The Tragedy of Brianus Keenemus
"Mr. Keene? You've been really great and I'm sure you're probably sick and tired of answering all our questions..."
Brian smiled at the speaker, a pretty blond high school junior named Maggie. Or Sarah. Erin? He'd laid off the Knob Creek this morning because of a bad head cold, but the cheap decongestant he'd bought at some hick gas station on the way here was kicking his ass...and his brain...all over the place. Amazing. For once in my freakin' life, my 'strong cold medicine' excuse is actually legit.
He blinked and smiled wider - but not too wide. Didn't want to give the wrong impression. He'd never done a high school gig like this before, (at a Catholic School, no less), and he didn't want to fuck it up. St. John the Evangelist High School was a relatively short trip over the New York/PA border, and it'd be nice to make this an annual thing. Easiest cash he'd ever make, plus bagging new generations of Keene fans every year. If he could just manage to "not be him", (as Alethea and Kelli each had put it - in slightly more colorful terms - over the phone last night), for another hour or so, this would turn out to be the best speaking engagement he'd ever had.
Wide grin. Whoops, too wide. "Sure. I think we've got a few minutes left..?" He glanced at St. John's Creative Writing teacher, the guy who'd invited him to be a part of their first annual Writers Series, Andrew Slater. Dressed in pressed slacks, white ironed shirt and a formal black sports jacket, the English teacher had made Brian worried he'd be under-dressed when they met this morning. Slater had laughed at that, though, (in a pretty prissy chuckle, if Brian remembered correctly), waving him off with, "Oh, go on. I'm just dressed like this because I'm the Dean of Students. Role model and all that."
Still. What the hell did that make him? Brian fought the urge to glance down reproachfully at his favorite Anthrax hoodie. Fuck 'em. Bring the noise, and all that shit. I'm fucking Brian Keene. This is what I do.
Mr. Slater smiled and nodded. Prissy, Brian thought again. Absolutely. "Sure, Cindy. We've got time for one more."
Prissy or not, guy had done him a favor by mentioning the girl's name, effectively saving his decongestant-addled ass. Had to give him that. Brian nodded at Mr. Slater, turned and smiled not-too-big-but-just-right at Cindy. "Go ahead, Cin. Fire away."
Cindy screwed up her thin but not unattractive face and breathed deeply, as if she'd been marshaling all her energies for this one question. "Okay. Now, I know from reading your blogs and memoirs and other stuff that this is probably a sore spot..."
Shit.
"...but I wanted to ask a question about The Rising."
Double shit. Fuckin' goddamn, Donkey Kong, Thundaar the Barbarian shit.
"What I wanted to ask is this: why the hell was everyone so pissed about the ending? Why'd Leisure make you write Dead City? I thought The Rising was fine as it was!"
Brian smiled, and didn't care at all how wide. "Young lady...how'd you like Brian Keene books free, for the rest of your life?"
*
Ten Minutes Later
"That was really cool, Mr. Slater. I gotta be honest, I was a little nervous talking to high school students and all...but that went really, really well."
Mr. Slater nodded as they walked down the green-locker lined halls to the day's last class. Now that he'd gotten a chance to speak with the teacher a little, Brian found the guy very likable...if still a bit prissy. "Well, it's been quite an honor having you here today. Having someone of your talent and stature share the writing process with kids who want to do it themselves someday...that's better than any creative writing assignment I can give, really."
"Always glad to meet with aspiring writers."
A few steps later they stopped before an unmarked door to a room with the number '107' over it.
Brian, feeling a victorious flush from the day's success, clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly. "All right. Who'm I speaking with next? Gen Ed kids? English for Trade School students? I'm ready to inspire."
"Hmm. Right." A cold spot formed in Brian's cut, dimming his excitement. Slater looked almost... sheepish. Hell, he looked embarrassed, toeing the floor with the nervous anxiety of a junior virgin taking the high school slut to the prom. "Actually, you'll be speaking with my principal's class next...Ms. Pachette."
It was a terrible cliche, but Brian didn't give a rat's ass. He LITERALLY felt the color drain from his face. "Principal? What...what class?"
