Several years ago, a number of genre authors banded together for ‘KILL JACK HARINGA ON YOUR BLOG DAY’. The results were collected in an anthology. Last year, the gang did it again for ‘KILL BRIAN KEENE ON YOUR BLOG DAY’. This year, we’re going for something a little different: ‘THE SECRET LIFE OF LAIRD BARRON’. For complete links to all of the stories as they appear throughout the day, see John Langan’s LiveJournal.
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We were twenty miles north of British Columbia, racing toward Ketchikan, Alaska on a runaway dog sled while Sarah Palin, a mange-ridden Wendigo, and a dozen angry Canadians gave chase, howling obscenities in our wake like a pack of un-medicated Nickolaus Pacione clones, when I realized that I was out of whiskey.
“Do something, Keene.” Laird gritted his teeth as he struggled with our mutinous dogs. “This whole thing is your fault!”
I stared mournfully at the jumble of empty Knob Creek and Basil Hayden bottles at my feet, and then began tossing them overboard. Palin and the Wendigo dodged, but the Canadians stumbled and fell, as their kind normally do on any given Friday night. Canadians drink Moosehead, a horrendous, mind-rotting swill that that makes you post nonsensical drivel on Shocklines, but also eradicates your equilibrium, which I was very grateful for at that moment. The Canadians picked themselves up and shook their fists, receding into the glare of the sun on the snow. Laughing, I gave them the finger and unleashed another barrage.
“Don’t do that,” Laird hollered. “You’re littering. Do something else.”
“Sweet Jesus,” I cried, wishing I had brought Mamatas, Lansdale, Wrath, or Coop along on this caper instead. Like myself, all four were professional writers and handy in certain unorthodox situations, and I currently had need of their abilities. Mamatas could have used some of his didactic debate Mojo on Palin. Lansdale could have beaten them up with nothing more than his eyebrows and perhaps one pinkie finger. Coop could have put a grouping of six holes through the Wendigo’s chest at seventy-five yards with a Kimber .45. And all Wrath had to do was walk up to our pursuers and say “Hello”, and they would have run away in fright. Instead, I’d been saddled with our generation’s version of Robert E. Howard. Not that Barron’s literary style was anything like Howard’s. His influences ranged closer to Klein and Straub and Jackson. But Barron’s physical presence — his primal maleness — certainly rivaled Howard’s. Laird was a pugilist. A bodybuilder. A third-degree brown belt. An ex-fisherman. A writer. The general consensus among our fellow professionals was that Laird Barron would eat Robert E. Howard for breakfast, were Howard still alive and Laird was inclined toward cannibalism.
But never mind that, because speaking of cannibalism, the Wendigo was gaining ground, close enough that its rancid breath seemed to lap at the back of our careening dog sled. Or maybe that was Palin’s. I couldn’t be sure, because my head was still full of the ecstasy and acid tabs I’d eaten back in Prince Rupert, partly for research purposes but also to get the taste of Palin out of my mouth. In hindsight, Barron had been right, urging me to try tantric sex instead of simply letting the former Vice-Presidential candidate sit on my face, but I’d ignored him at the time, since Laird often says silly things like that.
I looked around for some kind of weapon, while Laird stared straight ahead, focused on the dogs. The man had raced the Iditarod three fucking times, but none of those skills were helping us now. Gone was the action hero, the two-fisted editor of The Melic Review, the hard man of letters who’d been forged in the very landscape we now raced across. In his place was just another person who blamed me for everything.
“All your fault,” he shouted again. The icicles in his beard dangled and shook.
I considered reminding him that this whole thing was, in fact, Ellen Datlow and Paul Tremblay’s fault. It was Ellen who had invited me to yet another one of her goddamn anthologies — for which I’d probably receive another customary rejection letter. The theme for this one was ‘Canadian Folklore’ and I’d decided that I was going to get into this anthology come Hell or high water, and to do so, I would need to research the Wendigo — to wallow in its lair and smell its shit and fish around inside its guts and find out the score. To do that, I needed a guide. Paul had recommended Laird, but in hindsight, I should have known better because there is nothing more wretched than a sexual pervert or a Winger fan, and Tremblay is both.
