The five winning entries from the JSBX Plastic Fang “write us a horror story and use these phrases” in no particular order. Thanks to everyone who entered.


Christopher Pell
Nashville, Tennessee

Dilated Fangs
John Havarti lay absolutely still, sweating on a mildew stained bed in room 665 of the Hotel Los Lobos. John had thrown off his clothes onto a wooden chair wedged in the corner and from where he lay, with one arm draped over his forehead the lettering of his Boss Hog T-shirt was all that he could see. On the nightstand an order of sweet-n-sour tofu lie open in a container, beside it was a note on yellow paper in Celeste Dupree’s handwriting. The note read, "Hold on, John. Just four days. I love you." John glared up at the ceiling visited by ill spirits when he dreamt. A blue pickup truck shimmered behind his eyelids. Over and over he saw it leaving with Celeste. The driver wore a sleeveless shirt with an insignia on his chest that read, "Killer Wolf." John couldn’t shake the dream away. He pulled himself from the musty stench of the bed. He wondered how Mother Nature let anyone survive near the equator.

On August 8th John and Celeste departed from Michigan heading south toward New Mexico. On August 9th before leaving the boundaries of Texas their station wagon broke down leaving them stranded in a strange town with insufficient funds to regain mobility. Celeste was a socio-anthropologist and as fate would have it she met up with three anthropologists in a truck stop cafe, heading off into the jungle for a session with a community healer. She had once traveled north to spend a winter with Inuit, but that was not the jungle. John tortured himself with his dreams, constantly reminding himself that Celeste was down in the beast infested forests looking for a group of people that didn’t invite her to visit.

He couldn’t really explain to himself why killer wolf continued to trespass into his thoughts. It was merely the way of the subconscious mind, or the tricks of the heat. Or maybe it was the fact that John had no clue of where Celeste had gone due to his vast misunderstandings of geography. John learned nothing in his world geography classes. He was too busy writing lyrics of a Jon Spencer Blues Explosion song on his alphabetically assigned desk.

He had to escape. He left his hotel and turned left into a bar. The air was thick. He ordered a drink and waited as the bartender silently accommodated. Minutes later John retreated, drink in hand, to the back of the bar. He sipped the ill concoction, puckering his face as the radio reported, "Four American hikers were found dead today in the jungles of Peru. Investigators suspect that wild animals attacked them in the night. The woman who found the bodies was questioned as to who they were and she said ’It is difficult to say who they were, because they were mangled. We figured they were Americans because of their shoes.’" John sat paralyzed, wondering how long it would take before his imagination destroyed him completely.



Jim McFarlane
Vermillion, SD

"Damn her," I growled to myself as I desperately pawed through her purse, which was packed to ridiculous excess with packets of Kleenex, a bundle of Jon Spencer Blues Explosion stickers, those little packets of sweet’n’sour sauce, and everything else she could steal in day-to-day life. Her penchant for knicking things had gotten me into trouble before, but never this badly. The pounding on the door was faster and louder than the pounding in my head. Bad syncopation, bad feelings. The doorframe and my nerves were racing to extinction. As I searched, the events of the last hour kept playing themselves over and over again in my mind.

I had just gotten home when the phone rang. It was Cristina. She was frantically bawling something about some Śmagic’ bracelet she had stolen from some Gypsy at a flea market. I couldn’t understand the rest of what she said over the background noise. I ran over to her apartment to see if I could calm her down, thinking maybe I’d get some ass. Mistake number one. Mistake number two was sucking down a quick double shot of bourbon, a little something I could hold on to, before heading over.

My relationship with Cristina is an odd one. It’s easiest explained to say that our drinking schedules overlap. We met sober once, and didn’t know what to say. I can’t deal with people clean sober, anyhow, but CristinaŠ I needed to be down in the beast to get anywhere with her. Maybe not, but that’s my point of view. All I knew was that I needed to find her damn gun. I wasn’t finding it.

When I arrived at her house, the door was ajar, and a musty silence was in the air. I shouldn’t have really even gone in, but the randiness was upon me. I slipped in and locked the door behind me. Mistake number three. Locking yourself into a homicide scene is seldom anything but a mistake. For the amount of blood, one would have to assume murder, although there was no body. Perhaps the Gypsy, vindictive? A harsh thump at the door startled me into bolting to her bedroom, where I found her purse. More blood. Her torn sweater. No Cristina. The sounds of splintering glass from outside.

