Funland by Richard Laymon Read Free Book Online Page A

the adults do—with fear and loathing. They have seen the revulsion on our faces. They have heard our muttered curses, or derisive laughter. And some of them, perhaps only a handful, chose to do us all the favor of cleaning up the town, getting rid of these hated nuisances. They invented the sport of “trolling.”
    From the beginning, of course, our authorities denounced their activities.
    But so many of us were pleased.
    At last something was being done about our “bum problem.” Stickers began to appear on car bumpers and store windows: “Troll Buster” stickers; others that read, “One Troll Can Ruin Your Whole Day” and “Billy Goat Gruff for President.” Jokes abounded. “What bait do you use for trolling in Boleta Bay?…Cat food.” And, “How can you tell if a troll’s dead?…He doesn’t ask for two bits when you step on him.”
    We did not condemn the acts of violence perpetrated against the “trolls,” we made sport of them. We applauded them. And with our cynical attitudes, with our approval, we acted as a local booster club for Great Big Billy Goat Gruff.
    Will we celebrate, I wonder, when an indigent lies dead on the boardwalk, murdered by our children?
    I doubt it.
    We’ll have the opportunity, though. Tomorrow, next week, or next month, they will kill.
    For us.
    The moment is rushing toward us with the momentum of the Hurricane thundering down its tracks.
    A troll will die.
    A bum, a wino, a crazy. A beggar who talks gibberish, dresses in rags, and smells of garbage. And some of us may think that the world is a better place with that troll dead.
    But the murderers will be you and me.
    And the victim, let us not kid ourselves, will not be a troll.
    Not a troll, but a human being—a man or a woman who ran out of luck somewhere along the way, who was condemned from birth by a cosmic roll of the dice, or who was trampled beneath the merciless boots of substance addiction. A person, not a troll.
    A person. A child, once, who was loved by a mother and father. A child who fought to stay awake on Christmas Eve in hopes of spying Santa Claus. A girl who skipped rope and sped along on roller skates. A boy who beamed when he was given his first bicycle, who cried when his balloon popped, who popped bubble gum and ate ice-cream cones.
    A child who would’ve loved Funland with its hot dogs and cotton candy, with its arcades and game booths and thrilling rides.
    This is our troll.
    This is our victim.
    This is who will die on the moonlit boardwalk, one night soon, with a card taped to his body: “Greetings from Great Big Billy Goat Gruff.”
    Let me suggest a revision in the card’s message.
    Let it read: “Greetings from Great Big Billy Goat Gruff and the Citizens of Boleta Bay.”
    Dave folded the Evening Standard and tossed it onto the coffee table. He lifted his beer mug. He took a drink.
    “So, what do you think?” Gloria asked. She was sitting beside him on the sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, an arm resting on the back cushion. She looked at Dave with one eyebrow cocked high, daring him to strike out at her editorial, eager to defend it.
    “Nice job,” he said.
    “You don’t mean that.”
    “It sure ought to stir things up.”
    “That was the idea. It’s a disgrace, what’s happening in this town. Something has to be done about it.”
    “I agree.” Dave finished his beer and set the mug down. “Why don’t we head on over to the Wharf Rat?”
    “You’re trying to change the subject.”
    “I’m getting hungry.”
    “What do you really think about my article?”
    Dave sighed. Why not go ahead and get it over with? Tell her what she’s waiting so eagerly to hear. “Wouldn’t you rather fight on a full stomach?” he asked.
    With kids waiting for Santa Claus, roller-skating, and popping gum so fresh in his mind, Dave thought that Gloria looked like one who’d just felt a tug on her fishing line.
    “I knew it,” she said. “You’re pissed off.”
    “Do you have to use that