Part 6 (2/2)

This seemed to tickle grandpa's funny bone something fierce. He laughed until he began coughing violently. The force of the coughs sounded like his lungs were going to be wrenched up his esophagus. He hit himself in the chest with the palm of his hand and raised the cigarette he was holding between two twig-like fingers to his lips. It was the first time Rick noticed the cigarette. A long trail of ash hung from it, defying gravity. The old man took a long drag that seemed to give the ash a new life of glowing orange. A moment later his coughing subsided. Just the right medicine.

Rick managed a weak smile and nodded awkwardly at the man. He continued down the boardwalk taking in every sight, smell, and sound. The rain was coming down harder, not a downpour yet, but a steady spattering of large fat drops. The promise of bigger things to come.

The boardwalk ended at a small, quaint pier that jutted out over the ocean. It was jam-packed with small shops and restaurants. None of the big, corporate plastic and hype like the shopping center had displayed. All the buildings along the beachfront shared similar, weathered-wood exteriors. This was the real thing. When the rain hit them they gave off a nice, earthy aroma that mixed with the salt of the sea and the slight fish smell that seemed to be everywhere. Now this was small town, New England living!

He decided to check out the pier and its shops. A few tourists meandered about, not paying mind to the raindrops that were still spattering leisurely. Some were trying to avoid it like they were rat-poison droppings from the clouds. Rick grinned at the thought and looked up at the sky again. He s.h.i.+elded his eyes to avoid any more kamikaze raindrops and the subsequent ridicule he might suffer from any other billygoat locals. He scanned the sky and the horizon, admiring the beauty of it all.

Then he saw something strange across the beach itself, just over the ocean. Something slightly out of kilter.

Something was upsetting the seagulls.

They were flying in tight circles above the beach, screeching their beaks off. No big deal, seagulls screech all the time. But something about this was different. He didn't know much about birds, but all his life he'd noticed that most birds don't fly around when it's raining and cold. By now the rain was coming down harder, pelting his skin into s.h.i.+vering wetness. He sought the refuge of the covered boardwalk as he gazed out at the ocean. Some of the tourists scuttled off to the safety of their cars or stores. But the seagulls remained, circling overhead and cackling.

Rick watched the birds for a moment, then studied the pier and the beach. There were no seagulls on either. Fifty yards up the beach a family of three was walking along the surf, huddled against the sudden cold and rain. A little girl of six or seven was tossing large chunks of sandwich bread into the air, trying to hit the birds. The food fell back onto the sand, uneaten. None of the seagulls swooped down for a free meal, and Rick noticed for the first time that even the pigeons and the sparrows were absent. He looked behind him, above the storefronts. The pigeons were sitting on the power line, watching the scene with seeming disinterest. It looked like they were stoned.

Back on the beach, the little girl looked at her mother questioningly. The woman shrugged her shoulders and the three continued walking.

A sudden cold s.h.i.+ver unrelated to the weather rippled through Rick's body. This was just too strange.

Seagulls and pigeons were scavengers. They wouldn't pa.s.s on a free meal for anything. He looked out at the sea for any sign of distress and saw none. The waves rolled rough in the growing storm, cras.h.i.+ng onto the sh.o.r.e with a bit more force than usual. Everything looked normal.

He began slowly walking down the boardwalk toward the pier, keeping a watchful eye on the seagulls' behavior. A faint pulse of music slowly eased the seagulls' weird mannerisms out of his mind and snapped him out of his daze.

He stopped again. Familiar tune, one that had often comforted him in times of stress and confusion. The sound of music. Sweet, wonderful, thoughtful...thrash metal!

The metallic crunch was so alien at first that he didn't believe his ears. It just didn't fit in with this small, coastal sea town. It was probably from the head injury he had suffered in his vehicular mishap yesterday causing him to hear things. But no, he shook his head and listened. Sure enough, it was thrash metal all right. The grinding crunch of the guitar was familiar and he immediately identified the tune as Speak English Or Die by the wonderful band Storm Troopers Of Death. He grinned. He was beginning to like this place even more.

His eyes scanned the little sea-front shops as he walked along the boardwalk. The music was getting closer. It sounded like it was emanating from one of the shops at the end of the boardwalk.

He stood in front of the shop, a pleasant surge of surprise running through him. The shop's marquee: RIP IT UP COMICS was the only evidence that the Phillipsport pier was in the twentieth century. The tiny, box-like store appeared like all the other shops on the outside; worn down, dilapidated, peeling paint. A Superman Poster, a Spiderman poster, and a cardboard advertis.e.m.e.nt of the latest Sisters of Mercy comics were the only things that set this shop apart from the others.

But once inside...

Rick could barely feel his feet as they propelled him inside the store like a moth to the flame. His eyes widened in surprise as they took in the ma.s.sive rows of comics set in cardboard structures in the middle of the store. The left of the store was filled with used paperbacks and hardcover books, the rest of the wall devoted to specialty-press graphic novels. The right side held the stands, the latest issues of every comic from every publisher, large or small. They were bagged in mylar sleeves, carefully arranged to maximize the display. Science Fiction and Horror magazines sat on the stands with the comics. It was weird to think that such a cool store existed in a town of less than six hundred, complete with goofy deputies and chain-smoking tree-people. He liked this place already.

S.O.D.'s ”f.u.c.k the Middle East” was ending and a live version of ”Douche Crew” was beginning. Rick started, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. S.O.D. only recorded one alb.u.m and it wasn't a live one. He stepped farther inside the store to get a further listen to the tape.

