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  What’s Larry like?

  I’ll let him answer for himself!

  Misty and I met on a television interview just before a convention in Mississippi; we were both Guests of Honor there. By the end of that weekend, we had plotted our first book together (Ties Never Binding, which later became Winds of Fate), and have been together ever since.

  I am an alumnus of the North Carolina School of the Arts, and while there I made some fairly respectable inroads into the world of Fine Arts. However, my basic trouble with galleries was that regardless of the content of my work, it would only reach that segment of the population that went to galleries. I was “preaching to the converted.” Couple that distressing truth with an irrepressible irreverence, and my days of wearing black and being morose for my art were limited. I needed giggles, I needed money, and I needed to accomplish something. I had been an sf and fantasy fan for years. When I saw the other people who were also fans, I knew that here was a place to be welcomed, serve an audience, and make a difference through entertainment. Ever since, it has been a matter of matching the message to the medium. Some lend themselves well to text, others to paintings, others to satire or dialogues.

  I have been introduced to folks as “The other half of Mercedes Lackey,” and there’s a bit to that. I’ve been working with Misty on prose since and including Magic’s Price, which I co-plotted and alpha-edited. Incidentally, it was accepted by DAW exactly as it is printed; there were no revisions or mispe . . . misspel.., uhm.., words spelled wrong. Since then I’ve worked on them all, with heavier co-writing on the subsequent trilogies. I’m not about to steal any of Misty’s thunder, though—she is a mighty fine writer without me! Our styles, skills, and areas of knowledge happen to complement each others’. I also get a kick out of hearing old-fogy writers grousing about female fantasy writers, when I’ve been one for years now. The Black Gryphon was about my fourth or fifth co-written book (silently, with Misty), but was one of the first with a cover credit. Go figure. My future is inextricably linked to Misty, and I would want it no other way. High Flight Arts and Letters is flying strongly, and the best is yet to come.

  You may have noticed that there is not a lot of really personal information in all of this, and that’s on purpose.

  Larry and I tend to be very private, and frankly, we find all the self-aggrandizing, highly personal “I love this” and “I hate that” in some Author’s Notes kind of distasteful. We’ve included some historical notes on the various stories, and while I will be the last person to claim I’m not opinionated (see the note to “Last Rights” for instance) just because I think something, that doesn’t mean you should. Go out, read and experience everything you can, and form your own opinions; don’t get life second-hand from a curmudgeon like me!

  I thought it might be fun to start this off on a light note.

  This is an entirely new story, never before seen, and was supposed to be in Esther Friesner’s anthology, Alien Pregnant By Elvis (Hey, don’t blame me, this is the same lady who brought you the title of Chicks In Chainmail by Another Company). For some reason it never got printed, and none of us understand why. Must have dropped into the same black hole that eats alternate socks and the pair of scissors you’re looking for at the time the anthology was put together.

  Anyway, here it is now. Any resemblance to the writer is purely coincidental.

  Aliens Ate My Pickup

  Mercedes Lackey

  Yes’m, I’m serious. Aliens ate my pickup. Only it weren’t really aliens, jest one, even though it was my Chevy four-ton, and he was a little bitty feller, not like some Japanese giant thing . . . an’ he didn’t really eat it, he just kinda chewed it up a little, look, you can see the teeth-marks on the bumper here an’ . . .

  Oh, start at the beginin’? Well, all right, I guess.

  My name? It’s Jed, Jed Pryor. I was born an’ raised on this farm outsida Claremore, been here all my life. Well, ’cept for when I went t’ OU.

  What? Well, heck fire, sure I graduated!

  What? Well, what makes you thank Okies tawk funny?

  Degree? You bet I gotta degree! I gotta Batchler in Land Management right there on the wall of m’livingroom and—

  Oh, the alien. Yeah, well, it was dark of the moon, middle of this June, when I was out doin’ some night-fishin’ on m’pond. Stocked it about five years ago with black an’ stripy bass, just let ’em be, started fishin’ it this year. I’m tellin’ you, I got a five pounder on m’third cast this spring an’—

