New Title 1

by Lee, Edward

  “Micky-Mack!” Helton raised his voice. “Get to the dang point!”

  “Uh, well, shore, Unc. Anyway, what this up against the waller was, see, was Crud’s sister Tulip—she look kind’a funny ’cos her eyes are crooked, and Crud, he tolt me it’s ’cos their mama drunk a lot’a ‘shine when she were pregnant—but anyway, we all give Tulip our buck and then all twenty of us line up against the wall and drop our pants and—I ain’t kiddin’ ya—Tulip got down on her knees and sucked each’n every one of us off. Swallowed ever-thang, too, even my big nut. And ya wanna know the funniest part? Tulip even charged her own brother a buck!”

  Helton gaped. “Micky-Mack. You run yer damn mouth more’n Mckellen’s kid. What the fuck’s a 13-year-old girl blowin’ a basement full’a rednecks got to do with this damn thingamajig that come from the package?”

  “Oh, well, that’s right, I was gonna tell ya that,” Micky-Mack admitted to a diversion of topics. “It was Crud, he brung one back from the Iraq and tolt me all about it. Ya watch movies on it. Movies that ya can buy in the big-city stores, and, shee-it, now that I think of it, it’s a right kick in the ass for Tulip to charge her own brother for a blowjob when it’s been him paying the property taxes on the house!”

  Helton sat down and sighed. “Son. You can probably tell I’m in bad spirits right now. My grandson’s missin’, my daughter-in-law just hanged herself, and today I find out Hall Sladder stolt all’a my moonshine. Now I got this fuckin’ package from some fella named Paulie I never heard of, and I got this fuckin’ machine sittin’ here and as bad as I wanna know what it is, you’re bendin’ our ears ’bout Crud Tooler’s sister chargin’ him a buck for a fuckin’ blowjob. I don’t wanna know about that”—he pointed aggravatedly toward the machine—“I wanna know about that.”

  “Does kind’a suck, Paw, that Crud should have to pay even though he been the one payin’ for the house his sister lives in,” Dumar pointed out but then he paused. “A’course, Tulip, she give a dandy blowjob—I got me one off’a her a couple years ago—so’s I guess if Crud don’t like it, he can blow his own self,” and then he and Micky-Mack howled laughter and high-fived.

  Helton’s large, bearded face came down into his hands; he bellowed, ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT DAMN MACHINE!”

  Dumar and Micky-Mack straightened right up when they saw how out of sorts Helton had become. “Calm down, Paw,” Dumar said.

  “And the machine?” Micky-mack stepped in. “It’s like I was sayin’, it plays movies. It’s kind’a like that thing we had a while back—the tv—only this don’t show shows, it shows movies. And these machines are a right ‘spensive, Unc Helton, so this friend’a yers, this Paulie fella, he’s a damn fine friend fer sendin’ you such a snazzy gift.”

  Helton remained in this quandary. Who on earth would send him something like this, some new-fangled doohicky he had no use for? “So, what? We gonna watch a movie now?”

  Micky-mack stalled. “Uhhhh…well…now that I think on it… It’s the movies themselves are the dvd’s—they’se these round things ’bout the size of a beer coaster at Crossroads, only a little bigger, and they’re really smart-lookin’, see, they’re all shiny’n silvery, and believe it or not, a whole dang movie fits on one of ’em. All ya do is stick it in this slot on the machine but…” Micky-Mack’s befuddlement was clear. “Don’t look like this friend’a yours Paulie sent ya any movies to go with the machine. Unless…” The 20-year-old finnicked with the machine and—presto!—a small drawer, like magic, automatically slid out. In the drawer lay something quite similar to what Micky-Mack had just described.

  “Well, how ya like that, Unc Helton! Your pal Paulie already put a movie inside!” Micky-Mack studied the buttons on the machine. “Now, give me a sec while I’se figure this out.”

  “Aw, fuck, boy,” Helton continued to complain, because he didn’t have much liking for modern contraptions. Likely as not, they were more trouble than they were worth. “And, shee-it. If’n this blasted thing’s like that ole teller-vision we had, then it must run on the blammed electricity. I gotta haul out the blammed generator?”

  Micky-Mick’s face seemed illumined in excitement. “Oh, naw, Unc. It’s this new tek-knowler-gee. This li’l movie machine here? Don’t need ta plug it inta mothin’!”

  “Then how the fuck’s it work!”

  “It runs…,” and Micky-Mack’s voice quieted as if in veneration…, “on a battery.”

  Helton threw his hands up. “Well then, balls, boy. If’n we’se gonna watch a movie, then make the blasted thing work.”

  Micky-Mack fiddled with some buttons—for, like Dumar, his reading skills were barely existent—until he inadvertently pressed one that read PLAY, and again, like magic, the little drawer closed…

  And the screen lit up.

  Dumar sat down next to his father. “Aw right! Looks like we’se gonna watch ourselfs…a movie!”

