by Lee, Edward
Paulie frowned. “What?”
“I think he means she’s got great tits and pussy and sucks dynamite dick,” Argi said.
“Oh, she do, and you’n your crew can have it any time ya wants.” Case Piece looked to Highball, who remained pinned to the floor. “Right, Highball?”
She wagged her head yes faster than anyone ever had in all of human history.
Paulie sighed. “Case Piece, you don’t get it. I’m Italian. When an Italian is smote by a whore, well…that’s just…” He paused and snapped his fingers at Prouty. “Doc, what am I tryin’ to say?”
“I believe,” the doctor began, “that such a regrettable instance demands satisfaction from which there is no recourse; no manner of apology, for example, exists in any level of acceptability.”
“Yeah,” Paulie said. “So… What are we gonna do about this blondie here with the black roots?”
Argi tapped Paulie’s shoulder, grinned, and pointed outside.
To the Winnebago.
“Argi! You’re a genius!” Paulie celebrated. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He slapped Case Piece on the back. “Come on, my friend. Like it or not, you’re gonna get to see that we got in the Winnie!” and with that, they all filed out of the warehouse, Argi and Cristo carrying the girl.
Dr. Prouty was visibly disturbed, as Case Piece would be in very short order. The black man “peel-eyed” the motor-home quite complimentarily. “Trick fuckin’ ride, Paulie. Fucker must be thirty feet long.” The vehicle gleamed in the December sun. A satellite dish sat on top. Case Piece took a walk around, first, noting the sound of a fan running from the rear of the vehicle, and, second, he saw the large drop-door in vicinity. “Paulie, what this big door here, bro?”
“Aw, we ain’t usin’ it—that’s the elevator.”
“Elevator. The fuck you need that for?”
“Wheelchair,” Cristo said as he and Argi managed the still-convulsant Highball.
“Wheelchair?”
Paulie grinned. “You’ll see,” and then he opened a smaller door with steps at the bottom, and showed everyone inside.
“Damn!” Case Piece said. He swept his gaze about the plush interior: leather couches, kitchenette, full liquor bar, shag carpet, giant-ass plasma TV. An impressive laptop computer and auxiliary screen occupied a small ledge opposite. “You shittin’ me, Paulie! This the toppest party-player wagon I ever see,” but then he took a moment in noticing a door in the wall of the back of the vehicle. Simple estimation told him that only twenty feet of this thirty-foot motor home was visible. The rest…
…was behind that door.
“So what gives, man?” Case Piece scratched his head. “This where you snuff folks?”
“Naw. Back there.” Paulie seemed intensely delighted, looking down at the silenced, squirming, terror-stricken form of Highball. “See, that’s where Melda is.”
“Who’s Melda?”
The mafioso’s grin kept sharpening. “Go through that door and you’ll see.”
“Uh…”
“Go on. Go in. Brace yourself, though. We got a fan runnin’ but the room still smells like a fuckin’ lion cage. See, Melda don’t wash, we don’t let her, ’cos…” Paulie looked to the even more visibly distressed Dr. Prouty. “Tell him why, Doc.”
Prouty sucked in a despairing breath. “Foregoing typical hygiene, with regard to Melda and her unique utility for Mr. Vinchetti, only compounds the sheer magnitude of the horror for the victim.”
Case Piece didn’t know what they were talking about.
“Go on,” Paulie repeated. “Go say hi to Melda…”
Case Piece opened the narrow door and stepped into the rear room. An utterly silent pause ensued, then—click!—Case Piece came back out, closed the door behind him, and leaned against the wall, the whites of his eyes set in the dark face now seemingly twice as large as they should be.
Paulie, Argi, and Cristo burst now into their most raucous round of laughter.
“What the fuck,” Case Piece whispered, “is that?”
“We told ya. It’s Melda,” Paulie was excited to explain. “Melda’s special, like you just saw. We use her for snuff-flicks and the real psycho-sicko stuff to sell to pervs.” Another slap on the back. “Come on. Let’s all go in and we’ll show ya some real action.”
