a hundred times in the previous weeks. “Shoot straight,” he said. “Yeah, I can do that.” He couldn’t.
Byron drained his beer and slammed his glass down on the table. “Let me by. I gotta piss.”
“We’re in the middle of something,” Simon said.
“Look, man. Let’s just cut the flames. It’s dangerous and we keep fucking it up. We have the lightning and thunder effects. Isn’t that enough? I mean, when the theater finds out that we’re setting a dude on fire, they’re gonna cancel the whole show.”
“The flames stay.” Simon remained seated. “And they won’t kick us out because by the time they hear of it, the musical will be so successful, they’ll beg us to extend the run.”
“Maybe Byron’s right,” Marvin said.
Byron gestured toward the bathroom. “Hey man, I really need to piss.”
Byron groaned as he spotted the Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical poster taped above the toilet. The poster could be seen all over town, appended to telephone poles, in shop windows, in bars and cafes—even randomly stap
led to trees in the woods. Marvin admitted he had been stoned when he posted those up, and they had wasted a good hundred flyers. Although Byron admired Simon’s enthusiasm, he worried that his friend had devoted more time to talking up the musical than in creating a quality production. Part of his misgivings stemmed from jealousy. He was painfully aware of that.
With no previous accomplishments—and without having shit to show for talent—Simon had successfully managed a small Kickstarter campaign to raise money for Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical. Rue Morgue, Fangoria, Bloody Disgusting, and everywhere else that mattered in the horror business had already run articles on Simon and the musical. The outlets praised the idea’s audacity while disregarding the fact that its creator was an unemployed horror fan who spent eighty percent of his waking hours drunk, stoned, and watching movies. One of the Portland weeklies had gone so far as to deem the musical “an instant cult classic” months before opening night. Nobody outside the cast and crew had even read the script. On Friday, the train wreck would finally go public. Part of Byron hoped it would go as badly as he suspected. He hated that part of himself. Simon was a good guy, a dependable friend.
Besides, what Simon was up to seemed to be the heart and soul of the genre business: hucksterism. Posters created before scripts, concepts that promised the moon but delivered shit. William Castle and Roger Corman would be proud of Simon.
It didn’t much matter either way; Byron played one of the two leads. If this ship was sinking, he was going down with it.
“Marvin, I swear. We’re not going to get sued. Even if we do, it’s my ass on the line. Not yours.”
Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical: A Novel Page 1