I tossed her purse aside and knelt next to her bed. I wormed my arm around between the mattresses until I encountered something hard and cold. I was at wits end. Nothing made sense, someone got my girlfriend and was apparently after me. The battered door rasped as it finally gave way. A hellish silhouette whispered death as my hand closed on the butt of the gun. A grace belying my drunken state guided my aim as I drew and fired. The grizzled shape bellowed in a tortured woman’s voice as it dropped to the floor, bracelet clattering. The wounded phantom rose to its feet and glared at me with my dead girlfriend’s eyes. The pistol roared over my screams.



Veronica Smith
Austin, Texas

"Ouch!" Lola cried. She had stepped on a plastic fang. Lola’s brother Jon had recently been into wearing these things around the house like he was Dracula or something. What a geek, Lola thought to herself. Recently, many children Jon’s age had come up missing with no trace or clue and parents were alarmed. So Lola was stuck home babysitting Jon and his friend Spencer Blues. Over and over she said to her mother that she had plans tonight. But nobody ever listened to Lola. It was her point of view that if she were to runaway nobody would even notice. But it was Lola who didn’t notice Jon and Spencer in the midnight creep out of the house. They got on their bikes and rode off to a dilapidated shed. There were stairs going down in the middle of the floor. They walked down in. The beast grumbled when he realized he had company. The boys first saw "the beast" a month ago. Even though there was a NO TRESPASSING sign, their curiosity had got the best of them. Going down the stairs they saw huge fangs and a hairy animal with oozing sores all over. Jon felt an instant connection with this killer wolf-like creature. The beast grabbed them by the arm and told them he would spare them if they brought back another child in their place. The boys agreed and were let go. The beast knew Jon would be back. And Jon did come back. He lured kid after kid to the shed. The sight of the beast devouring these children was such a spectacular sight, Jon began joining in on the feast. Did Jon have a mean heart? No, he was simply fulfilling the role Mother Nature had intended for him. Unbeknownst to Jon, Spencer had been following him and knew what was going on, but fear kept him from doing anything. Until tonight. Spencer knew Jon’s intentions when he asked him to spend the night and he had a plan. He had his father’s gun and his friend Zach was going to secretly follow him and Jon.

When the beast caught sight of Spencer he grinned from fang to fang. Just then Spencer revealed the gun. "I knew your plan," Spencer confessed. And he aimed his gun at the beast. He shot and a loud shriek followed. "No!" cried Jon and rushed forward. Spencer shot again. Now both Jon and the beast were oozing of something other than blood. All of a sudden flames erupted from the ooze and Spencer made a dash for the stairs but the beast grabbed hold of his leg and brought him down. Zach was just coming upon the shed when he saw a brilliant explosion. Scared, he raced to Jon’s house and banged on the door. Lola answered and Zach stood before her panting and exclaiming, "Jon. . .Spencer Blues. . .Explosion!"



Johanna Anonuevo
Chicago, IL

Do werewolves exist? It depends on your point of view.

Recently, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion released an album with a werewolf theme called "Plastic Fang". When Jon Spencer was asked about the inspiration of the album, he replied, "the story of Pixie Clemmons." The story has been published in North American newspapers over and over since her death.

On October 30, 1966, Pixie Clemmons was on her way to "The Midnight Creep", a joint where all the high school kids would get together to eat, dance to rock Śn roll music, roller-skate, make outŠwell, you understand.

Upon arriving, she was upset to see it was Halloween themed party - Halloween fell on a Sunday, but who wants to celebrate on a Sunday?

The place was dark with lights flashing every now and again. There was a coffin at the far end of the room, cotton stretched above her head with construction paper spiders. There was sweet Śn sour candy shaped like bats in bowls and green punch. Pixie’s friend Alex was sporting a plastic fang under her bright red lips. She saw no reason in sticking around - she wasn’t dressed in costume and all of her girlfriends were too wrapped up in attention from the opposite sex. She was about to leave but was startled when someone grabbed her hand. She turned around and saw someone in a werewolf costume. "Pretty good costume - who are you?" she said. She received no answer. "Can you let go of my hand?" There was no response.