Paulie, Prouty, and Case Piece entered first, while Argi and Cristo followed, bearing the girl who, in the interim, had had her ankles tied together and her wrists bound behind her back. They carried her like a roll of carpet.
Within, the dense, earthy malodor was what one first noticed: a distilled stench of urine, excrement, and soul-upheaving body odor. But what Case Piece was looking at in detail now was exponentially worse than the smell.
“Melda, meet our pal Case Piece,” Paulie announced.
“Hi, Case Piece!” came a high-spirited female voice with a Jersey accent.
Case Piece remained unable to speak.
What he viewed was, indeed, a human being, a naked human being, and one who had to weigh over 300 pounds. She—Melda—sat on a broad bench, elephantine legs parted, while beneath the bench sat a bucket for the manifest purposes of elimination. An extra-wide wheelchair had been folded up and set aside; Case Piece easily deduced that that’s what was used to wheel her in here, and the handicapped elevator was the mode by which she was actually admitted into the motor home. Rolls of pallid fat seemed stacked upon more and more rolls where her lap should be, but half-covered by two flat slabs of still more fat which were, of course, breasts. Each horrendous slab was the size of a ten-pound flour sack but with nipples akin to bologna slices; and from the nipples sprouted veins like some organic Van de Graaf Generator.
The woman was, in all, a human hulk, pale as mashed potatoes, cellulite-riddled: a female Jabba the Hut with bunned brown hair and a sprawling pubic wedge the size of a third of a pizza. The bench that this unfortunate person sat upon…bowed slightly against the mammoth weight, and the previously noted smell which wafted off the pile of flesh was, at best, becoming unspeakable. Ankles swollen by acute diabetes-related edema were connected to big, strangely curved feet whose skin seemed off-pink and pin-prick tight. Toenails, inches long, resembled corroded bamboo shoots. No navel was visible, for the fat-rolls, while her bulbous, multi-chinned face looked like a relief pressed into a massive white pile of baker’s dough.
Unnoticed when juxtaposed with this living spectacle was a digital video camera on a tripod, several lights, and sundry other equipment.
“See her legs?” Paulie said.
Case Piece looked, still speechless. Melda’s shins and thigh-bones seemed slightly curved, and there was something about her hips that appeared oddly and quite abnormally splayed.
“Melda ain’t never walked in her life,” Paulie said. “Some off-the-wall bone disease or some shit. But it’s that same disease that makes her special.”
What’s so special ’bout a giant, fat, honkie ghetto cow? Case Piece thought, queasy just looking at her.
Now Paulie’s grin seemed bright as a tensor lamp. “Ready for the cool part? Huh, Case Piece? You ready?”
“I—”
“Melda, show Case Piece what makes you special,” came the order.
“Oh, sure, Paulie!” the catastrophic woman piped. She reached under her knees and, with some effort, pulled up and spread her massive legs.
“That some fuckin’ poo-putt groaty motherfuckin’ shit, Paulie!” Case Piece wailed without conscious forethought because, see, the unruly pink seam of Melda’s vagina was, like, almost a foot long. “This scary bitch got the giantest fuckin’ pussy in the world!”
“Aw, shit, Case Piece. You ain’t seen nothin’,” and then Paulie directed, “Okay, Melda. Open wide…”
Melda released a deep, sub-octave groan while simultaneously pushing her stomach muscles out. As the gargantuan belly very slowly expanded…the gargantuan vagina very slowly opened…
It opened to an aperture the circumference of a common c
ereal bowl.
“Ain’t that somethin’, Case Piece?”
Case Piece now had his hands over his face; he was trembling. “Paulie! That woman got a motherfuckin’ impossible fuckin’ pussy, man! That the scariest shit I ever seen! Shit, man! You could put a fuckin’ bowling ball in there!”
“Not quite. We tried. See, we don’t just make snuff flicks, we make all kinds of gross-out flicks for the underground perv market. You name it, we do it,” Paulie boasted. “Wet-flicks, nek-flicks, scat-flicks, torture-flicks, kp, farm animals, shit like that. And giant pussy flicks.”
