Appalachian Galapagos

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This is a work of fiction. Except for historical personages and events, all subject matter is a product of the imagination of the author. Any resemblances to living persons are unintentional and coincidental.

ALSO FROM WESTON OCHSE, DAVID WHITMAN

COLLECTIONS
:

Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors

NOVELLA

Butterfly Winter

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Dedication

To Banjo Boy and his one forever moment of fame.

And to The Cabal for their friendship and inspiration.

What the hell's wrong with the liberals these days?

Is there no verity at all in their philosophies?

Hypocrites, I say—all of 'em.

Why? Because they're not bellyaching about the work of Weston
Ochse
and David Whitman in particular—and the
Redneck Horror
sub-genre in general. Don't worry. Though I'll freely admit that the following intro is, shall we say, Corona Light-inspired (correction, Corona Light NFL—that's No Fuckin' Lime), I won't drag you through some inebriated rant about modern conservative ideology. I just wanna know why folks like the American Civil Liberties Union, Tipper Gore, and the APCF (that's American Political Correctness Foundation) aren't burning effigies of the purveyors of Redneck Horror, especially Whitman and
Ochse
.

I don't know about you, but I want to piss these
libs
off. Not because I have much of a problem with the notion of Political Correctness (I only have a problem when such notions bleed into other proactive principles that preach censorship and affront freedom of speech), no, my problem is simply the hypocrisy. Why don't the liberals walk it like they talk it? They invented this whole PC-thing, and by now it's insinuated itself quite solidly into our wonderful society.

Good job.

For instance, I don't think it's free speech to use the
N
-Word. Instead, it's ignorant. It's a demonstration of fuckin' incivility, and I'd like to think that the American culture is comprised of more than just a bunch of fuckin' morally bankrupt, indecorous, unsophisticated morons. No, that ain't us—at least I hope it's not.

All right, I'm rambling, I'm off track. I'm not getting to the point. (This happens to me on occasion, especially with an abdominal vault full of Corona Light NFL; I just got back from a Free Beer party at my local watering hole. Ask me if I'm sober.) What I'm bitching about is the deviously
deselective
nature of overall PC Thought. From their long list of inclusions, they've
ex
cluded one particular group.

Rednecks.

Rednecks are people too, right? And they should be afforded the same level of respect that's granted to every other ethnic, regional, or cultural group. I mean...right? Why haven't the
libs
created a PC-friendly name for Rednecks? What is the cause of this rude and outrageously hypocritical oversight? Why, I ask you, isn't the name of this book
APPALACHIAN GALAPAGOS: A Scary Educationally-Challenged Rural
Indigenite
Collection?
How come the
libs
aren't having
grand mal
seizures over the way horror writers treat this genus of human being? How come they aren't insisting that guys like
Ochse
and Whitman come up with an appropriate label for 'necks? Like
Americanus
Whitetrashus
,
or
Boondocks Endemics?

Hmm?

I'll tell you why? Because nobody gives a flying dump about respecting Rednecks, and—to be honest—neither do I. I suppose, given the tenor of my intro thus far, that that makes me a hypocrite, too. Fine.

My point, ultimately? Thank GOD we still have Rednecks to stereotype. It's
friggin
' FUN. Jesus Christ, these people hump sheep and blow their noses in their hands.

We need 'em.

I
need 'em.

Without these hayseeds, these corn-
holin
' Petticoat Junction misfits, these veritable
crackers
, there'd be no one left to exploit. They deserve it anyway, don't they? After what those dirty sons of bitches did to Ned Beatty? You bet your overalls.

All right, I'm getting sober now. Time for me to grow up and write something intelligent. Lately, some critics may insist that I've lost—or never possessed—such a capability, but I'll sure try. One reason why
Ochse
and Whitman are high on my list of favorite horror writers is the uniqueness they bring to the field. This collection exemplifies that uniqueness, and the most important example, I think, is this writing duo's diversity. What successful fiction must always do above all else—above its potential relativity, above its meaning—is entertain. Everything else is secondary, be the fiction aesthetic literature, or be it escapism.

In
GALAPAGOS,
Whitman and
Ochse
go to great effort to meet this prerequisite. There's no
sameness
here—something that seems to make story collections wearisome. These guys engage the reader with a variety of styles, themes, and structures, a clever web through which their ability to entertain shines.

You ain't gonna get bored.

They tackle their concepts from numerous angles, sometimes with outrageous humor, sometimes with allegory or fable, sometimes with subtle psychological darkness or kick-your-ass-down-the-fuckin'-street-bust-your-chops horror. You want laughs? You got it. You want gross-out? Here's a bucket. You want subtext, rites of passage, spiritual overtones and philosophical
symbology
?

Check.

Check.

And Check.

There's even fundamental Darwinism.

In one way or another, it's all here, and that's not just entertainment, that's
exceptional
entertainment.

This is a very successful collection of fiction that's unlike anything else being done today, perhaps the most successful collection of the year. Take my word for it. Of course, this is kind of a continuation of their previous collection
SCARY REDNECKS AND OTHER INBRED HORRORS
, and you know what they say about tough acts to follow. It made me think of this great maxim they had when I was in the Army: "
Never write a check with your mouth that you can't cash with your ass
." Well, I'm happy to report that there are no bad checks in this batch. And I'm enthused—
terribly
enthused—by what this latest effort must portend for the future of these two writers, and that's the truth.

Hmm. Truth. Well, I did lie about one thing. I wasn't really drunk when I wrote this intro. I was
hungover
. The Free Beer party was yesterday. Christ, and after all this talk of Rednecks, you know what I need right now?

Forget the Corona Light NFL—I need a jug of 'shine and a bag of Red Man.

—Edward Lee

author of
CITY INFERNAL
and
MONSTROSITY

Excerpt from a Speech by Professor Elvis G. Giddy on Survival of the Fittest

So here I am at the University of Appalachia asked to speak on Evolution.

…asked to speak about God.

…about survival of the fittest and the rheumy ruminations of a certain Mr. Charles Darwin who has been causing such an uproar for the past few years.

I must admire
y'all's
intelligence by choosing me to address you. After all, my PHD is in Logical Reasoning and not in any of that hocus pocus religion non-science or that mumbo jumbo
Darwinistic
non-science.

I am merely an arbitrator of thought.

I am a descrambler of puzzles.

You've heard of actuaries?

I am a
factuary
.

You've heard of an apothecary?

I am a
hypothecary
.

There isn't a fact I cannot subvert nor a lie I cannot wring the truth from.