I had never heard of Richard Laymon until three months ago. At the time, Robert Strauss, the curator of the Leisure Reading Collection at WCU’s Hunter Library mentioned that many considered Laymon to be possibly the best of the “hardcore horror” authors. Curiosity prompted me to go to the internet where I discovered that, (a) He had died last February at the age of 53; (b) He had published over 30 novels (at least an additional seven were unpublished at his death) and at least 65 short stories; and (c) He has been translated into 15 foreign languages. I also discovered that his popularity in Great Britain is something of a phenomenon and that there are numerous Laymon websites and fan clubs throughout the world, including Sweden and Japan.

After reading some impressive raves and endorsements from horror critics and learning that he was (allegedly) the fourth most popular writer in the world, I decided to read a couple of Laymon’s more popular novels and ordered Among the Missing and Bite from Amazon. Dear readers, bear with me now as I attempt to describe the devious style and outrageous appeal of this writer who has been dubbed the “master of horror.” Let me hasten to add that if you are offended by excessive violence, gross details and a catalogue of sexual peccadilloes that boggles the mind ... well, perhaps you should stop reading about ... here.

Among the Missing begins with a wild, nocturnal ride in a Jaguar with the scantily clad Alison Parkington who is abruptly murdered and decapitated by her mysterious consort (or maybe it was someone else). The investigation of Alison’s demise follows a devious path and before the action progresses another 50 pages, the author indulges in a series of voyeuristic episodes, including an encounter with a couple of fornicating, pot-smoking teenagers, complete with spiked hair, ear/nose/tongue pierced jewelry and “an attitude;” a geriatric exhibitionistic grandmother, a cop who caresses the bullets in his .44 magnum with something akin to sexual avidity (while quoting Keats); and repeated references to bisexuality, rape and necrophilia — all wrapped in over-heated prose and lascivious details.

As you may have deduced by now, Among the Missing is action-oriented. Laymon doesn’t waste time with irrelevant concerns like character development, personality or motivation. Essentially his characters are their genitalia. In general, everyone — including what passes for protagonists — spends the majority of their time either naked or trying to get that way and the primary purpose of their existence is sexual gratification. No one worries about retirement, nuclear disarmament or the mortgage. Existence is reduced to fornication, sleep, fornication, Mexican food (gotta keep up their strength), lots of beer, whiskey, and more fornication.

Are the characters believable? Well, of course not! The women are all sensual (mostly blonds), a-quiver with lust and sexually aggressive. The men are all hunks who spend most of their time pursuing women with the persistence of a heat-seeking missile. Everyone is evaluated by their physical attractiveness and the dialogue is either prosaic small talk or sexual innuendo. The reader may have trouble remembering who is who (the author has a little trouble himself) since they are basically interchangeable, like dolls with detachable heads and body parts that can be swapped. At times, the novel’s atmosphere is so erotically charged, the characters have trouble doing their jobs. In fact, my favorite outrageous scene is the one in which a husband and wife law enforcement team — they can’t keep their hands off of each other even when they are entering a murderer’s house with their guns drawn. Well, perhaps that isn’t fair. Their tactile sensitivity is enhanced because Pac (the wife) isn’t wearing underwear. You see, it is their wedding anniversary and ... oh, never mind.

So much for character. Now, about the plot. Alison, the headless blonde is married to Dr. Parkington, a visiting college professor who is a specialist in Cole ridge, bisexual dalliance and drug-induced euphoria. He is also a prime suspect in his wife’s murder until his own murder or suicide eliminates him as a suspect. However, a much more viable suspect is Merton, a convicted pederast and drug dealer who cruises a wooded area known as “The Meadow” each night looking for customers and victims. His van is equipped with a waterbed, a ceiling mirror and some lurid, red lights — visitors cannot enter the van unless they remove all of their clothing (to discourage “wired” narcs!)

The forces of Good are represented by Sheriff Rusty Hodges, his son, Harney and his daughter-in-law, Pac. This trio investigates Alison’s murder, and although they are dedicated, they are also easily distracted. In fact, a casual suggestion, a mirror or a sensual caress is sufficient to reduce them to hapless victims of their own carnal urges. Many of the sexual encounters resemble epileptic seizures since the participants are stricken with uncontrollable lusts which leave them naked (of course), confused and hungry.

The other major characters are difficult to classify. Bass is a hunk, but sometimes behaves in a manner that could be called sinister. Faye (Bass’ girlfriend) is blonde, nubile, and a former student (and conquest) of Dr. Parkington’s ... she is also missing and probably headless. Ina likes to undress in front of a mirror and fantasize about Bass. Everybody else is either mildly degenerate and/or irrelevant.

At this point, a logical question might be, why would anyone want to read this trash? I certainly asked myself the same question repeatedly, but I kept reading. I think it is safe to conclude that Among the Missing contains nary a smidgen of writing that would qualify as “socially redeemable.” The plot is unbelievable and the characters are too self-indulgent and inept to qualify as role models. In fact, the intrepid Sheriff Hodges gleans most of his knowledge about the suspects from a waitress who for inexplicable reasons decides to confide in old Rusty, a total stranger. As a plot device, the talkative waitress makes no sense. Why did Laymon use this and a half-dozen other bizarre methods of advancing his story? At some point, I began to suspect that Laymon was “putting me on.”

I think it was the truck driver that made me realize that there is method to Laymon’s madness. As the plot becomes increasingly surreal and convoluted, with each offensive episode surpassing the last, the author achieves a kind of “ultimate gross-out” with a midnight scene on the interstate. According to the badly-shaken driver of an 18-wheeler, he found himself staring at Alison’s (or is it Faye’s) decapitated head perched on the pavement before his speeding truck. Unable to stop, the horrified driver crushed the head, converting it into what he described with poetic aplomb as “a hairy pizza.”

There are other equally startling images. There is Pac, nude and handcuffed in the truck of the killer’s speeding car — the trunk lid opening and closing due to a broken lock, and our fearless policewoman entangled with the limbs of a headless corpse (Faye’s?), the grotesque scene lit by the headlights of Rusty’s pursuing patrol car as the killer races toward Indian Point where an ancient overlook hangs over a fog-shrouded lake and a terrifying fall...

This is what I have concluded. Richard Laymon is an accomplished, perverse storyteller. In the oral tradition, he would be described as a specialist in “stretching the blanket.” Appalachian storytellers who have mastered this art delight in piling outrageous details on top of each other. The unlikely becomes the preposterous which in turn, becomes the outrageous. Finally, the entire tale becomes so incredulous, the listener can do nothing but laugh. The trick is to see how long the audience will listen before it rebels and begins to laugh.

Laymon is just having a good time. By pressing all of the buttons that sound the alarms, he gradually makes our indignation increase until it becomes a snicker and then a guffaw. The ability to do that is a kind of art.

I’ve already started Bite. It is about vampires, and opens with a naked girl waiting in her bed (black silk sheets!) for a vampire to visit her. Her boyfriend is hiding in the closet with a stake and a hammer. He is naked too ... well, of course! That is so he won’t get blood on his clothes.

(Gary Carden is a writer, storyteller and lecturer whose book, Mason Jars in the Flood, was recently named Book of the Year by the Appalachian Writers Association. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com.)