  (II)

  Archie leaned forward, elbows propped up on the well-stocked cellphone counter; he was hamming it up with his boss, one Mike Anthon, a snide, too-good-looking-for-his-own good 30-year-old who fancied himself a cocksman and a smooth-operator, and there was little untruth in that fancy. Both men were eyeing Veronica’s rump as she leaned over the camera counter, showing a customer (whose t-shirt read EVEN JESUS HATES THE YANKEES) the latest variety of Dynex-brand mini memory-card readers.

  Archie had spiked hair that looked less 2010 Me Generation and more early-‘80s post punk, though neither actually appeared in keeping with a town like Pulaski where buzzcuts comprised the majority of men’s hairstyles. Mike, on the other hand, had short, dark, punctiliously trimmed hair and impenetrable dark eyes, and looked rather like a modern, darker-haired incarnation of Nick Adams (for those who even remembered Nick Adams), and this might explain the veritable posse of young women who seemed to revolve around him as if through some cabalistic sexual gravity. (The previously mentioned Veronica was one such woman in that same gravitational field.) It was Mike who essentially ran the Pulaski Best Buys; Archie was his floor manager, while Veronica worked the camera department, and now that that’s out of the way, we can listen in to the discrete and notably sexist conversation between the two men.

  “Not bad looking—not bad at all,” Archie regarded.

  “Yeah, but for a package like me, not bad means not good enough,” Mike replied. “Chicks have to take a number to go out with me, and most of them are tens. Veronica’s maybe a six.”

  “Six? Oh, come on. That bod’s way better than a six, you cruel motherfucker!” Archie laughed.

  “All right, let’s break it down. I’d give her tits a solid nine, maybe even nine-point-five—hands down, it’s a killer rack. And, damn it, I’d be lying if I didn’t give her ass a nine to go along with the tits. Serious.”

  “What about the hoonanny?”

  Mike crossed his arms. “Gotta give that a nine, too. Perfectly formed, you know, none of that turkey skin shit hanging down. And she’s got this ass-kicking racing stripe, man. It’s the same color as her hair—that real, real light brunet.” Mike shrugged. “Her pussy rocks too. Can’t complain about any of it.”

  Archie pursed his lips. “Then how come she’s a six overall?”

  “Well, I’d have to give that mousy face a six, and the thick glasses don’t add to the party.”

  “Your math’s all wrong, man. Average three nines and one six and you’ve got eight-point-five.”

  Mike shook his head. “Tangential circumstances. That’s why I’m dumping her.”

  The revelation came as a surprise to Archie. “But she’ll be heartbroken. She’s nuts about you.”

  Mike smirked. “Archie, I hate to tell you this, but all girls are nuts about me. And not just nuts but I mean goo-goo-ga-ga, mushy, gushy crazy-in-love nuts.”

  “It’s your modesty that attracts them, I’m sure.”

  “Seriously, Veronica was just a booty call,” Mike went on, “and there wasn’t even any booty.”

  A
canted look from Archie.

  Mike continued, “What good’s a pussy that ranks a nine if you can’t fuck it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? I mean she doesn’t fuck. She’s a virgin; she’s got this weird virgin-thing—won’t fuck till she’s married.”

  “I didn’t think they made girls like that,” Archie commented. “Especially in Virginia.”

  “She’ll suck my dick day and night but won’t fuck. The only way my battleship gets into that port is with knock-out drops.” Mike looked suddenly irked. “And she won’t let me ass-fuck her, either.”

  Archie flipped a hand. ‘Well, I’m not into the ass stuff myself. I don’t want to get some chick’s shit packed up my peehole. I mean, think about it. Say you buy a girl dinner on Saturday night, then on Sunday you fuck her in the ass. The shit that gets packed up your peehole and caked around the rim is from the same food you bought her the night before. It’s fucked up.”

  Mike frowned at his friend. “Whatever. And the tit-fucking gets old fast, even with a class rack like hers.”

  Archie stole a glance to Veronica, then seemed to imagine the possibilities. “At least she lets you do it. Some girls are fussy about that. Don’t know why.”

  “It’s almost like a consolation prize, like she’s doing me a favor letting me tit-fuck her. I mean, you can only do it so many times before it becomes monotonous. Fuck, I slop all over those tits. They look like rum buns by the time I’m done.”

  “But if she sucks your dick day and night? Sounds all right to keep on the side, even without the pussy.”

  Mike appraised his Guccis, having already written poor Veronica off in his mind. “With every girl, you get the good with the bad. Veronica’s worth money—”

  Archie’s attention snapped to. “Money? Like, how much?”

  “One of her uncles won the Michigan Lottery, bagged, like, a hundred and twenty million, but set 20 million aside for Veronica on two conditions. One, she has to get a college degree and, two, she’s gotta be married by age thirty. That’s when she gets the dough if she meets the conditions.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “And how’s her college smarts?”

  Mike’ brow tittered. “She already graduated with honors from VT, got her degree in Plasma Physics.”

  “Fuck. Smart chick. With a degree like that, she can write her own ticket once this fuckin’ recession’s over.”

  “Yeah, and that’s what she wants to do even though she gets all that money when she hits the Big Three Oh.”

