Pulp Ink Promo - SURF RIDER by Ian Ayris

When the TKnC editors were asked to lend a hand in promoting PULP INK, the ass-whipping new crime fiction collection edited by Chris Rhatigan and Nigel Bird, our answer was simple. Hell yes!

PULP INK features 24 manic and blisteringly bizarre tales from some of the best crime writers around, many of whom have featured on Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers over the years. 

The content of this pulp fiction e-book is being compared to "the gleeful insanity of a Tarantino flick" and the collection has already stacked up a pile of 5* reviews. Everyone should own a copy - and you can! Download it from Amazon UK or US. If you don't have a Kindle or e-reader then download the free Apps for PC, iPad, iPhone and Android from Amazon. 

In the meantime, here's Ian Ayris with a taster of what to expect from this outstanding gathering of talent:

Surf Rider

by Ian Ayris

The Surf Rider’s mind blew in April ’73. The Surf Rider, he didn’t feel a thing – five Strawberry Fields and a staple diet of Mandrax and Lebanese Gold does that to a man.

The doctors called it a “drug-induced psychosis.”

Nearly forty years on, the Surf Rider stands at a bar in Huntington Beach, what remains of his dignity covered by an Afghan coat and knee-length Bermuda shorts. His voluminous gut pushes out a faded Grateful Dead t-shirt, his sun-brown hands clutch a bright yellow Lightning Bolt surfboard closer to him than the dreams of a shattered childhood. His silver-grey hair hangs past his shoulders, and his eyes stare wide, wide to a world beyond words. 

Two men stagger into the bar. Strangers in this town. Foreigners. London boys on the holiday of a lifetime.

“Look at that cunt,” one of them says, pointing at the man in the Afghan coat and the Bermuda shorts. “Thinks he’s on Hawaii fuckin’ Five-O.”

The other man, the man with him, laughs. Laughs too loud. And the vibrations cut through the smoke and the chatter and land at the edge of the Surf Rider’s perception. Two shadows, that’s all they are. Two shadows. Melting.

“What you havin’, Steve? Some of that Yankee piss lager?”

“Look at his eyes,” Steve says, “it’s like they’re gonna fuckin’ explode. Geezer’s gotta be fuckin’ on a fuckin’ world of shit.”

The other one nods, one shattered soul to another.

“But look at that fuckin’ surfboard,” Steve says. “That’s a fuckin’ original Lightnin’ Bolt, that is.”

“What the fuck’s a Lightnin’ Bolt?”

“It’s an old surfboard. Collector’s item, you know. Me dad had one when we used to live down the coast. Probably worth a fuckin’ fortune nowadays.”

“Best we take a closer look then.”

And the two Londoners move along the bar, punters at a Victorian Freak Show. Businessmen of the New Millenium.

The colors change, the beat slows. The edges become sharp and the shadows become fiery demons, eyes aflame.

The bartender steps in, slows time. He asks the boys if he can get them something to drink.

“What? Yeah. Couple of lagers, mate.”

“Are you boys from England?” the bartender says.

“That’s right, fella. London.”

Two bottles of Yankee piss lager land on the bar.

The bartender says his wife is from England, and says the beers are on the house.

“That geezer with the surfboard, what’s his story?”

The bartender’s jaw tightens. The friendly smile sets in concrete, eyes fixed on the two strangers. He leans on the bar. Lowers his voice. Confidential. And tells them he’s always been here, the Surf Rider. Stands in the corner, holding his board, he says. That’s all he does. Just stares off into nowhere with them big round eyes. He never buys more than a couple of drinks. The Boss says he’s good for business. A local attraction. 

Steve fumbles in the front of his jeans for his camera, wanting to get a closer look at the surfboard. He scythes through the crowd till he’s within a couple of feet of the Surf Rider.

Blood and brains and walls too thin. The flowers are shouting and the blue devil eats the elephant’s ears.

“Gi’s a smile, mate.”  

Flash.

The Surf Rider, he don’t even blink.

Steve returns to the bar and his Yankee piss lager. The bartender glares at him, grave and disapproving, and casts a wary eye along the bar to where the Surf Rider stands.

“What’s up with this cunt?” Steve says. “I only took a fuckin’ picture.”

The two lads take their bottles of Yankee piss lager and find a place to hide in the crowd.

“So, what do you reckon? The real deal?”

“Yeah, mate. It’s the real fuckin’ deal all right. A one hundred fuckin’ percent original Lightnin’ Bolt. Gonna be like takin’ candy off a fuckin’ baby.”

Edges sharp as razors now. Sharp as razors.


***

Closing time. The bartender is waiting for the Surf Rider to exit the building so he can lock up for the night. The Surf Rider. One heavy step after the other. Like he’s walking on the moon. He nears the exit as the doorway gets smaller and smaller, narrowing, shrinking. He squeezes through the rabbit hole and into the Wonderland night, and he paints the darkness with gold and silver and blue broken diamonds.

Just because he can. 

And waiting in the darkness, hiding in shadows, the two strangers watch with dollar-sign eyes, just like in the cartoons.

