Are you ready to meet Al Munson?

Tudum has your first look at Eddie Munson’s (Joe Quinn) estranged dad in an excerpt from Flight of Icarus, a Stranger Things prequel novel centered on the beloved character from Season 4. Written by Stranger Things writer Caitlin Schneiderhan, the new book hits shelves on Oct. 31.

Flight of Icarus takes fans along the Dungeon Master’s heroic journey, complete with all “the messy and uncomfortable decisions that led him to become the brave misfit we all know and love,” said Schneiderhan. One of the most rewarding parts of writing Flight of Icarus was “meeting the characters from Eddie’s past who — for better or worse — had a part in shaping who he is” — like his dad.

When Tudum spoke to Quinn last year, he revealed that he had a loose background for Eddie’s parents, who don’t feature in Season 4 as Eddie lives with his uncle Wayne (Joel Stoffer) in Hawkins’ Forest Hills Trailer Park. “I thought that his mum had maybe passed on or had left, and his dad was in prison,” said Quinn. “He was very estranged from his parents, and that brings up all the stuff that brings up for young people.”

Get a peek at the family resemblance in the excerpt below, “Munson Magic.”

On first glance, the place looks like any other run-down property out in the boonies. This part of the state is riddled with them, sprawling acres of land that nobody gives enough of a shit about to maintain. But this particular shithole features a warehouse with boarded-up windows and wide double doors, a generator large enough to run all of Hawkins, and a stockpile of power tools that would make Uncle Wayne salivate.

All the telltale signs of a chop shop. And chop shops run at night. Which means that right about now, as the clock ticks toward eleven, the upstanding members of society who run the place should be all tuckered out and ready for bed.

“You ready?” Dad asks.

The honest answer is no, I am not ready to rob a chop shop, but then I think about the demo tape that’s currently on its way in a padded envelope to some windowed, spotless office building on Sunset Boulevard. The sun probably doesn’t feel so harsh in California. “Yup,” I say. And I follow Dad out of the van and through the trees along the side of the road.

I’d thought he was joking the first time he’d mentioned this plan. I’m starting to realize that I have that reaction a lot when Dad tells me something, and that unless there’s a priest, a rabbi, and a sailor involved, he very rarely is. “We need a tow truck,” he’d said as we rummaged through the shelves at the War Zone, piling spike strips and coveralls into an oversize shopping cart. “A big one.” I figured that meant we’d be paying another visit to Reefer Rick or another one of Dad’s… associates. Since his buddies came in every flavor of crooked on the face of the earth, “oversize tow truck guy” didn’t seem like too big of a buy.

Put another point in the idiot column, I think, trudging along behind Dad. My dreams of “tow truck guy” had imploded pretty spectacularly the second Dad said that, for this errand, we’d be crossing state lines. “That’s a pretty shady way to start things off,” I’d said, loading a pair of pliers into the shopping cart.

But he’d just grinned at me. “It’s cooler in the shade, kid.”

The issue was, he’d explained, that tow trucks are hard to come by unless you have a wad of cash burning a hole in your pocket, and even then the authorities’ll take notice. Jacking one from a reputable mechanic isn’t a much better solution, especially if you’re trying to fly under the radar the way we are. No, there’s only one type of person guaranteed not to call the cops on a thief.

Other thieves.

“And it just so happens,” Dad had said as we’d pushed our purchases across the parking lot toward my waiting van, “I’ve got a line on a chop shop in Illinois that has exactly what we’re looking for.”

We emerge from the trees right on the property line. Dad has his eyes fixed on the warehouse’s padlocked barn doors, but I’m more preoccupied with the dingy trailer rusting into the grass a dozen yards away. This is where the two figures —  one man, one woman, both in grease-stained coveralls — had disappeared once the sparks and grinding in the warehouse had paused for the night. It’s only been about forty minutes since they slammed the door shut behind them, but I can already hear their snores filtering through the cracked windows. They’re sacked out.

Let’s just hope they stay that way.

Dad smacks my shoulder to get my attention. Then he’s trotting across the grass toward the warehouse. A beer can crunches under his boot, and the tall weeds are shushing loudly at the legs of his jeans. But there’s no falter from the snores in the trailer, and so I follow, keeping a step or two behind him until he stops in front of the padlock on the warehouse doors.