  “If,” Archie reminded, “she’s married.”

  “Right. And she’s already told me to my face: the only guy she ever wants to marry is me.”

  Several moments of silence followed, Archie cogitating. “Twenty million? Man…you’d never have to work again.”

  “You think I haven’t thought about that?”

  “And, shit, if you’re married, then she’ll fuck you.”

  “Sure, but she wants to have kids. I got no desire to raise kids.”

  “Then get a nanny! With twenty fuckin’ mil, you’ll be able to afford it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but see, I gotta a gut feeling that once Veronica starts fucking me, she’ll be a lousy lay.”

  Archie looked astonished. “So what? You just said she sucks your dick day and night. If she sucks your dick day and night and has twenty million…big fuckin’ deal if she’s a lousy lay!”

  Mike shook his head. “Archie, you’re not getting it. The good with the bad? Sure, she’s into sucking dick—my dick. Doesn’t want to suck anybody else’s dick, just mine. She’ll blow me any time, anywhere. I snap my fingers, she blows me. If I’m sitting on the couch watching football and ignoring her and I pull my dick out, I don’t even have to ask—she blows me. Serious. If I’m sitting on the fuckin’ toilet taking a shit and I say, ‘Veronica, come in her and blow me,’ she’ll be on her knees sucking my dick while I got turds falling out of my ass. And it’s not like she’s just some dime-a-dozen head queen—she’s all into the love thing. You know, if there were no customers in the store and I walked over there and told her to blow me behind the counter”—Mike shrugged—“she’d do it, guaranteed.”

  Archie’s jaw dropped. “Then what the hell’s wrong with you? You can’t dump a girl like that whose gonna be worth twenty million!”

  Mike snidely shook his head. “Here’s what I haven’t told you. Sure, she loves to give me head, but you know what? It’s bad head. I mean awful head. You know that old saying ‘there’s no such thing as lousy head?’ Bullshit. Veronica gives the worse head I’ve ever had. No rhythm, no build up, she rakes her teeth, and the finish is all wrong.”

  “Really?” Archie said, surprised. “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse. It’s so bad, it’s infuriating. It’s so bad, twenty million or not…I’d rather punch her in the fucking face and jerk off.”

  “Wow.”

  Mike looked at his friend. “So what would you do? Dump it or keep it?”“For twenty million dollars? Fuck, man. I’d keep it.”

  Mike shrugged. “Yeah, well that’s because you have different standards. Me, I’m first class. A first-class guy like me needs a chick with first-class looks, who’s a first-class lay, and can suck first-class dick. If she can’t do that, then it’s three strikes, she’s out. My self-image is worth more than twenty million bucks—”

  “Oh is it, now?”

  “When a chick wants to go out with me, I’m not going to demean myself by settling for less than I deserve.” He looked at Archie, granite-faced. “I’m not a whore, Archie. I’m hot property.”

  Archie laughed out loud.

  Mike continued, “In general, a girl who can’t suck good dick pretty much has no right to exist.”

  Archie continued to laugh. “Okay, but since you’re not a whore, let’s just say that Veronica gave great head. What would you do?”

  Mike made a sound like a horse sputtering. “I’d marry her in a fuckin’ heartbeat. With all that money? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Shortly after this conversational exercise in out-right misogyny detailing the relegation of women as soulless arrangements of sexual parts, Veronica rang up the purchase for her customer. The customer paused to take yet another none-too-covert glance at her body, then left the store. Veronica turned, smiled, stood up on her tiptoes, and waved at Mike.

  Mike waved speciously back, offering a just-as-specious smile.

  Then Veronica blew him a kiss and mouthed I love you!

  “Fuck you,” Mike muttered under his breath.

  (III)

  Not fifteen minutes after Micky-Mack had pressed the PLAY button on the mysterious portable DVD unit, utter and incomprehensible calamity had descended upon Helton Tuckton and his kin. Dumar, after the “movie’s” completion, had collapsed into a swoon. Micky-Mack was still vomiting into one of the pails they used when the roof leaked. And Helton…

  Great Gawd Almighty… Just what kind’a evil is it we got here?

  Helton sat upright, wide-eyed, paralyzed in his chair, his hands gripping the chair’s arms so tightly, he trembled.

  Micky-Mack looked up from the pail with a tear-streaked face. “Uncle Helton—holy shit! Who could’a done such a thing ta poor l’il Crory? Who?”

  “Evil men, that’s who,” Helton croaked. His stare remained fixed on the DVD player’s small and now blank LCD screen. “Men eviler than anything we’se can reckon, son.”

  Micky-Mack wailed. “Why they do that? Why they do that to li’l Crory? Crory ain’t done them no harm! He just a inner-sint li’l kid! How could they—how could they—”

  Dumar roused just then, his face paper-white from all the blood that the horror had drained from it. He looked shock-eyed to his father. “Paw! Tell me that were all just a nightmare we seen on that machine! Tell me, Paw!”

  The screen glowed blue and there blinked a small square that read REPLAY and another that
read EJECT.