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Someone, perhaps something, was watching him.
He could feel that gaze annoyingly upon him, just like the sweat on his shirt, now becoming one with his skin. A furtive spying, a mix of anger and curiosity for a stranger who had recklessly invaded his territory. Jack wipes his forehead with a hand, then quickly runs it up through the few hairs left on his head, as he stares into the nothingness in a night lazily lit by the crooked and slanting light of a sick moon. Chewed by clouds and scratched by the bare branches of the dense bush.
Today is just not the day, he thinks, as he gives the last decisive shovel stroke and drops the contents of the stained sheet with a loud thud. It resonates and the noise penetrates and bounces far away, from trunk to trunk among the silent trees, not even touched by the wind.
- "I mean you,"...
Jack already has the knife in his hand, whirling 180 degrees like a professional basketball player, pivoting on his left foot to gain speed and force in the imminent lunge.
- “I was saying,” as he steps back safely dodging the blow. “I mean, Jack, you really know how to hide bodies brilliantly! Not to mention, how you recognize the voices of friends.”
- “Holy Christ, fuck off! Didn't you say we'd see each other tomorrow? Damn, what a ridiculous scare! I'm too old for this, but do you know how old I am?” - he yells as he lets himself fall to the ground panting, no longer supported by adrenaline.
A thick puff of smoke covers his face. With a wide alligator grin, he approaches and lowering his head whispers, “Well Jack, I don't know your age, but at a guess, I’d say I’ve just robbed a couple of years from you!”
A hiss interrupts the laughter and their lives.
Someone, perhaps something, was watching them.
The story is a sprint: start, dash, and finish must be perfectly combined, united, and oiled to capture the reader. The words? Chosen in an almost obsessive manner, not to mention the descriptions, weighed with artisan care to best render characters and settings in the few pages available. Strike swiftly, then conclude without fuss.
Lansdale writes in a divine manner. Dirty like a peripheral latrine not cleaned for months, rough and raw, yet so smooth and natural it always leaves you pleasantly satisfied as you read. As soon as I saw “Highly Explosive” on the shelves, I grabbed it without even looking at the price. The 10 stories that the advertisement reminded me were unpublished became a temptation to which I didn’t even try to resist by swiping my card.
Even in tight spaces, Lansdale moves with extreme ease, flaunting extraordinary narrative skills. I found him even more at ease; compared to the novel, I mean. As if this were the literary style he most prefers and which, for economic reasons, he has almost reluctantly set aside. In some cases, it's the story that appeals and takes over with unexpected turns and sure-fire accelerations. Descriptions capable of staying with you like a beautiful photograph, thanks to the attention to detail and that language that seems like a camera capturing the road. Deep and varied characters that you believe you know fully when moving to the next story.
In the adventures of Hap and Leonard, you already know how it ends: usually a couple of bends after the initial straight. You read with pleasure mainly for his already cited style, sarcastic and affable, and the magnetic protagonists he created. Here, however, in a smaller number of ink spills, there are more facets of the author. Western certainly, to talk about his beloved Texas and its terrible food, but not only. Science fiction, horror, and thriller for 200 pages and little residual change.
I point you there. It seems to be a solid grip for knowing Lansdale. Assuming you haven't already.
Ilfreddo
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