The Americana Psychorama

By Kieran Shea

Darkly comic and wickedly incisive, Kieran Shea’s The Americana Psychorama is an assemblage of stories portraying a delightfully bleak but all-too-familiar America.

A suburban man stumbles into more than he bargained for when he steals a neighboring teenager’s drug stash. A teenage boy acts out when his widower father brings home a much younger clone of his mother. A thief discovers that karma can be both swift and random. And more than one couple finds their interpersonal conflict suddenly overshadowed by the malevolent outside forces they face.

In settings that run the gamut from the historical west to a near-future post-apocalypse, the characters of these stories—whether felons or lovers, dockhands or diplomats, vigilantes or frauds, monsters or artificial life forms, con men or survivors, fathers or sons—are all, in some way, blindsided by the easy corruptions and outlandish hostilities of everyday life.

Mixing styles, genres, and lengths, The Americana Psychorama presents Kieran Shea’s short-story writing at its best. Unique, brash, and wholly original.

Praise for THE AMERICANA PSYCHORAMA:

“These short, sharp stabs of the knife showcase a writer intent on showing us life in the cracks of the American dream. There are crimes, gallows humor, and the type of characters you wouldn’t want to pick up hitchhiking. Shea will give you a shot of 100 proof, served in a dirty ashtray and lit on fire. And you’ll love it.” —Eric Beetner, author of All The Way Down

“Shea puts more heart and guts into a single story than most writers do a novel.” —Nik Korpon, author of Wear Your Home Like a Scar

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005887247

Kieran Shea

Kieran is a sailor, chef, and crime writer -- Koko is his debut novel, but his crime and mystery short fiction has been published widely online and in journals like Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

Book preview

Indirection, In Wait

Up until that moment, Carter Hayes never truly realized just how bad life could get.

Five feet away from him his neighbor, David Campbell, was shot and rolled up in a bolt of orange shag carpet like a grotesque enchilada. They were in a small, freezing garage on the westward side of the Chesapeake Bay, four miles inland in Calvert County, Maryland. The room was cornered by three mismatched men with beards. All three—Justin, Marty, and Depp—were in their early thirties and had bad dental all around.

Depp, the group’s leader, was a slop-gutted buzzcut. He wore a purple Baltimore Ravens hooded sweatshirt, khaki cargo shorts, and stained construction boots. His pale, scarred knees were cantaloupe-wide, and he had a pinch of snuff stuffed into his lip.

The hell you doin’ on my property, man?

We—

Someone stepped forward and clocked Carter on the skull from behind. It was Carter’s second starry jolt of the evening, and as he struggled to stay on his feet the pain razored deep and sharp. Behind his ear he felt a warm trickle of blood. Before Carter could even fashion a reply, the oil-stained concrete swept up and folded one of his front teeth inward. Aiming for the uprights, another one of the men kicked him in the head and the kick brought a welcome crush of darkness.

For a while.

Several hours earlier, David Campbell handed Carter Hayes a bottle of beer.

So you followed them? Carter asked.

David tilted back his own bottle, sucking on it hard until half its contents were drained. A salesman for a Mid-Atlantic printing concern, David had been fast-tracking his way into hardcore alcoholism for years.

Goddamn right I did, David replied.

Carter shifted against the edge of the kitchen counter. Across the room in the Campbells’ well-appointed den, a pair of sports commentators yucked it up on a muted flat-screen television that was as big as the twin bed Carter’s daughter used to sleep in. College basketball highlights. Carter couldn’t have cared less.

So, you were coming home from the airport, and you just flat out decided to follow them? A bunch of strangers? All the way from here in Annapolis down to Calvert County at two in the morning?

It’s not as crazy as it sounds.

Carter set his beer down on the counter with a soft click and folded his arms. You do realize that is totally nuts, right?

David threw back his head and shook it. I was mad, dude.

Mad? Cripes, the right thing to do would’ve been to get their license plate and call the cops.

Easy for you to say.

You can call the cops now.