  Right, the alien. Well, I was out there drownin’ a coupla lures about midnight, makin’ the fish laugh, when wham! all of a sudden the sky lights up like Riverparks on Fourth of July. I mean t’tell you, I haven’t seen nothin’ like that in all my born days! I ’bout thought them scifi writers lives over on the next farm had gone an’ bought out one’a them fireworks factories in Tennessee again, like they did just before New Years. Boy howdy, that was a night! I swan, it looked like the sky over ol’ Baghdad, let me tell you! Good thing they warned us they was gonna set off some doozies, or—

  Right, the night’a them aliens. Well, anyway, the sky lit up, but it was all over in lessn’ a minute, so I figgered it couldn’t be them writers. Now, we get us some weird stuff ev’ry now an’ again, y’know, what with MacDac—that’s MacDonald-Douglas t’you—bein’ right over the county line an’ all, well I just figgered they was testin’ somethin’ that I wasn’t supposed t’ know about an’ I went back t’ drownin’ worms.

  What? Why didn’ I think it was a UFO? Ma’am, what makes you thank Okies got hayseeds in their haids? I got a satylite dish on m’front lawn, I watch NASA channel an’ PBS an’ science shows all the time, an’ I got me a subscription t’ Skeptical Inquirer, an’ I ain’t never seen nothin’ t’make me think there was such a thang as UFOs. Nope, I purely don’t believe in ’em. Or I didn’t, anyway.

  So, like I was sayin’ I went back t’ murderin’ worms an’ makin’ the bass laugh, an’ finally got tired’a bein’ the main course fer the skeeters an’ chiggers an’ headed back home. I fell inta bed an’ didn’ think nothin’ about it till I walked out next mornin’.

  An’ dang if there ain’t a big ol’ mess in the middle’a my best hayfield! What? Oh heckfire, ma’am, it was one’a them crop circle things, like on the cover’a that Led Zeppelin record. Purely ruint m’hay. You cain’t let hay get flattened down like that, spoils it right quick ’round here if they’s been any dew, an’ it was plenty damp that mornin’.

  How’d I feel? Ma’am, I was hot. I figgered it was them scifi writers, foolin’ with me; them city folk, they dunno you cain’t do that t’hay. But they didn’ have no cause t’fool with me like that, we bin pretty good neighbors so far, I even bought their books an’ liked ’em pretty much too, ’cept for the stuff ’bout the horses. Ev’body knows a white horse’s deaf as a post, like as not, less’n’ it’s one’a them Lippyzaners. Ain’t no horse gonna go read yer mind, or go ridin’ through fire an’ all like that an’—

  Oh, yeah. Well, I got on th’ phone, gonna give ’em what for, an’ turns out they’re gone! One’a them scifi conventions. So it cain’t be them.

  Well, shoot, now I dunno what t’think. That’s when I heerd it, under th’ porch. Somethin’ whimperin’, like.

  Now y’know what happens when you live out in the country. People dump their dang-blasted strays all th’ time, thinkin’ some farmer’ll take care of ’em. Then like as not they hook up with one’a the dog packs an’ go wild an’ start runnin’ stock. Well, I guess I gotta soft heart t’match my soft head, I take ’em in, most times. Get ’em fixed, let ’em run th’ rabbits outa my garden. Coyotes get ’em sooner or later, but I figger while they’re with me, they at least got t’eat and gotta place t’sleep. So I figgered it was ’nother dang stray, an’ I better get ’im out from under th’ porch ’fore he messes under there an’ it starts t’smell.

  So I got down on m’hands an’ knees like a pure durn fool, an’ I whistled an’
coaxed, an’ carried on like some kinda dim bulb, an’ finally that stray come out. But ma’am, what come outa that porch weren’t no dog.

  It was about the ugliest thing on six legs I ever seen in my life. Ma’am, that critter looked like somebody done beat out a fire on its face with a ugly stick. Looked like five miles ’a bad road. Like the reason first cousins hadn’t ought t’get married. Two liddle, squinchy eyes that wuz all pupil, nose like a burnt pancake, jaws like a bear-trap. Hide all mangy and patchy, part scales and part fur, an’ all of it putrid green. No ears that I could see. Six legs, like I said, an’ three tails, two of ’em whippy and ratty, an’ one sorta like a club. It drooled, an’ its nose ran. Id’a been afraid of it, ’cept it crawled outa there with its three tails ’tween its legs, whimperin’ an’ wheezin’ an’ lookin’ up at me like it was ’fraid I was gonna beat it. I figgered, hell, poor critter’s scarder of me than I am of it—an’ if it looks ugly t’me, reckon I must look just’s ugly right back.