"AP Literature."
Brian gaped. Swallowed. Finally found a voice, and it wasn't a happy voice, at all. "AP Literature? Dude...Mr. Slater...I barely graduated high school and flunked English. How the hell am I gonna ...what the hell am I gonna say to them?"
Slater looked up but away, clearly avoiding his gaze. "It'll be fine, really. Just say something literary. But don't talk about Urban Gothic or Castaways or Dark Hollow...or anything else you've written. Just....well, talk about Ghost Walk. That was pretty literary."
"What? How the fuck do you figure?"
"Well. Didn't you mention H. P. Lovecraft a few times in that one? He's pretty literary. Sort of."
Another cliche gripped him as cold sweat slicked his brow. "What the hell are you doing to me here, kid? Surrendering me to the firing squad?"
Slater finally looked up and met his gaze with apologetic eyes. "Sorry, Mr. Keene. The only way I can get these writers approved is for them to meet with Ms. Pachette and her AP class last. It's nothing personal. Honest."
Brian sputtered. He spit. His bladder felt terribly, terribly full, because here he was, where he'd swore he'd never be, ever again: about to meet the principal.
Slater patted his shoulder. "It'll be fine. Just...don't be you. Be Mort Castle, or something."
Brian's eyes widened. "What? M-mort Castle? That's fucking..."
The time for words had passed. With the grim finality and certainty of a gallows axeman, Slater turned the knob and pushed open the door. Brian, seemingly unable to control his own steps, gave Slater a weak look, then walked through the door.
"Oh, by the way," he heard Slater whisper behind him, "be careful. She HATES horror. Use the term 'gothic romance', or something."
The door thundered shut behind him.
*
"Welcome, Mr. Keene. Please. Have a seat."
Brian swallowed again. His mouth tasted like dry cotton. He regarded the tableau before him with a crippling sense of dread. All the other students he'd met certainly dressed nicely and formally, but they didn't compare to these. The boys: armored in deep forest green suit jackets with the school crest emblazoned on the right breast, replete with green slacks, a white dress shirt and deep green tie. The girls likewise donned green blazers buttoned right up, all wearing knee-length plaid skirts, white stockings, and black, sensible flats, not a high heel among them.
Every hair in place. Ever senior boy's face shaved to a opalescent shine, and all of them...looking at him with the same flat, hungry look he always gave the zombies in his novels.
Oh. Hell. I'm fucked. Royally.
"Over here, Mr. Keene." The principal patted a chair next to her. "At the head of the table. Right where someone of your literary status belongs."
Feeling like the only Ozzy Osbourne fan at a Pentecostal tent revival, Brian crept on rubbery legs around the table towards his seat, feeling every inch of the students' collective, burning gaze. Somehow, he settled himself next the principal, swallowing back a rush of bile as he regarded the stern, chiseled-in-granite visage regarding him with a baleful glare.
"So happy to have you with us today, Mr. Keene. It's quite a treat to have a best-selling author to share his insights on the writing process and the power of literature."
"Uhh. Thanks." Shit! That wasn't literary.
"I was wondering if you could share with my class some of your influences, the great writers of the past from whom you draw your inspiration. Maybe some of the writers we've even studied this year, perhaps?"
"Uhh. Maybe." Yeah, right. Not fucking likely! "Well. Edgar Allen Poe was the first, I guess." He turned and smiled feebly. "I mean, everyone reads him in school, right?"
The students didn't react, twitch an eyelid...hell, breathe, even. Desperate, he glanced back at the dour-faced principal, and when he saw her pursed lips and narrow her eyes...he knew. He just knew.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
"Yes. Poe. Of course. But I'm sure you've read other, more influential voices than his?"
Brian bounced his knee and tapped it with his index finger, over and over. "Yeah, sure. Uhh...well, Bradbury was kinda cool. When I was 12. Stephen King, of course. I mean," he added in a rush, "everyone likes him, right?"
He glanced around the silent room, and his heart dropped out as he saw that no, not everyone liked Stephen King. At all.