I’m not calling anybody, all right? David snapped. Look, man, I’d just landed late at BWI. I’ve this client up in Boston? Some snooty advertising agency knocking my junk around on this ten-month packaging deal. Total scope creep. Anyway, those guys in Boston have been running me ragged, so sue me if I was not in the best of moods, okay? As if I have any control over a silver thaw in Tennessee blowing their damn shipping deadline. You’ve no idea.

So?

David drank the rest of his beer, went to the fridge, and opened another. "So, I’m almost home, and I’m thinking maybe I’d rock a couple of Xanax and sleep until noon because in a few hours? Hey, it’s Saturday. But these guys…I drive around the bend and there they are, dumping eight bald tires in a drainage ditch. Our neighborhood is, like, spitting distance to the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, for fuck’s sake. Just chucking them out, not a care in the world. I waited until they drove off and then I followed them. They headed northwest then south toward Edgewater, humming along but not speeding, and after a while I let another car bump up just to put some space between us, although a truck like theirs would be hard to lose in daylight. I mean, you should’ve seen that thing, man. Total redneck rig, jacked a million miles high and a mess of fishing decals on the back. The sucker just breathed gasoline."

And what happened? You got their plate?

Oh, I got their plate, all right. Close to two hours of driving round-trip? Believe me, I got their plate.

Then call the police. You can report this sort of thing. Even if they’re all the way down in Calvert County, you can register a complaint. The police could give them a warning. And incidents like this need to be reported. Reports affect patrol statistics.

You’re not listening to me.

No, I am listening to you, David, but you should hear yourself. You’re off the charts right now. I mean, where’s your wife? Does your wife know about you chasing litterbugs in the middle of the night?

Psshh, my wife? She’s out in Palo Alto, amigo. She’s set up in a Hyatt for, like, three weeks straight. Knowing her she’s probably spending lots of time with that smug prick she works with. And just between us, things haven’t been exactly copasetic lately, you know, plumbing wise.

God, Carter really didn’t want to know.

David pawed into a bag of pretzels and crunched a small haystack’s worth in his mouth. Carter took a reflective swallow of his beer.

I’ve a plan, David said.

When Carter came to he discovered he was still coiled on the garage floor. He had the briefest of mental flashes that everything was just a wicked nightmare brought on by something he ate, but then he saw David’s body still rolled up in the bolt of orange carpet and Depp glaring mean at him from across the room. The other two men, Justin and Marty, were gone and Depp was leaning against a workbench.

How-do-dee-doo, Lazarus.

Carter’s head throbbed but through the gluey, thumping dizziness he noted how the bloodstain in the carpet’s backing had grown. It looked like a map of Russia. Depp drawled nasally and spat some snuff juice into a coffee can.

My man Marty went out and found you two’s SUV.

Carter probed the tip of his tongue against his folded-in tooth and blinked at the sting. There was a gritty, acidic taste in his mouth of bile and old iron. A smear of vomit was pooled on the floor next to him.

What have you done to David?

Depp ignored his question. Nice ride that BMW. Beamer…probably performs good on the open road and gets you lingering looks from the bitches and all, but a ride like that don’t work for shit in the muck. As far as I’m concerned there’s not much man in that.

It’s David’s.

Duh. Depp minced mockingly. "It’s David’s. We know that, cocksucker. Got a whole bunch of information on you two trespassers now. Not only that, but we’ve also got your wallets and smartphones too. Everybody who knows you? Guess what? We’re friends and family now."

Christ…why’re you doing this?

You tell me. Why’re you two comin’ onto my property in the middle of the night for?

Because you guys started this.

Started what?

The tires.

The tires?

Yeah.

"By the tires you mean the ones you were bringin’ onto my land?"

But you dumped them in our neighborhood first.

Did not.

David saw you. He followed you down here and told me.

Unfazed, Depp shook his head. I’ve honestly got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.

Carter tried to sit up and failed. But you—God, you didn’t have to hurt him. You went and shot David over some old tires? That’s insane. That’s crazy. This isn’t worth it. Someone needs to call an ambulance.

