By Joe R. Lansdale
The wild and peculiar wonders of the Drive-In global proceed during this 3rd quantity, The Drive-In: The Bus travel. when you notion the 1st books within the sequence have been wacky, this one strikes right into a complete new realm of whacked and careworn. Floods of Biblical proportions. A catfish that might swallow Jonah's whale. Horrid creatures nearly as evil as guy, and a glance on the very equipment of the Drive-In Cosmos, and past. this is often Joe R. Lansdale at his ironic top, dissecting humanity with a scalpel and a chainsaw. after which all of it will get the hammer. The Drive-in, a B motion picture with Blood and Popcorn, first released within the eighties, used to be a milestone for horror fiction as satire, and stimulated writers in lots of genres, from horror to technological know-how fiction to myth to humor to the literary novel of the unusual. here is your probability to jump again into Lansdale's vintage universe and take a whirl at the enjoyment rides of 1 of this generation's most original novelistic minds.
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Extra resources for The Drive-In: The Bus Tour
Sample text
The rudder rode up, and the end we were holding hit James under the chin. He was knocked unconscious, and crumpled to the floor. I screamed for help. Cory, Reba, and Homer all leaped forward, grabbed at the rudder. We tussled with it, and it fought us. But we held on and went along like that for a bit, then the water got reinforcements. Probably some high place got overrun and gave up its water, 'cause it come down through the jungle in a blast of dark bully wetness, and that rudder, it snapped like a toothpick.
As a defense against reality I have learned to snooze under pretty dire circumstances. Had to learn how. Or, considering the events of my life, I would have never slept. I have learned to sleep very deep. Down there in the bowl, with dreams, of course, but not so many as before. Least not that I remember, unless it is a good one (usually a lie or something good long past). The bad dreams I try to forget. That doesn't always work. So it was that I awoke, there in the darkness, fearing it would be one of those times when the night went on forever, or when maybe my dream-shit filter was on the goof, and might in fact be clinging to the nasty remnants of an unforgiving dream, or a truth tied up in a dream, a bad memory wrapped in the sack of a nightmare.
The water slowed and we were flowing along comfortably now, dead center of the trail, winding around those dark jungle curves like we were driving. And Steve was pretending to drive. He had long cut the motor and lights, but he held to the wheel, which, due to the force of the water on the tires, he couldn't turn anyway. I reckon it made him feel as if he were in control, clutching like that, leaning forward like he could drive on this watery highway, when, actually, all he could do was do what any two-year-old in a car seat with a plastic steering wheel and a horn could do.