I reached for another empty bottle, but Laird suddenly whipped the sled sideways. We rocked on one runner and I screamed, expecting us to tip over on our side, but instead, we slid to a halt, sending up a fine spray of ice crystals.
“You brain-damaged bastard,” I shouted. “What are you doing?”
“The only thing I can.” He leaped from the sled and ripped his parka off. His clothes and undergarments followed. Then he held up his hands, palms out, and took two steps forward. Both Palin and the Wendigo slowed, frowning in confusion.
“You should have listened to me earlier, Keene.”
Then he proceeded to engage in a marathon six-hour bout of tantric sex with the Wendigo, while Palin and I took turns licking the insides of the empty whiskey bottles, desperate for a drop, a taste, a remnant that would block their frenzied cries of twisted passion from our minds.
Months later, Laird and I both appeared in an anthology called Jack Haringa Must Die. Flipping through it, I noticed that while his bio mentioned his appearances in a bunch of magazines and his collection from Night Shade Books, and the fact that he is an expatriate Alaskan, it said nothing about his predilection for Wendigo fucking. I hope that future editors will correct this oversight.
They should have a clinical name for the unreasoning hatred of Sarah Palin.
PDS: Palin Derangement Syndrome. They hate her, they hate her children…
I am so glad the compassionate Progressives are in charge. Like their hatred of New Jersey’s Governor. With the teachers union’s bosses asking people to pray for his death. It embarrasses me to be a Democrat.
Palin was used in the story because she is a recognizable Alaskan icon, the same as the Wendigo. Where is your angst over my clear hatred for Wendigos, or for that matter, why are you not gnashing your teeth over my treatment of Canadians in this piece? They certainly got it worse than she did. All Sarah did was sit on my face, which, as many will tell you, is a delightful experience. Her appearance in this story had nothing to do with any political agenda.
For the record, I’m not a Democrat or a Republican. I’m not a Progressive or a Neo-Con. What I am is an American, and there are damn few of us left, because 99.9% of this country is made up of pinheads like yourself who do nothing but parrot the talking points of Limbaugh, Maddow, Hannity, or Olbermann, rather than fucking think for yourself. Quit rooting for your favorite political team the way you root for your favorite football team or American Idol contestant and educate yourself and then come back and you and I can have a reasonable discussion.
Yes, this country has problems. Problems that began with Nixon/Carter/Reagan, were propagated by the Bush/Clinton/Bush dynasty, and have been regularly exacerbated by Obama. If you want to change things, start there, rather than turning a Hunter S. Thompson parody on a mid-list pulp writer’s Blog into yet another podium for you to display your ignorance.
WTF Keene? Why are you picking on Canadians like that? What have we ever done to you? We have already apologized for Celine Dion countless times, and besides we also gave you Pamela Anderson Lee to make up for that. You’re WELCOME!
Ok, sure, we burned your White House down, but that was almost 200 years ago, get over it!! You seem to have recovered nicely from that one, anyway.
And I take exceptional umbrage to the following line: “Canadians drink Moosehead, a horrendous, mind-rotting swill that makes you post nonsensical drivel on Shocklines”.
First off, Moosehead is a tasty tasty beverage! It’s almost 10am as I type this, and the three Moosehead I’ve had so far were absolutely delicious!
As for posting on Shocklines, sorry, most Canadians know better than to hawk our self-published novels where no one visits. Give us SOME credit! If I want to laugh at the mentally challenged, there’s a special school just down the road.
Fuck this, eh? I’m outta here. I got snow to shovel…
I hereby apologize to all Canadians and Palin fans I may have inadvertently offended. But I will not apologize for the Wendigo. That’s all Laird.
maaaaaaan….palin alaska oilfield wolfwolf helicopter progressives pants tress ruin bear beards, man.