Cristo added his two cents. ‘Believe it or not, there’s guys out there who get turned on seein’ gross-out stuff, and they pay to watch flicks of women gettin’ things stuck up their cunts.”
“We shoved all kinds of shit up there,” Argi added. “Greased coconuts, cantaloupes, jars of fuckin’ mayonnaise, loaf of pumpernickel…”
Cristo recollected, “Oh, yeah, and that head of napa, head of cabbage, head of iceberg lettuce—”
‘Fuck yeah!” Paulie’s memory kicked in. “And, like, that time Bam Bam Jr. stuck four rolls of polenta up there, oh, and then that big ball of Edam cheese. And, fuck, I swear I remember us packin’ a beef brisket in her once, too.”
“Naw,” Argi said, “I think it was a rump roast, boss.”
Paulie reflected with a nod. “Yeah, you’re right. It was a rump roast, and I also think we stuffed up a seven-pound fall squash.”
Cristo clapped and blurted, “And, shit, that time when Argi didn’t like the rotisserie chicken he got at Boston Market ’cos it wasn’t brown enough!”
The three mobsters howled laughter.
“Anyway,” Paulie calmed down. “That’s the kind of dudes there are out there; they pay to see gals with giant pussies get stuff stuffed up ’em.” He put an arm about Case Piece’s shoulder. “Now, I want you to look hard at that pussy and think about what else might fit up there.”
Case Piece, now nearly in tears, looked paralyzed at Paulie. “Not a…not a…huh-huh-huh…”
“A human head?” Paulie cracked his hands together. “Bingo!”
“But-but-but-but…that’s fuckin’ impossible!”
Paulie shrugged. “Doc, tell Case Piece why it ain’t impossible.”
Forlorn at the prospect, and fairly gagging at the smell, the good Doctor Prouty began, “Melda suffers from two regrettable maladies, one congenital and one post-surgical. We’ll start with the latter: Melda is approximately 40 years old now, and in spite of her, shall we say, uncomely physical appearance and the obvious vaginal abnormality, there have been men in the past who’ve actually had the fortitude to partake in intercourse with her—”
“Some guys’ll do anything for a nut, huh, guys?” Paulie said, then he, Argi, and Cristo laughed.
“Indeed. And just as women in ghetto-environments are wont to do, she’s had many children, all in the interest of advancing her food voucher allowance and subsidized housing credits. However, immediately after the birth of her first child, some 20 years ago, complications demanded a surgical procedure known as an episiotomy: the bottom of the vaginal fissure was cut just enough to allow the newborn head to pass. Afterward, the incision was stitched up but pressure from subsequent births caused the episiotomy to tear open again. One can only re-stitch episiotomy incisions so many times before they begin to…gape. The result is a vaginal pass considerably larger than that of women so unafflicted, a condition called enlarged aggravated introitus.” Prouty had to steady himself, deliberately averting his eyes from what Melda continued to display. “The second condition, a congenital one, is a very rare and unfortunate maladaptation of the bones known as Anberg Syndrome, identified by the famous Latvian physician and medical researcher, Dr. Nora Anberg. Anberg Syndrome affects only one in one hundred million women; hence, the rarity. A corrupt gene mechanism arrests the proper ossification process of infantile bone development—exclusively, the bones of the legs and pelvis. In other words, Melda’s legs and hips aren’t fully calcified, they’re more the consistency of cartilage and therefore flexible. This of course precludes Melda’s ability to walk but it also affords her a ‘variable pelvic spread.’” Prouty now took a wizened breath. “So, given the combination of Anberg Syndrome and the enlarged aggravated introitus, the endeavor to insert an entire human adult head into Melda’s vaginal barrel is quite easily achieved…”
Case Piece heard very little of the clinical explanation, the visual horror before him all too corrupting. “So-so-so…so that’s what you do? You stick a dude’s head in her cooch?”