A pair of twelve-year old boys stepped past him, stuffing bags of comics under their coats to protect them from the rain. They both carried beaten-up skateboards with colorful stickers on their undersides. The kids dropped their boards and stepped onto them effortlessly, skating away.

As he stepped farther in the store, Rick saw that more jewels lay within. A display ran along the gla.s.s counter where the cash register sat, filled with the rarer comics. Behind the counter itself was an elevated section with even more shelves, and to Rick's practiced eye it looked like the shelves held rare pulps. Cool. Standing behind the register was the tallest, skinniest man Rick had ever seen. He was sitting on a stool, perusing the latest issue of Cinefantastique.

A young boy of ten was standing at the counter bombarding the man with inane questions. The man rolled his eyes, answering questions as best as he could. ”So what's going to be more valuable, Superman #298 or the first issue of Nightshade?” From the expression on his face it was obvious the little s.h.i.+t didn't give a d.a.m.n about reading whatever he bought.

The thin man sighed. ”Listen, kid...I'm not a fortune-teller. If you want that, go down the pier to Madame Zondra. Maybe she can divine next year's price guide for you and you can speculate to your little heart's content. Meanwhile, why don't you buy ten of everything just to be certain.”

The boy sneered and walked away from the counter as Rick approached. He looked up at the thin man and smiled. The man smiled back. ”How ya doin'?”

”Fine,” Rick said, approaching the counter. He was still stunned about the live S.O.D. song and wanted answers. ”Was that S.O.D. I just heard?”

The man behind the counter smiled, his face becoming a huge set of teeth that nearly obscured his hooked nose and goatee. ”You bet it is. It's their live alb.u.m.”

”You mean they got back together?” There was a G.o.d.

”Yeah, for one show only. They played in New York at one of the clubs, probably the Ritz. Alb.u.m's called Live at Budakon. Pretty cool, huh?” His Adam's Apple bobbed up and down.

Rick was checking out the store as the man talked, unable to take his eyes off anything. He was in total sensory overload.

”You read comics?” The thin man's eyes were magnified by the c.o.ke-bottom lenses of his black-framed gla.s.ses.

Rick turned back to the man. ”Oh, yeah. I love 'em.”

The man leaned back and threw the magazine he was reading back on the counter and smiled. ”That's good to hear. Most of the brats who come in here don't give a s.h.i.+t about the story or the artwork of the stuff they buy. They just want to know what books they're going to be able to sell back to me a year from now at an inflated price.” He laughed again, his face filling with teeth.

Rick grinned. ”This store is great. I thought I was going to have to spend the whole winter without a reading supply shop.” Rick wiped the rain from his forehead and grinned. ”Phillipsport just doesn't seem to be the kind of place for a shop like this.”

”In a way, it isn't,” the thin man said. He was leaning forward over the counter, his grin wide and toothy. ”At least that's what everybody has told me. But there are lots of kids in the area, and the tourists usually use my shop as a baby-sitting service while they're enjoying the rest of the pier. Thank G.o.d most of 'em slip the little runts a twenty before they dump 'em off here.” He chuckled.

Rick chuckled with him. He liked this guy, and was beginning to feel much better about spending the next six months in Phillipsport.

The thin man stood and rose to his full six-and-a-half foot height. It was astonis.h.i.+ng that someone so skinny could still be alive. He looked like a survivor from Auschwitz. The T-s.h.i.+rt he wore caught Rick' s attention; it displayed a field of skulls and a couple of military planes buzzing overhead. It was the Dead Kennedy's Holiday in Cambodia alb.u.m cover emblazoned in bright red and black. Rick admired the choice in clothing. A man of taste, obviously.

The thin man extended a skeletal hand. ”I'm Jack Ripley. I own this place.”

Rick took the hand and shook it, marveling at his strength. Looks can be deceiving. The name Jack Ripley pulsed in his mind. He'd heard that name before.

It connected. He looked up at Jack Ripley. ”Jack Ripley...the Ripper?”

Jack Ripley leaned back and grinned. ”You're showing your age, my friend. Most people stopped calling me Ripper ten years ago.”

Rick couldn't believe it. Jack Ripley, otherwise known as Ripper in the comic world, was one of the most respected, most widely-imitated artists and writers in the world of underground comics. He had emerged in the late sixties, reached his peak in the early seventies and rode the wave of his success to the beginning of the eighties. He hadn't been heard from since. Rick felt himself glow at the thought of meeting the elusive artist. He had met other comic artists of equal reputation; Robert Crumb and Todd MacFarlane, among others, but this was different. He had become a fan of Jack *Ripper' Ripley long before he became a fan of other, more well known, comic book artists.

Rick could hardly believe it. He smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead and grinned. ”Man, this is great! I love your work.”

”Thanks.” Jack grinned, obviously smitten with the attention. ”It's nice to know people still appreciate what I did even if I didn't work on Spiderman or the X-Men.”

”Are you kidding? I grew up reading stuff like Drugg Buddies and Jesus-on-a Stick Comix. They shaped my life.” Rick chuckled. ”They made me into what I am. And now I'm standing here with the man who created them. I can't believe it.”

Ripper leaned back against the wall of pulp cartons.

His large blue eyes were enlarged and distorted by the gla.s.ses. ”Yeah, those were the days. You know, I still get royalties from the All f.u.c.ked Up posters.”

”Really? I had one of those in my room for three months before my Mom found out about it and made me take it down.”

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