  So I petted it, an’ it rolled over on its back an’ stuck all six legs in th’air, an’ just acted about like any other pup. I went off t’ the barn an’ got Thang—I ended up callin’ it Thang fer’s long as I had it—I got Thang a big ol’ bowl’a dog food, didn’ know what else t’give it. Well, he looked pretty pleased, an’ he ate it right up—but then he sicked it right back up too. I shoulda figgered, I guess, he bein’ from someplace else an’ all, but it was worth a try.

  But ’fore I could try somethin’ else, he started off fer m’bushes. I figgered he was gonna use ’em fer the usual—

  But heckfire if he didn’t munch down m’ junipers, an’ then sick them up! Boy howdy, was that a mess! Look, you can see the place right there—

  Yes’m, I know. I got th’ stuff tested later, after it was all over. Chemist said th’ closest thang he’d ever seen to’t was somethin’ he called Aquia Rega or somethin’ like—kind’ve a mix a’ all kinda acids together, real nasty stuff, etches glass an’ everthang.

  Anyhow, I reckon gettin’ fed an’ then sickin’ it all back up agin jest made the poor critter ’bout half crazy bein’ hungry. But next I know, Thang’s took off like a shot, a headin’ fer one’a my chickens!

  Well, he caught it, an he ate it down, beak an’ feathers, an’ he sicked it right back up agin’ ’fore I could stop ’im.

  That made me hot all over agin’. Some dang idjut makes a mess’a my hayfield, then this Thang makes messes all over m’yard, an’ then it eats one’a my chickens. Now I’m a soft man, but there’s one thing I don’t stand for, an’ that’s critters messin’ with the stock. I won’t have no dog that runs cows, sucks eggs, or kills chickens. So I just grabbed me the first thang that I could and I went after that Thang t’lay inta him good. Happens it was a shovel, an’ I whanged him a good one right upside th’ haid ’fore he’d even finished bein’ sick. Well, it seemed t’hurt him ’bout as much as a rolled-up paper’ll hurt a pup, so I kept whangin’ him an’ he kept cowerin’ an’ whimperin’ an’ then he grabbed the shovel, the metal end.

  An’ he ate it.

  He didn’t sick that up, neither.

  Well, we looked at each other, an’ he kinda wagged his tails, an’ I kinda forgave ’im, an’ we went lookin’ fer some more stuff he could eat.

  I tell you, I was a pretty happy man ’fore the day was over. I reckoned I had me th’ answer to one of m’bills. See, I c’n compost ’bout ev’thang organic, an’ I can turn them aluminum cans in, but the rest of th’ trash I gotta pay for pickup, an’ on a farm, they’s a lot of it what they call hazardous, an’ thats extra. What? Oh, you know, barrels what had chemicals in ’em, bug-killer, weed-killer, fertilizer. That an’ there’s just junk that kinda accumulates. An’ people are always dumpin’ their dang old cars out here, like they dump their dang dogs. Lotsa trash that I cain’t get rid of an’ gotta pay someone t’haul.

  But ol’ Thang, he just ate it right up. Plastic an’ metal, yes’m, that was what he et. Didn’ matter how nasty, neither. Fed ’im them chemical barrels, fed ’im ol’ spray-paint cans, fed ’im th’ cans from chargin’ the air-conditioner, he just kept waggin’ his tails an’ lookin’ fer more. That’s how he come t’ chew on my Chevy; I was lookin’ fer somethin’ else t’feed him, an’ he started chawin’ on the bumpers. Look, see them teethmarks? Yes’m, he had him one good set of choppers all right. Naw, I never took thought t’be afraid of him, he was just a big puppy.

  Well, like I said, by sundown I was one happy man. I figgered I not only had my trash problem licked, I could purt-near take care of the whole dang county. You know how much them fellers get t’take care’a hazardous waste? Heckfire, all I had t’do was feed it t’ol’ Thang, an’ what came out ’tother end looked pretty much like ash. I had me a goldmine, that’s how I figgered.

  Yeah, I tied ol’ Thang up with what was left of a couch t’chew on an’ a happy grin on his ugly face, an’ I went t’sleep with m’accountin’ program dancin’ magic numbers an m’head.