Depp turned to the workbench and came around casually cradling a shotgun. Carter clenched to control a dropping sensation in his stomach. Nonchalant, Depp loaded green-jacketed shells into the weapon’s breech from a plain cardboard box that sat on a cluttered workbench. Like a sentry, a metal reloading press for shotgun shells was bolted to the workbench beside him. Carter had grown up bird hunting with his grandfather. He’d spent careful hours reloading shells and used a similar press contraption. Not only that, but he knew what kind of shotgun Depp held even though Carter himself hadn’t been hunting in years. An inexpensive Mossberg.

Back when he still had a life, Carter did a little online home security research after a few localized break-ins and after a while the choice came down to purchasing a shotgun versus buying a German Shepherd. Statistically speaking, having any kind of weapon in the house makes you more likely to have weapon-related accident, but it sure as hell beat the pants off bagging steaming crapsicles in the middle of January.

With a third shell loaded, Depp pressed a small button and the breech on the Mossberg slapped closed. He jutted his chin at the bolt of carpet. Your buddy here was kind of difficult. Cried and cried like a little baby before I did him. Just cried and cried and cried. We’ll have that Beamer broken down in a day and half. Justin and Marty? They got themselves degrees in auto mechanics, and Marty is practically a ninja with a cutting torch. Parts on a ride like that? You two dummies just paid our bills for, like, a year. Hell, we might even throw us a party. Go fishin’ down in Mexico. Margaritas and senoritas.

Carter shut his eyes.

Depp’s laugh was soulless.

Wild.

Maybe if Carter’s wife hadn’t divorced him and maybe if the real estate market hadn’t tanked he wouldn’t have still been living down the street from David Campbell and all of it could’ve been avoided. As it was, Carter lived in the hull of a house he agreed to keep tastefully staged for potential buyers, and David was the only person in the neighborhood who still actually talked to him. When the house eventually sold, Carter’s ex-wife would take the rest of the furnishing just like she took their only daughter. Some nights Carter ambled around the vacant house feeling like something between an intruder and a ghost.

His personal physician saw Carter’s depression and right away the doctor referred him to a psychiatrist to sort out the mental fallout from his divorce. Admittedly the sessions and the prescribed pharmacology helped him a lot, but still his moods came and went. His shrink advised that he back off of the booze, so he did but it was difficult keeping up appearances. He had a tentative plan, once the house sold, to get a small apartment up in Baltimore closer to work and maybe, just maybe, start over at forty-five.

Jesus, all the stupid maybes.

Maybe if he didn’t take David’s call that night was the biggest maybe of all. Caller ID said Campbell, so he was relieved it wasn’t his boss or some robo-call telemarketer combing the cash-flushed zip codes. David asked him over for a few beers, and where was the harm? Carter had little else to do except maybe feel sorry for himself late on a Friday night. He’d grabbed his a jacket and moseyed on over.

Now David was probably dead and soon he would be too.

Oh man, Carter thought miserably. You are such an idiot.

Depp cleared his throat with a couple of crackled coughs.

"There’s a bunch of stuff we’re planning on doing first. And as for capping you, well, I might want to let Justin and Marty weigh in on that action. Only fair since I popped your buddy. The thing is, right now my Marty and Justin are kind of zipped on some crank and into some serious X-Box action. I mean, have you even seen Underdeath for the X-Box?"

Carter just stared at him.

This can’t be happening.

Oh, are you going to cry now too? You guys coming all the way down here from Annapolis—too bad. Serves you right. Got me about sixty acres back behind this here place, and there’s plenty of room to finish up lots of dirty little things. Hey, did you know that in this state you can bury a body on your property as long as the person dies of natural causes and you own the land outright? I know a guy who told me it’s a fact, swear to God. My grandparents paid off this place a long time ago, and they left it all to me. They’re buried out back in a family plot. Grandma got cancer and two months after she kicked Grandpop croaked from a broken heart. I reckon we can bury you two right next to them. They’re both down a good nine feet or more above the aquifer, so hey, I bet they won’t mind the company.

I have a daughter, Carter managed weakly.

Yeah, well, tough. You should have thought of your kid before. Now then, that garage door over there? That door is pinned and locked from the outside, so don’t even try to get out because we’ll hear you. And if you make a fuss or start screaming I might be inclined to suggest some really messed up things to the boys. Like acetone and beltsanders and stuff. Anyway, the nearest house is more than a mile from here so face it. You’re done.

