by Lee, Edward
Micky-Mack returned to his vomiting, and Dumar howled like a sick dog.
For those wondering exactly what the movie entailed, consider yourselves duly scolded for diminutive powers of imagination; however, the first three minutes of this fifteen-minute cinematic venture will be communicated via an inappropriate and admittedly indulgent stylistic break…in screenplay format…
FADE IN:
INT. ROOM
We see a bare white metal wall in the b.g. and what appears to be a small, curtained window, like a window, perhaps, in a motor-home. The curtain is a curious deep-burgundy color, with white dots.
MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)
(gruff Jersey accent)
We’re rollin’, boss.
MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)
(snappy Jersey accent)
How’re the lights? You check the lights?
MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)
Meter’s readin’ right on.
MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)
Bring the kid in…
MALE VOICE #3 (O.S.)
(higher-pitched Jersey accent)
Comin’ right up.
The scene HOLDS. We hear brief CLATTER O.S.
SUDDENLY—
A Small Boy (CRORY Tuckton) is moved INTO FRAME. A Man in a Suit moves behind Crory, but we do not see his face. He appears to non-verbally direct the Boy to sit on what must be a stool, for we see no chair-back. We PUSH IN on young Crory’s Face…
He’s SOBBING, his face smudged and tear-trailed. His longish, butterscotch hair is disarrayed.
The Man in the Suit moves OUT OF FRAME.
MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)
Go on kid, talk to your daddy.
CRORY
(distraught)
Daddy? Uncle Helton? These-these men, they done took me when I were droppin’ crayfish traps at Hog Neck Lake like I’se do ever mornin’, and-and…they brung me ta this big motor-home thing that smells real bad, and-and there’s this big fat lady here, and-and—
Crory’s tears flow; he continues to SOB and SNIFFLE. We hear a MALE CHUCKLE O.S.
CRORY (CON’T)
Daddy? These men tolt me they’se talked to ya ’bout gettin’ me back to Uncle Helton’s house but said you didn’t want me no more, and they tolt me Uncle Helton say the same—
BREAK
At this, the already stifled Dumar lunged from his rickety seat, bellowing. “You hear that, Paw! These men snatched that my boy tolt him we didn’t want him no more!” and then Dumar made the coarsest vociferation of rage intertwined with despair. He slammed his fists into the wall, even the first adrenalin-accelerated impact splitting the planks like balsa wood. Helton bear-hugged him, muscling him back down to his seat.
“Get a grip, son! Don’t go bustin’ yourself up! We gots to find out what this is all about!”
Cock-eyed, Dumar summoned all of his self-restraint to keep himself seated. Meanwhile, the movie continued…
BACK TO:
INT. ROOM
We remain CLOSE on Crory’s disoriented and terrified face.
CRORY (CON’T)
Please, daddy! Tell these men ya want me back! They’se bad men. I’se sorry I stolt them quarters out yer pants that time’n lied ’bout pullin’ Kelli Jean Rooder’s pants down—I’ll never do stuff like that again, I’se promise, but, daddy, please tell these men ya want me back!
MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)
Melda, open them big log legs of yours and show the kid the goods.
Male Hands grab Crory’s head and turn it to the right.
MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)
Take a good look, kid—
Crory is looking at something OUT OF FRAME. He SCREAMS high and whistle-like, like a little girl. We hear Male CHUCKLING O.S.
Crory’s head is roughly re-positioned to look back at the CAMERA but now the whites of his eyes have filled with Red Blots.
MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)
Damn, Doc. Why’s that always happen?
MALE VOICE #4/DOC (O.S.)
(distressed, no accent)
A hypertensive spike causes the certain ocular blood vessels to hemorrhage…
(beat)
…the effect of sheer, unbridled terror…
We remain CLOSE on Crory’s face as…
SUDDENLY—
Male Hands seal a piece of Duct Tape across Crory’s lips. Crory HEAVES, while only MEWLS are now heard through the tape.
NEXT—
Another set of Male Hands begin to smear some odd, white-yellow muck over Crory’s head. A WET, SLOPPING sound accompanies the action. In moments, Crory’s head is slathered in this substance.
MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)
All right, cut it now. Let’s get a nice, juicy close-up…
CUT TO:
We see the FRAME FULL of pallid, cellulite-dimpled fat: a Morbidly Obese Woman spreading her legs. Her Vaginal Ingress GAPES, an Organic Hole the circumference of a cereal bowl…
In the b.g., we hear Crory’s horrified MEWLS O.S.
END OF TRANSITION
As previously implied, no further details of the movie’s contents will be rendered; and in an aggravating instance of a narrative proceeding out of chronological order, we return to the point where Micky-Mack has recommenced to vomiting in the pail and Dumar is baying quite dog-like in despair.
Helton palmed his temples, thinking, Evil, evil, evil…
“Who were them men kilt my boy in that fat woman’s pussy, Paw!” came more bellowing from Dumar.