From one of the bottomless pockets of his leather jacket, Dad produces a couple long strips of metal. I keep one nervous eye on the distant trailer as he slips the picks into the padlock and gives them one twist, then another — and then the lock is clicking open, unlatching in the space of a breath.

“How are you so good at that?” I mutter.

“Guitar picks, lock picks.” He waves his hands, and the picks disappear. Munson Magic. “You figure out one, you figure out the other.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Things can be bullshit and true at the same time.”

It takes both of us to open the warehouse doors. This time Dad is careful to be quiet, moving slowly and oiling hinges so that no wayward creak of metal gives us away. By the time we step into the dusty barn and prop the doors closed with a brick, the drops of sweat running down my neck have transformed into a river, and my T-shirt is soaked beneath my arms. I’m a mess.

And Dad looks fresh as a daisy. He’s got a crooked grin on his face, and there’s an unsettling moment where I realize I’ve seen it before — on myself, in the mirror, when I’ve just come offstage at the Hideout or finished running a crazy session at Hellfire. It’s a smile with an edge, with a bit of twisted heat.

“You bring that light for a reason?” Dad asks me. “Or is it just a pretty accessory?”

I roll my eyes and click the flashlight on. The beam cuts a dusty swath through the warehouse gloom, illuminating stacks of skeletal car carcasses piled three or four high. Workbenches jut at odd angles. The only clear route through this chaos is a path about six feet wide, which runs from the doors toward the back of the shop. Just large enough for a truck.

“Here,” Dad says. Sure enough, the waving beam of my flashlight has landed on a fragment of what can only be the tow truck’s hulking frame, and Dad trots around the driver’s side to peer in the window. “Check the wheels,” he orders over his shoulder.

I give him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t be a punk. This is educational.”

I could argue, but this doesn’t feel like the place for it. Instead, I drop into a crouch, shining my flashlight into the wheel wells to search for the metallic glint of keys.

“No luck.” The wheels are bare. But Dad just snorts and snatches up a discarded car antenna.

“Munsons don’t wait on luck,” he says. “We make our own.” He shoves the antenna down into the window, and after a few seconds of jimmying, the door’s lock is popping open, just as smoothly as the padlock on the warehouse door.

“That a guitar pick thing too?” I ask.

“That’s intermediary.” Dad wrenches the truck door open. “Come here. I wanna see if you can jump all the way to advanced.” He slides up onto the bench seat. “We’re not swimming in time, kid,” he says when I hesitate. I resist the urge to stick my tongue out, and climb up next to him.

“All right,” he says. Using a screwdriver, he pries open the plastic panel beneath the steering column. It lands across my knees, and I shove it aside. “Start her up.”

The bottom drops out of my stomach. “Dad, I can’t —”

“Sure you can. We’ve been over this. Or are you telling me you don’t remember?”

Of course I remember. It had been my tenth birthday present from Dad: car-boosting lessons. I hadn’t needed to ask around at school to know that this wasn’t a widespread coming-of-age tradition.

“One day, you’re gonna need a set of wheels,” Dad had told me, his eyes solemn. I’d taken this as gospel at the time — of course I’d need a car, everyone needed a car. It hadn’t occurred to me until later that not everyone got a car by stealing someone else’s.

“Silly me, I guess I forgot to practice.” I try to laugh through the heavy boulder sinking in my gut. “How ever will I get to Carnegie Hall?”

“I ain’t joking, Eddie,” Dad says. “I don’t work with guys who don’t pull their weight. You want a cut of this job, you’re gonna help out. So I’ll say it again: Start her up.” He shoves a pocketknife into my hand. “Notice how that wasn’t a question.”

Reprinted from Stranger Things: Flight of Icarus by Caitlin Schneiderhan. Copyright © 2023 by Stranger Things™ / Netflix. Published by Random House Worlds, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

You can buy Flight of Icarus now.

After you finish reading, re-live Eddie’s reign as the president of the Hellfire Club in Stranger Things Season 4, only on Netflix.