He looked back at the principal, somehow holding a wince of pain back as her black little eyes bored smoking holes into his gut. "Well. There's Matheson. William F. Nolan? Jack Ketchum. He wrote under a pseudo-whatever. Fake name. That's sort of literary. Layman? He wrote a novel about Jack the Ripper...I think."
The principal's face wrinkled in displeasure. Perversely, Brian wondered - if it kept wrinkling, would the skin peel away from the skull and reveal teeming maggots beneath? No, stop it! That's the decongestant talking, dammit!
"What about James Joyce? Faulkner? O'Connor? Hemingway?"
Brian brightened. "I read a story about Hemingway once. It was called 'Old Man and the Dead.' It was written by..." oh, hell. "Mort Castle."
"Really. Interesting. Was it biographical sketch of some sort?"
Quiet suddenly, Brian's bowels swam loose. "Uhh. No. Actually...it was a story about Hemingway killing zombies, see..."
A palpable, tangible hush fell over the room. A bright, shining, cold icicle of fear lodged into his heart as he noticed, perhaps for the first time, the very large - big ass large, really - textbooks sitting in front of every student, including the principal herself. The students had one hand placed upon the textbook, and with a quick glance, his stomach twisted in cold revulsion to see the principal lovingly...maybe even sensuously...caressing hers.
He squinted, read the white lettering down the spine of the book: Riverside Shakespeare.
It was then, quite simply, that Brian Keene knew he only had minutes to live.
"Surely," the words slipped out in a slow, languid purr, "you've read at least a smattering of Shakespeare." He hated to do it, but Brian met her mad, glittering-black gaze. "Surely."
Oh Christ. Oh Christ, oh Christ. FUCK! "Uh. There was that movie. With Leonardo. That wasn't bad, though I liked John Leguizamo as Tybalt better..."
It happened quicker than Brian's eyes could track. The Riverside Shakespeare, seemingly of it's own accord, rocketed from its place and slammed into the side of his head, jerking his neck. Something cracked in his mouth. Blood welled. The book - wielded by the principal, he somehow knew - slammed the other side of his head, harder, and he crashed from his chair to the cold, hard concrete tile floor.
Blood sprayed from his mouth, painting the floor in a fanned-arc. After writing such scenes so many times himself, Brian was mildly surprised to see that it looked exactly as he'd always imagined it.
Chairs shoved back with wooden creaks. Shoes and sensible black flats squeaked as the students surrounded him. He saw through pain-hazed eyes they all held their Riverside Shakespeares at their sides.
He rolled onto his back and saw the principal looming over him, her Riverside open, she flipping through the pages. Before he could open his mouth she found a page and read in a calm, even voice.
"Anthony and Cleopatra, Act I, Scene Five..." Here she stopped, looked at him...and gave him the most awful smile he'd ever seen. "I will give thee bloody teeth."
Ten Riverside Shakespeares rained down. Ten 700 page hardcover text books, hitting him all at once, in various parts of his body. Something cracked. He gurgled. Then screamed. Long, and warbling...like a sick bird dying.
As he curled into a fetal ball, whimpering, drooling and bleeding from his eyes, nose, and mouth, he heard papers whispering until:
"The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1: I do begin to have bloody thoughts."
The textbooks slammed down again, in perfect, silent unity. More papery whispering, and then:
"Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 1: Cry, Havoc! And let slip the dogs of war!"
Brian screamed. He flopped, gurgled and choked on his blood. And yet, the books kept pounding: over, and over.
And over. Until,
"Hamlet. To be...or not to be."
From his ruined throat, Brian Keene wailed, then knew no more.
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Brian Keene is being killed off today in a number of blogs throughout the world. If you are enjoying watching him being sent to the Great Beyond today, perhaps you'd consider making a donation to the Shirley Jackson Awards in Brian's honor. In recognition of the legacy of Ms. Jackson’s writing, and with permission of the author’s estate, the non-profit
Shirley Jackson Awards have been established for outstanding achievement in the literature of psychological suspense, horror, and the dark fantastic.
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