The Surf Rider rounds the corner. The two strangers emerge from the dark, and waste no time. One jumps the Surf Rider from behind whilst the other tries to wrest the board from his grip. But the board, it is a part of him. Don’t they know that? Can’t they see?

With a twist of might, one assailant is hurled against the wall, and slides down like vomit. The other, the other is having his face caved in with the top edge of the surfboard. 

And deep in the darkness to a Beach Boy rhythm, the Surf Rider rides… the waves of oblivion… pounding… pounding… pounding…


Bio:

Ian Ayris has had nearly forty stories published online and in print over the last couple of years. His debut novel, Abide With Me, is due to be published by Caffeine Nights Publishing in late 2011, and one of his short stories, “Small Print,” has been accepted for next year's edition of Maxim Jakubowski's Mammoth Book of Best British Crime. Ian lives in London, England, with his wife and three children.

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For more PULP INK teasers nip over to The Flash Fiction Offensive where Editor David Barber showcases Padre by AJ Hayes. You can also download a sample of the book from Amazon which provides a full table of contents and a couple of stories.

NO WORRIES by Chris Rhatigan

Let's welcome Chris on his TKnC debut...


No Worries


The car rolled into the mall parking lot, headlights off. Dmitri took a long slurp of coffee and smacked his lips a few times.

The sound burrowed into Lamar’s brain, rattled around, repeated itself over and over. Lamar curled his gloved fingers into fists. The busted vents in Dmitri’s Geo spewed frozen air and dust.

“So that’s your genius plan? That’s what you couldn’t tell me before?”

“What is wrong with it?” Dmitri said. “It is, what do you call it? A smash and grab?”

Trusting Dmitri seemed like a passable idea when they were guzzling Bud Lights a couple of nights ago. Lamar needed money real bad. Asia, the stripper he was shacking up with, had expensive tastes.

Dmitri said he could get him a few thousand, easy. “You show up Wednesday morning,” Dmitri said. “Five o’clock. You will learn more then.”

Lamar figured that whatever Dmitri had up his sleeve was sketchy. But he figured it would be more along the lines of petty crime.

“Your plan is fucking stupid. That’s the problem.”

“It will work, my friend.” He took another nasty slurp of coffee. Lamar clutched his fists tighter. “I know many others who have done this but in the daytime. We do our work under the cloak of night. See? It is better that way.”

“First of all, the sun is rising. And second, I thought you’d done this before?”

“Not me exactly, but people I know. They tell me how this works.” He drummed on the steering wheel, his smile showing teeth the color of margarine. How he could be so relaxed in this situation was beyond Lamar’s understanding. “You worry too much. You trust Dmitri. Everything will be ok.”

They pulled in front of the automatic doors that led to the food court and Barrister’s Jewelry. Dmitri nearly coughed up a lung when they got outside and hocked a loogie onto the ice. Lamar wondered if Dmitri could go five seconds without making a disgusting noise. The man was like a walking wet fart.

Dmitri popped the trunk. He handed Lamar a sledgehammer. Of course, Lamar thought, he makes the big guy do the dirty work.

“That window. Next to the door. You smash that.”

The wind kicked up the powdery snow, stinging Lamar’s face and neck. He trudged over, planted himself by the window. At least the jewelry store was inside a heated building.

Lamar saw the reflection of headlights as he shattered the window.

He whirled around. A police car circling the edge of the parking lot. He dropped the sledgehammer, grabbed Dmitri’s sleeve and pulled him into the bushes. The cruiser pulled into the lot and shined a spotlight on them.

“The cops do rounds here? You didn’t check that out?”

“This is not a problem.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? What could make you worried?”

Dmitri shrugged. Pulled a handgun out of an inside jacket pocket and loaded it. “You see? I handle it.”

“What is this shit? I didn’t agree to this.”

“You would rather spend twenty years in jail then?”

“It wouldn’t be that long. A couple of years for attempted burglary—tops.”

“Maybe for you. But you do not have the priors.”

“So you think you'll get less jail time by killing a cop? Are you fucking insane?”

Dmitri exhaled, aimed. Lamar couldn’t believe it—he was actually going to do it. He always knew Dmitri was full of dumb confidence. But this?

“Don’t do it, man. I’m serious.”

“Shut up. You are killing my concentration.”

Lamar didn’t have to think about it. He reached behind him and grabbed the handle of the sledgehammer, lifted it from the snow.

He swung and the metal head struck Dmitri’s bony chest. The strike rang hollow like Dmitri had no organs. Sent him flying into the brick wall with a thud.

Finally, sounds Lamar liked. Dmitri colored the snow pink with the blood he coughed up.

Lamar leaned in, whispered, “You worried yet?”

BIO:
Chris Rhatigan’s fiction has been published in A Twist of Noir, Mysterical-E, Yellow Mama and Pulp Metal Magazine. He also has work upcoming at the brand-spanking-new Pulp Carnivale. His blog, Death by Killing, is all about the world of short crime fiction.