If It Bleeds: Charitable Chapbooks, #2

By Matthew M. Bartlett

• Cover and frontispiece artwork by Yves Tourigny
• Fully color illustrated by Luke Spooner

40% of all sales of this eBook edition will go to support the Dakin Humane Society where Matthew and his wife adopted their lovely cat, Peachpie!

A toe-tapping track from way back spreads like a virus through Leeds, Massachusetts, heralding a new era of unspeakable evil. WXXT - the slithering tongue in the ear of the Pioneer Valley. Are you ready to rock?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nightscape Press
• Release date: Jul 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386283201

Book preview

We live in low, leaf-carpeted groves where the sun knows it is not welcome, in fluorescent-lit offices where man’s so-called better angels are food for the ever-ravenous shredder, in attics where secrets sit in cigar boxes impatient for the stare of their keepers’ midnight eyes. Hold your radio close under the blankets and gaze into its green, glowing eye. WXXT, where the listener comes first, and comes again, and always comes back for more, o glutton, o worshipper, o sweet, slurping patron, hungry-eared and horny and ready, once again, to rock.

Turkey in the Straw

The ice cream truck rolled slowly along Forest Road toward the playground. From a triad of loudspeakers atop its roof it played a tinkling, simplified rendition of Please Don’t Close the Casket Lid (Down) by Fat Andy and the Peepers, a rockin’ track from way back, a tune from June that made all the girls swoon and brightened the glow of the harvest moon.

Kids cavorted on the jungle gym, sailed into the sky on chain-borne swings, slid laughing down metal slides, loafed in the dandelion-strewn green grass. Parents sat on benches behind newspapers, like moths with their wings on backward. Some leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, watching for internecine skirmishes or strife. Others looked dreamily up at the impossibly blue sky, where a distant airliner dragged a billowing white tail behind it.

When the truck’s tune sounded in the distance, little heads popped up like those of prairie dogs. Children loosened their grips on horizontal ladders and dropped onto the hot sand. Some leapt from the metal roundabout and stumbled in zig zag patterns toward the road. Others rose from the grass and toddled away. Warren Ward drooled from the corner of his mouth. Kari Leaffeather pawed at her own throat. Jolie Bryant squealed and clapped.

The song had quite a different effect on the parents. Some slumped, chins falling to chests, butts sliding forward along the bench. Others dropped their heads back, mouths falling open. An inchworm lowered itself into Marcus Bean’s throat on a gossamer string, and a dry brown leaf landed square on Arlene Bryant’s forehead. Bill Ticcocci collapsed like a stack of pennies. Stan Appleton fell face first onto the walk with a loud thud.

The ice cream truck swam over the incline, enveloped in an undulating heat-haze, the driver a deejay in a radio booth, eyes masked behind mirrored sunglasses, a great white gleaming grin under a pitch-black wax mustache. He wore a white cap with a black brim, a white coat over light blue scrubs. A pipe dangled from his mouth as though stuck to his lower lip. Little puffs of pink smoke forced their way out of the bowl and drifted to the metal ceiling. He sang along to the tinkling tune. His filthy bare foot pumped the gas pedal, long curled toenails scraping the floor mats.

…please don’t close the casket lid, boys, please don’t close it down. The cloud drips liquor from the sky, the crows are gathered ‘round.

Please don’t shut the door down yet, please don’t close it down. I’ve got my ticket, I’ve paid my fare, but I ain’t ready for Wooooorm Towwwwwn…

The truck pulled up onto the shoulder by the fence. Long, filth-smeared fingernails pulled open a sliding window topped with a candy-colored awning and bordered by sun-faded pictograms of cartoonish goats with bulging eyes and toothy grins, their fat and upsettingly long tongues looping all around, lapping at cones, popsicles, and cups of flavored ice.

Children frantically freed their dozing parents’ wallets from their pockets and handbags. Little hands grasped wads of bills, little fists gripped nests of coins. As they approached the truck in a joyous chattering proliferation, it crawled further down the road. The swarm of kids just about reached the back bumper, and the truck started off again. Slowly, haltingly, it led them down the street, past the last houses, into the dark and wild woods