"Do you talk? Please let go of my hand. I’m trying to leave". She felt her hand being gripped tightly - so tightly she let out a scream that finally got the attention of the patrons of the club. The "werewolf" finally let go of her hand. Her bones in her hand were shattered and tore through her skin. Blood trickled down onto the floor. Everyone directed their attention her way, and saw her looking at her hand, crying. The werewolf grabbed her hand and placed it in his mouth. He bit it so hard she fainted. The naďve patrons applauded, figuring it was staged - they knew that people were hired to look scary, and the werewolf costume was just too good to be true. Unaffected by their attention, the werewolf picked her up off the floor and carried her out of the club. The next day, her body was found 50 feet from the club. Her clothes were torn off, her body full of bites, and the green grass that surrounded her was dark red. Police questioned kids who attended the party several hours before. Each person questioned told the police that a man dressed in a werewolf costume carried her out of the club. The medical examiner reported that the bites on her body were not of those of a human being. When asked if it could be from a werewolf, he simply responded, "possibly". The case was left unsolved.



Mark Masson
Waseca, MN

"Hold on," I yelled as I jerked the wheel, sending the car off the shoulder and into the plowed field. The car shuddered and lurched over the washboard corn rows, and Christina screamed as she looked back to see the heaving shape still lurching after us in pursuit. The taillights illuminated its grotesque form in shades of red. "The Midnight Creep " by the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion screeched over and over on the stereo, a fitting soundtrack to our nightmare.

Negotiating the field was harder than staying on the road, but if we could just make it across to my uncle’s cabin, we may have had a chance at surviving. Why the creature was pursuing us so relentlessly, I couldn’t imagine. Perhaps there was a mean heart down in the beast, perhaps it was merely a force of mother nature. My own point of view mattered little ‹ what mattered was survival.

Suddenly, the car shook and was lifted off the ground. There was the sound of breaking glass, of twisting metal and Christina’s screams. The latter was cut short as the monster thrust its gaping maw in through a hole in the roof. Christina disappeared into that tooth-lined cavern ‹ nothing I could have done would have saved her. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I will never forget that moment ‹ stripes of crimson torn through her pale skin, the gurgling sounds sputtering from Christina’s dying throat, the awful smell of the beast’s foetid breath...

During the creature’s attack, the driver’s side window had shattered, and I squirmed out of the ruined vehicle before the beast finished its meal. Madness clawed at my mind; I was operating solely on instinct. Somehow, my body knew what to do and I lit across the few remaining yards of the field and up to the front steps of my uncle’s cabin. Warm light streamed from the windows, inviting and cheery.

"Russell!!!" I called out hoarsely. "Uncle Russell! Holy shit! Open up, man! For Christ’s sake!"

I was leaning so heavily on the door that when it opened, I fell into the cabin and lay sprawled on the wooden floor.

Uncle Russell bent over me. "What is it, Judah? What’s going on?"

"I-It’s out there!" I stammered. "It ate Christina!" My body convulsed under the horror of what had happened, what was still happening.

"What are you talking about ‹" but Russell’s question was silenced by the deafening impact of some huge body against the side of the cabin. Suddenly, the wall bowed and caved in, sending a shower of splinters through the room. The massive head of the creature forced its way through the debris, dribbling mandibles and gleaming red eyes. As it entered the cabin, I had time to see it was some sort of killer wolf, black matted hair and the size of an ox. Its skin stretched and rippled over its contorted muscles. They bunched and slithered as it readied itself to pounce.

Uncle Russell was frozen in terror, but I was able to scoot to the far room, where the old double-barrel rested on a pair of 18-point buck antlers. No time for silver bullets; I loaded the chambers with slugs and swung around to see the beast crash down on top of Russell, burying its muzzle in the old man’s chest. With hardly a moment spared to dismember the corpse, the huge wolf sprang towards me. I squeezed shut my eyes and fired.

When I came to the next morning, it was to the sweet and sour stench of rotting meat. Crows had entered the cabin through the missing wall and were picking apart what was left of Uncle Russell. As I tried to sit up, I winced in pain at the tears in my body ‹ the damn bastard had bitten me. But apparently, having both barrels unloaded in its face had been enough to drive the thing off. I doubt it has been killed.

Now I rest in the hospital, recuperating. The surgeons sewed me up pretty well. I’ll always have scars across my chest. But what worries me is my growing appetite for meat of any kind, meat that the orderlies refuse to serve me. I need, it, damn it! And good Lord, I think tonight is the night of the full moon...