Listen—

No, you listen! Depp barked. I’m tired of talking, so go ahead. Poke around this garage if you want. I don’t mind. I keep everything in here locked down tighter than a crow’s ass, so unless you have mad martial arts skills, which I suspect you don’t, I suggest you make your peace with your God.

Turning, Depp bounded up a short wooden stoop and entered the house. The hollow slam of the cheap door sent shockwaves through the walls.

Carter looked around. There were no windows nor was there a side exit to the attached garage. All he could see were some greasy hoses, a crappy-looking lawnmower, and a few empty crab traps hanging on a couple of hooks screwed into the wall. On the door that led into the house, a faded poster of some supermodel advertising cinnamon schnapps had been taped up. Carter listened to the muffled hoots of laughter from Depp, Marty, and Justin inside. Somebody shouted for somebody to throw him another beer, and the scorched ammonia stink of menthol tobacco and burning plastic leaked from the crack beneath the door.

Carter tried to get up and collapsed as a frayed rod of pain spidered through his lower leg. He pulled up the fabric of his jeans and probed a dark, swollen knot on his ankle. His wool sock was soaked with blood, so he imagined one of them must’ve hobbled him with a pipe or something when he’d been unconscious. He didn’t remember being hit at all.

Inching his way over to the rolled of carpet, Carter whispered fiercely to see if David was still alive.

"David?"

He put a hand against the bulky roll and gave the backing as hard a push. The effort knocked Carter off balance, and he fell backward. More jagged pain sparked from his ankle and he studied his hand. It came away red with so much blood.

Earlier, David and Carter drove by the house slow.

There it is, David said.

From the front passenger seat of David’s BMW, Carter looked up a small hill through the thick bramble- and vine-choked scrub. A crushed oyster shelled driveway snaked its way up to a dilapidated brick-faced rambler on a rise with an attached, windowless one-car garage. A solitary yellowy light beaconed off the rambler’s front stoop, and Carter saw the jacked-up truck David described back in his kitchen, as well as the shadow of a second sagging sedan next to it. Carter looked at David.

We’re just going to leave the tires in the driveway, right?

David drove around a bend for a few hundred yards. He killed the BMW’s headlights, pulled over, and put the vehicle in park. Leaving the engine running, David looked straight ahead into the shapeless dark.

No, what we’re going to do is we’re going leave my car here and then we’re going to haul the tires back through the woods, two a piece. We’ll sneak up to their house and leave the tires right next to their damn doorstep.

Oh, c’mon…you’re kidding me.

No, dude. It’ll take us maybe ten minutes to cut through that brush on foot, tops.

I’m not carrying old tires through the woods, David.

What’re you, a pussy or something? I thought you used to be tough. You told me you played rugby in college.

Carter frowned. I did, but I’m almost fifty now. I’m not hauling a bunch of old bald tires through the woods in the middle of the night just to make a point with a bunch of idiots.

You said you were up for this before.

Yeah, well, you didn’t mention going all tango-bravo Special Forces either, Carter replied. Look, I say we just leave the tires at the foot of their driveway and bolt. These guys? They’ll get the message. Carter shucked the sleeve of his fleece and checked his watch. It’s almost two a.m. now anyway, and those guys are probably dead asleep. I didn’t see any lights on except that porch light, did you?

You’re such a chickenshit.

"Will you knock it off? This isn’t high school. We’re not on some fraternity dare. We go tramping through all that brush and woods those guys could hear us. They could call the police, and then where are we? In jail? Uh-uh, I don’t think so. And those guys probably hunt. They could have guns or a dog. There could be Cujo tied up back there."

David mulled these possibilities. He sniffed hard and then unbuckled his seat belt. A bell on the dashboard pinged. Carter reached out for him.

David, wait!

But David was already out of the car. Bumping the driver’s side door shut, he took off jogging. A few minutes later, Carter heard a curt whistle muffled through the BMW’s dark glass and shortly after that David returned, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"No