About the Author For your Halloween horrors, RevolutionSF presents "Boys Will Be Boys," a rarely-seen story from the flooded basement beneath Joe R. Lansdale's East Texas home. Lansdale has written over 200 short stories and over 20 novels as well as editing several anthologies in the suspense, horror, and western genres. He is often credited (along with artist Timothy Truman) with returning the beleaguered Western back to comics with his vision of Jonah Hex. Lansdale scripted six episodes of Batman: The Animated Series. He is the recipient of many awards including the Edgar Allan Poe Award, the British Fantasy Award, American Mystery Award and six Bram Stoker Awards. Other Lansdale stories published by RevolutionSF include Bob the Dinosaur Goes to Disneyland, The Night They Missed the Horror Show and Godzilla's Twelve-Step Program. Readers interested in reading more of the adventures of Clyde and Brian should check out Lansdale's novel Nightrunners. Boys Will Be Boys © Joe R. Lansdale About the Artist Robert E. Mansperger, Jr., is an award-winning illustrator, graphic dsigner and illustrator living in Nashu, NH. Foremerly of NH.com he now works full-time at a small start-up software company in Lexington, MA that doesn't quite realize the dot-com boom went bust. But don't tell them; he needs the money to feed his twins and keep a roof over his head. We dragged Rob here with promises of fame and fortune after he helped with the designs for Arc Dream Publishing's corporate Web site and its portal sites for the Godlike and Wild Talents RPGs. Rob's portfolio may be found at mansperger.com. Artwork © Robert E. Mansperger, Jr.

 
(1)

NOT SO LONG AGO, about a year back, a very rotten kid named Clyde Edson walked the Earth. He was street-mean and full of savvy and he knew what he wanted and got it anyway he wanted.

He lived in a big, evil house on a dying, grey street in Galveston, Texas, and he collected to him, like an old lady who brings in cats half-starved and near-eaten with mange, the human refuse and the young discards of a sick society.

He molded them. He breathed life into them. He made them feel they belonged. They were his creations, but he did not love them. They were just things to be toyed with until the paint wore thin and the batteries ran down, then out they went.

And this is the way it was until he met Brian Blackwood.

Things got worse affer that.

— guy had a black, leather jacket and dark hair combed back virgin-ass tight, slicked down with enough grease to lube a bone-dry Buick; came down the hall walking slow, head up, ice-blue eyes working like acid on everyone in sight; had the hall nearly to himself, plenty of room for his slow-stroll-swagger. The other high school kids were shouldering the wall, shedding out of his path like frenzied snakes shedding out of their skins.

You could see this Clyde was bad news. Hung in time. Fifties-lookings. Out of step. But who's going to say, "Hey, dude, you look funny?"

Tough, this guy. Hide like the jacket he wore. No books under his arm, nothing at all. Just cool.

Brian was standing at the water fountain when he first saw him, sipping water, just blowing time between classes; thinking about nothing until along came Clyde, and suddenly he found himself attracted to him. Not in a sexual way. He wasn't funny. But in the manner metal shavings are attracted to a magnet — can't do a thing about it, just got to go to it and cling.

Brian knew who Clyde was, but this was the first time he'd ever been close enough to feel the heat. Before, the guy'd been a tough greaser in a leather jacket who spent most of his time expelled from school. Nothing more.

But now he saw for the first time that the guy had something; something that up close shone like a well-honed razor in the noon-day sun.

Cool. He had that.

Class. He had that.

Difference. He had that.

He was a walking power plant.

Name was Clyde. Ole, mean, weird, don't-fuck-with-me-Clyde.

"You looking at something?" Clyde growled.

Brian just stood there, one hand resting on the water fountain.

After awhile he said innocently: "You."

"That right?"

"Uh huh."

"Staring at me?"

"I guess."

"I see."

And then Clyde was on Brian, had him by the hair, jerking his head down, driving a knee into his face. Brian went back seeing constellations. Got kicked in the ribs then. Hit in the eye as he leaned forward from that. Clyde was making a regular bop bag out of him.

He hit Clyde back, aimed a nose shot through a swirling haze of colored dots.

And it hurt so good. Like when he made that fat pig Betty Sue Flowers fingernail his back until he bled; thrust up her hips until his cock ached and the rotten fish-smell of her filled his brain . . . Only this hurt better. Ten times better.

Clyde wasn't expecting that. This guy was coming back like he liked it.

Clyde dug that.

He kicked Brian in the nuts, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead against the kid's nose. Made him bleed good, but didn't get a good enough lick in to break it.

Brian went down, grabbed Clyde's ankle, bit it.

Clyde yowled, drug Brian around the hall.

The students watched, fascinated. Some wanted to laugh at what was happening, but none dared.

Clyde used his free foot to kick Brian in the face. That made Brian let go . . . for a moment. He dove at Clyde, slammed the top of his head into Clyde's bread basket, carried him back against the wall crying loudly, "Motherfucker!"

Then the principal came, separated them, screamed at them, and Clyde hit the principal and the principal went down and now Clyde and Brian were both standing up, together, kicking the goddamned shit out of the goddamned principal in the middle of the goddamned hall. Side by side they stood. Kicking. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. Left leg. Right leg. Feet moving together like the legs of a scurrying centipede . . .