“Dude, chick, whatever we want,” Paulie bragged. “Like I said, we use her for the sick-flicks, but also for hardcore vendetta. Say a judge steps hard on one of my crew. We ask him politely to lay off, and if he don’t?” Paulie chuckled. “Then we ask him not so politely. And say this judge has a 5-year-old kid. We snatch some other 5-year-old kid out of the ghetto, pack the kid’s head in Melda’s pussy and smother him to death. Then we send the video to the judge with a note that says, ‘Stop stepping on my guy or next time it’ll be your kid who gets the action.’ Works every time. One time this RICO agent killed one of my lieutenants, then bragged about it in the paper. We nabbed his 19-year-old princess daughter right off the campus at NYU. Tied her up, taped her mouth so she can’t bite, then plugged the bitch’s head right into Melda’s slot. And while she’s smotherin’ in there, Argi and Cristo are takin’ turns fuckin’ her. We’d plug her head in, fuck her some, then right before she’s about to croak, we pull her out. Did that shit for like a half-hour. In, out, in, out. Finally we left the bitch in and she suffocated, then we haul her out and Cristo fucks her dead body one more time for…what’s the word, Doc?” He snapped his fingers. “Prosperity?”
“Posterity, sir.”
“Right. Then we Priority-Mailed the video to the fed. Fuck him. But he sure as shit learned his lesson.” Paulie nodded. “Shit, I’ll bet we’ve snuffed a dozen folks in Melda’s pussy, right Melda?”
Melda—evidently possessed of some enduring vaginal muscles, more than likely through sheer practice—remained with her massive legs pulled up, still displaying the enlarged orifice of horror. “Oh, no, Paulie, more like fifteen, sixteen.”
“And, boss,” Argi urged. “Don’t forget to tell Case Piece about the Parsall job.”
Paulie gave the thumbs up. “Oh, yeah, that was beautiful. Brand-new police chief got elected in Oneida County couple of years ago, cocky fuck named Parsall, and the fucker had the balls to put all our pictures in the paper and a headline sayin’ some shit like ‘It’s All Out War Against the Mob.’ Guy starts bustin’ our numbers nets, fucks with our casinos, turns half our fuckin’ street dealers into informants, even sends DEA all our profiles, like that. Well, I didn’t dig it, so… Shit, Argi, it was your work so you get the honors.”
Argi bragged, “The chief, see, his wife just had a baby, so like a day after, me and my crew dress up like doctors and sneak into the maternity ward and we snatch the one-day-old kid.” Argi winked. “Get it?”
Case Piece stared. His mouth fell open.
“We packed the whole baby right up Melda’s cunt and smothered it to death—”
“—then sent the video to the chief,” Paulie finished. “Melda makes for the best vendetta ever, I’m tellin’ ya. We found her in the Newark slums, had a brother-in-law who ran markers for us. What a find, huh, Case Piece?”
Case Piece could make no response.
“All right,” Paulie announced. “It’s party time.”
The muffled screams that exploded within Highball’s taped-shut mouth sounded more like bad brakes. Cristo, in the meantime, opened up a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, scooped out a handful, and slathered it all over Highball’s head, after which he and his confederate picked the ill-fortuned woman up, held her parallel to the floor in the fashion of a battering ram, then—
The muffled screams shot round and round the room.
—eased her head into the gaping abysm of flesh that was Melda’s vagina.
Highball’s restrained body, quite reasonably, vibrated. Her screams were now barely audible yet the sound was somehow more disturbing. She shuddered and quaked, flipped and flopped, quivered and shivered.
Case Piece just stared.
“Shit, this is fun!” Paulie enthused. “Can you imagine that? Havin’ your head crammed in a box like that? And the stink? See, that’s why we don’t let her wash, Case Piece. The grosser the pussy, the harder the party, huh?”
Hmmm…
After a minute, Argi and Cristo pulled Highball’s head out, and from that head the most wicked stench fumed. “It’s your call, boss?” Agri pointed out. “We give her a break, or we stick her back in?”
Paulie made a studied expression as he contemplated Highball’s fate.