Wincing, and still vomiting, Micky-Mack looked up at Helton. “I guess I’se just too young ta understant, Uncle Helton! Why they do that ta poor li’l Crory?”
Dumar began banging! his head against the floor. “Who’re them men!”—BANG!—“Who’re them men!”—BANG!—“Holy fuckin’ SHEE-IT, Paw! We gotta find them men”—BANG!
Helton pulled his son off the floor. “Cain’t be bashin’ your head in, son! Yer gonna need yer wits about ya—we all is…”
“My poor li’l baby boy died thinkin’ I didn’t want him, Paw! They’se told him I didn’t want him!”
“I know. I know, son…” Helton ran stout fingers through the tumult of long, wavy hair. “Paulie—someone named Paulie. Jesus ta pete, who is this Paulie?”
“Maybe he lied ’bout his name, Unc!” wailed Micky-Mack. “Maybe it were really Hall Sladder!”
“Naw, naw, boy, you’re not thinkin’. Sladder don’t wear no citified suit’a clothes, and he shore as hail don’t drive no big, fancy motor-home. Fuck, he drives a ‘55 Chevy 235, and there ain’t no way the thievin’ cracker has the know-how to run a complerkated movin’-picture camera like what that must’a been.”
“Paw’s right, Micky-Mack,” Dumar moaned. “And Hall Sladder, he don’t know from these VDV machines any more’n we do…”
Helton paced the room in an excoriating psychical stew of regret, despair, and unsurceasing outrage. He could feel the blood beating at his temples, while that same blood felt oddly gritty and loose as if it were not blood at all, and something not a part of his physical being. Paulie, Paulie, Paulie, came the hectoring name. Dumar and Micky-Mack sobbed outright now that the full weight of the horror had set in, and Helton may have sobbed himself as he thunked shudderingly to his knees, his hands clasped in desperate prayer…
“Lord God—holy shit, I’se know I ain’t been the best’a servants to Ya, but the way I see it, I ain’t been the worst, neither, and since You know all things, I ain’t even gotta say that I never did no wrong to no one who didn’t have it comin’…” Genuine tears squeezed from Helton’s closed eyes. “I do believe in Ya, God, so in return fer me believin’ in Ya, is I way out’a line askin’ fer a favor? These evil fellas done kilt my poor li’l grandson in the awfulest way, and I’se also know it says in Your Book, ‘an eye fer a blammed eye,’ so, God, I figure I’d be livin’ more in Your ways by followin’ that. Please, Lord, I’se beggin’ ya. If I ain’t worthy’a Yer favor, then strike me down right here’n now ’cos I don’t dese
rve Yer attention fer these prayers’a mine. But if’n maybe I am in line fer a favor…holy shit, could Ya please help me find this evil Paulie fella so’s I can properly revenge my grandson’s murder like’n it say in Yer Book? Please, God! Gimme a sign! I beseech Ya, help me get my proper revenge ‘gainst this Paulie fella for this devil-lovin’, des-picker-bul crime,” and Helton pronounced “crime” as cram.
A silence somehow sodden fell over the room, such that all three men, first, experienced gooseflesh and then the hairs on the backs of their necks stood up. Moments ticked by, then moments more, in betwixt of which sobs and croaks and murmurs of despair could be heard. And just as it appeared that God had no intention of answering Helton’s supplication—
The strangest noise erupted in the room.
Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack leapt up, eyes darting, positions shifting, hands opened to futile claws.
“The hail’s that?” Micky-Mack yelled.
Dumar hooted at the loud, semi-rhythmic jangling that continued to spill sourcelessly into the primitive room. “Sounds like—sounds, like…sounds almost like the ringin’ of a telephone!”
“Yeah!” Helton barked. “And we ain’t had a telephone in years!”
The jangling, unnatural din drew on and on as the three men pranced about in utter confusion, trying to locate the noise’s source. But it was Micky-Mack—whose younger aural facilities were perhaps better capable of identifying proximity—who swept upon the box that the DVD player had come in. He reached down as if into a snake-pit, then, with eyes abloom, withdrew…
“Look!” came Dumar’s hushed exclamation.
Helton stared with all intentness.
What Micky-Mack now held in his hand was a small rectangular object roughly five inches long and two wide. It was very slim. And there could be no doubt: that blaring, jangling, unnatural ringing was coming from the object.
“What the fuck is that?” Helton voiced.
“Unc Helton!” Micky-Mack shouted. “It were in the same box the machine come in and I think… I think it’s one’a them things they call…a cellphone…”
A cellphone, thought Helton in all perplexion. He’d heard myths about such things: tiny telephones folks carried ’round in their pockets like a pack’a Luckys—telephones that mysteriously didn’t need no wires!
It rang and rang. Micky-Mack, with a shaky hand, passed the cryptic device to his uncle.
“Guess ya should…answer it, Paw,” Dumar figured.