COMMUNISM.
TROTSKY TROTSKY MARRRRRRRRRRRRX.
read laird barron.
support the things worth supporting.
like laird barron.
Meanwhile, this was an awesome story. I haven’t read anything by Laird Barron but I will correct that today!
But then Pam goes and does shit like this, Dickie…
http://www.fakeposters.com/posters/not-again/
Hey! I’m not a Winger fan!
and edd, you’re a douche.
What a great way to start the day! Thank you for the laughs!
Once again, very fortunate I’d finished my energy drink before reading all this, or else I’d be shopping for a new laptop….
My god. I’d hoped this would never come out. But we really owe our survival to the other story Algernon wrote after his camping trip up north. The Illustrated Wendigo Pillowbook.
a delightful experience! wtg brian. i’m suddenly inspired to end my year long dry spell. reminds me in some twisted way of my tammy faye story.
That was funny. Laird needs a larger audience.
To the Canuck: Bryan. Adams. ‘Nuff said.
This made my day!
This story made my work day much more enjoyable!!!
Holy shit! Who knew Coop could shoot like that?
I thought Wendigo fucking was against the law? You’re telling me it’s not? DAMN!
All these wasted years…
Now THAT’S a good story!
Don’t be so quick to count out REH: Howard was, from all accounts, a talented pugilist himself, and was undefeated at the local icehouse matches. Not to mention his hobbies: knife throwing, horse riding, guns, bodybuilding. Not that I’m challenging Barron’s manliness, just that I don’t think REH would be a pushover.
Fuck it. I give up…
Brian, stop calling Robert E. Howard a wuss.
Enjoyed that, bodes well for The Damned Highway. And Laird Barron rules.
REH was a MAMA’S BOY!!
I love it. I love it so much that I am scrapping my current project to write a YA novel about a lovably clumsy teenaged girl who falls head-over-heels for the wendigo in her high school calculus class. (Of course, a handsome yeti also has a giant crush on her, because she’s Just That Lovably Clumsy!)
Mr. Keens I respectfully disagree with your hate filled description of wendigos in general. Perhaps wendigos do eat human flesh but most do not smell or have rancid breath. Certainly not bad enough to be compared to Mrs. Palins privates. Many wendigos of my aquaintance are hard working salt of the earth raising their families in peace except for the occasional mutilation of a hiker or backwoods hillbilly. You, Mr.Keene, owe wendigos an apology.
These things are so freakin’ cool. I’ve hopped around and read six of them so far.
‘just that I don’t think REH would be a pushover.’
you should probably, you know, actually fucking read what you respond to because no one even suggested that.
cobra la la la la la la la la la la la!
Wendigos, Pacione and Palin, oh my!
Fun stuff, Brian. Thanks!
I laughed,
my favorite thing I’ve read all day = “For the record, I’m not a Democrat or a Republican. I’m not a Progressive or a Neo-Con. What I am is an American, and there are damn few of us left, because 99.9% of this country is made up of pinheads like yourself who do nothing but parrot the talking points of Limbaugh, Maddow, Hannity, or Olbermann, rather than fucking think for yourself. Quit rooting for your favorite political team the way you root for your favorite football team or American Idol contestant and educate yourself and then come back and you and I can have a reasonable discussion.”
i actually put that into my Facebook page as my political views LOL
I needed a laughed today and this did it for me.
Brian you are a magical creature from beyond the stars and i thank you for filling my friday with the golden brain tumors i have ecome acustom to getting when i read your work, bravo you my (not so friend because we don’t know eachother at all, but guy who is an amazing writer and fills me with fear and joy a lot) bravo to you indeed.
Bwahahahahahahah! I don’t think we’re in bat country anymore—-this is ALASKA!!! As your attorney, I advise you to take a hit out of the little brown bottle in my shaving kit. You won’t need much, just a tiny taste. Sorry, it’s not Knob Creek.