  An’ I woke up with a big, bright light in m’eyes, an’ not able t’move. I kinda passed out, an’ when I came to, Thang was gone, an’ all that was left was the leash an’ collar. All I can figger is that whoever messed up m’hayfield was havin’ a picnic or somethin’ an’ left their doggie by accident. But I reckon they figger I took pretty good care of ’im, since I ’spect he weighed ’bout forty, fifty pounds more when they got ’im back.

  But I ’spose it ain’t all bad. I gotta friend got a plane, an’ he’s been chargin’ a hunnert bucks t’take people over th’ field, an’ splittin’ it with me after he pays fer the gas. And folks that comes by here, well, I tell ’em, the story, they get kinda excited an. . . .

  What ma’am? Pictures? Samples? Well sure. It’ll cost you fifty bucks fer a sample’a where Thang got sick, an’ seventy-five fer a picture of the bumper of my Chevy.

  Why ma’am, what made you thank Okies was dumb?

  This story appeared in Deals With The Devil, edited by Mike Resnick. Larry and I live near Tulsa, Oklahoma, home of Oral Roberts University and widely termed “The Buckle of the Bible Belt.” We have more televangelists per square mile here in this part of the country than I really care to think about. Maybe somebody out there will figure out how to spray for them.

  Small Print

  Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon

  Lester Parker checked the lock on the door of his cheap motel room for the fifth time; once again, it held. He checked the drapes where he had clothes-pinned them together; there were no cracks or gaps. He couldn’t afford to be careless, couldn’t possibly be too careful. If anyone from any of the local churches saw him—

  He’d picked this motel because he knew it, frequented it when he had “personal business,” and knew that for an extra ten bucks left on the bed, the room would be cleaned completely with no awkward questions asked. Like, was that blood on the carpet, or, why was there black candlewax on the bureau? Although he hadn’t checked in under his own name, he couldn’t afford awkward questions the next time he returned. They knew his face, even if they didn’t know his name.

  Unless, of course, this actually worked. Then it wouldn’t matter. Such little irregularities would be taken care of.

  His hands trembled with excitement as he opened his briefcase on the bed and removed the two sets of papers from it. One set was handwritten, in fading pen on yellowed paper torn from an old spiral-bound notebook. These pages were encased in plastic page-protectors to preserve them. The other was a brand-new contract, carefully typed and carefully checked.

  He had obtained—been given—the first set of papers less than a week ago, here in this very motel.

  He’d just completed a little “soul-searching” with Honey Butter, one of the strippers down at Lady G’s and a girl he’d “counseled” plenty of times before. He’d been making sure that he had left nothing incriminating behind—it had become habit—when there was a knock on the door.

  Reflexively he’d opened it, only realizing
when he had it partly open just where he was, and that it could have been the cops.

  But it hadn’t been. It was one of Honey’s coworkers with whom he also had an arrangement; she knew who and what he really was and she could be counted on to keep her mouth shut. Little Star DeLite looked at him from under her fringe of thick, coarse peroxide-blonde hair, a look of absolute panic on her face, her heavily made-up eyes blank with fear. Without a word, she had seized his hand and dragged him into the room next door.

  On the bed, gasping in pain and clutching his chest, was a man he recognized; anyone who watched religious broadcasting would have recognized that used-car-salesman profile. Brother Lee Willford, a fellow preacher, but a man who was to Lester what a whale is to a sardine. Brother Lee was a televangelist, with his own studio, his own TV shows, and a take of easily a quarter million a month. Lester had known that Brother Lee had come to town for a televised revival, of course; that was why he himself had taken the night off. No one would be coming to his little storefront church as long as Brother Lee was in town, filling the football stadium with his followers.

  He had not expected to see the preacher here—although he wasn’t particularly surprised to see him with Star. She had a weakness for men of the cloth, and practically begged to be “ministered to.” Besides, rumor said that Brother Lee had a weakness for blonds.

  Lester had taken in the situation in a glance, and acted accordingly.

  He knew enough to recognize a heart attack when he saw one, and he had also known what would happen if Brother Lee was taken to a hospital from this particular motel. People would put two and two together—and come up with an answer that would leave Brother Lee in the same shape as Jim Bakker. Ruined and disgraced, and certainly not fluid enough to pay blackmail.