“How ya reckon I do that?” Miffed, he held the thing to his ear and said, “Hello?” but it just kept ringing. “Jesus! That noise is irkin’ me fierce! What I gotta do?”
Still amazed, Micky-Mack stammered, “I’se think ya…open it, Uncle Helton. I seen a fella once in Crick City with one, and he somehow opened it…”
Helton’s big, callused fingers fumbled with the Liliputian device, but eventually the top half lengthwise did indeed open, and the instant Helton achieved the feat…
A thin, depthless voice from nowhere could be heard squawking.
“Anyone there?” said the agitated caller in what was most likely a Jersey accent. “Jesus Christ, Argi, I don’t think these hayseeds even know how to answer a fuckin’ phone…”
“Put it back to yer ear, Unc,” Micky-Mack suggested.
Helton did so. “Huh-huh…hello?”
“It fuckin’ took ya long enough,” the voice cracked back. It seemed to emit—again, impossibly—from a pinhole at the top.
“You there, asshole?” the voice asked.
“I’se here…”
“Good. Now which goober is it I’m talkin’ to? Would it be Doooo-mar or Helton or Micky-Mack—” and then a tiny, etching laugh spilled from the hole. “Holy fuck, fella, where you rednecks get these names?”
“I-I’se Helton—”
“Well, good, fuckface. Now, you don’t know me but—”
“Ain’t no one else ya can be ‘cept Paulie!” Helton roared.
“That’s right, cracker, I’m Paulie, and it was me and my crew did the job on that snivelin’ little inbred kid of yours. You did see the movie, didn’t you?”
Helton gulped, trembling in place. “Yeah. We shore did.”
“Good. Fuck, I’ll bet it took you rubes three or four hours to figure out how to set it up—”
“It didn’t take but one hour, you evil, low-down bastard!”
Paulie laughed over the seemingly supernatural connection. “I’ll tell ya, Helton, we had a blast killin’ that kid! Man, it was sweet! Got all our dicks hard it was so sweet! Kid shittin’ and pissin’ himself, cryin’ for his daddy and his uncle, and we just kept tellin’ him ‘They don’t want you no more, ya little booger,’ and then we’d push his head in and pull it out, and push it in and pull it out—fuck, it was fun!”
“Who in blazes are ya!” Helton roared. “Why you do that devilish shit to my grandson!”
“Think about it, Gomer. I figure a rube like you ain’t got much of a brain from all that white lightning you all drink, so you think hard. And since I’m such a nice guy, you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna give you a hint…”
The cellphone felt like a burning ember against Helton’s ear. “Ya damn well better ’cos I know full well I don’t know who ya fuckin’ are! And if I don’t know who ya fuckin’ are, there ain’t nothin’ I could’a ever done to ya to deserve what I just seen on that evil machine!”
A pause. A chuckle. “Here’s the hint, Gomer—”
“And I don’t know no Gomer neither, so whys you keep callin’ me that!”
More tiny laughter billowed from the phone. “Man, you white-trash types are a scream! But anyway, dickface, here’s your hint.” Another pause, then the caller’s voice lowered and said, “Thibald Caudill sends his regards—”
The connection went dead.
Helton stood stock-still. It took a full minute to lower the wretched phone from his ear. Eventually he closed it, then calmly set it down.
“Was it him, Paw?” Dumar raged. “Was it the man kilt my poor baby boy!”
“Yeah, Unc Helton,” Micky-Mack quavered. “Was it this fella Paulie?”
Helton’s stern eyes addressed his kin. “It was and we ain’t got time fer me ta tell ya ’bout it right now. We got important things to do first—”
“But, Paw!”
“Quiet!” Helton ordered. “Both’a yas!” and the power of the command sent Dumar and Micky-Mack into attentive quietude.
“Both’a ya’s do as I say,” Helton continued. “Dumar, first ya go get the truck out the barn. Make sure there’s water in it’n gas and oil too,” and he pronounced “oil” as ole. “Then ya get the old fish-guttin’ table out’n ya put it in the back the truck, then ya get the proper tools and ya bolt that table down the middle’a the floor—”
Dumar and Micky-Mack looked duped. “The hail ya want me ta do that?”
Helton’s finger pointed, and he shouted, “Ya want your proper revenge or don’t’cha, boy!”
“I want it, Paw! More’n anything!”
“Then ever-thang I say, you do, and without no questionin’ or backtalk, ya hear?”
“Yes, sir, Paw, yes, sir, I shorely do,” and then Dumar rushed out the back door to embark on his unreckonable duties.
“Same goes fer you,” Helton told Micky-Mack.
“Yes, sir!”
“We’se goin’ on a road-trip. Collect up three sleepin’ bags and extra clothes.”
“Right away, Uncle Helton,” but then the boy paused. “But…how many changes’a clothes should I fetch?”
“Don’t rightly know how long we’ll be but I reckon it could be as much as a month—”
“A month?”