by Lee, Edward
BAM!
—a bullet hit the windshield, and—
“Holy shit! It’s them!”
Cristo’s head exploded at the wheel.
Brain-matter fanned out in both directions, slapping Dr. Prouty and Argi.
“The rednecks just capped Cristo!” Paulie yelled. “Follow ’em!”
Argi bulled forward, popped the driver’s door, and shoved Cristo’s corpse into the street. Meanwhile, the black truck had made a mad right-hand turn onto the bisecting and even darker road.
“Go! Go!” Paulie yelled and then shoved his silenced .380 auto out the window. He squeezed off several shots.
“I think we can catch ’em, boss,” Argi said and gunned the motor-home. “The Winnie’s gotta be faster than that old piece of shit!”
“For three hundred grand it damn well better be!” Paulie looked behind him. “Doc, you all right?”
Smirking, the doctor scooped brains out of his eyes with curled index fingers. “I’ve…been better…”
Up ahead, the cumbersome black truck belched sooty smoke into their faces. The Winnebago gained quickly on the truck, engine racing.
Both Paulie and Argi leaned their pistols out the windows to release a hail of small-caliber gunfire. The bullets tinked! against the truck’s steel hide but most just bounced off.
“Get ’em, Argi!” Pauluie yelled, snapping in another magazine. “Ram ’em if ya got to!”
Agri pushed the gas all the way to the floor, but—
clank!
—just ahead of them, the rear doors of the truck flew open. One grinning long-haired redneck—
BAM!
—discharged a large revolver, and—
plup-plup-plup-plup!
—blew out a front tire, while a younger blond-headed redneck simultaneously released what appeared to be a slingshot.
clink!
Another hole appeared in the windshield. The steel bearing nicked Paulie’s ear—“OWWWWW!”— and continued into the rear of the motor-home’s interior. But as Argi tried to give further chase, the flattened tire buckled around the rim and the Winnebago was rendered undriveable.
“We gotta fix this flat!” Argi barked.
“Now we’re fucked!” Paulie yelled and jumped out. “They’re gonna get away!”
Argi followed him out; both men drew their pistols.
“Is that them?” Argi asked, squinting.
Halfway down the street a bulk shape seemed to sit there, hulk-like.
“Can’t tell. They got their lights off—”
sheeeeeeeeeeeesh…SWACK!
Argi bellowed, leaning over.
“How you like that, city boy!” a voice cracked.
Argi was on his knees, hands to groin. “The kid with the slingshot hit me in the nut!”
BAM!
Another bullet slammed into the Winnebago.
From the darkness, the voice of Helton Tuckton boomed: “Catch us if’n ya can, Paulie!” and then tiny red tail lights flicked on at the bulk-shape’s form, and an engine revved.
A thin figure darted across the street, stopped, and poised itself.
It was the blond kid, pulling back on the slingshot. “Ain’t no citified dick-lickers can fuck with us!”
sheeeeeeeeeeeesh…SWACK!
Another bearing sailed out of the dark, exploding one of the motor-home’s headlights.
Argi, gritting in his agony, managed to squeeze off a half a dozen rounds.
The blond kid fell.
“Ya got him!” Paulie celebrated.
In an instant, the kid’s silhouetted body was dragged into the truck—presumably by the pistol-wielder—then the truck sped off in a gust of smoke.
“Holy fuck, boss! Look at my nut!” Argi had extracted his scrotum, isolating a ruptured testicle. “It’s just a bunch of mush!”
“Fuck your nut, Argi. We gotta get this tire changed. “Doc! Get your ass out here!”
Helton Tuckton’s truck was long gone.
Changing a Winnebago tire entailed quite a bit more than changing a regular tire; nevertheless, the men toiled arduously, and within a half-hour, their clothes were besmirched, their palms blackened, yet the spare tire was on, and they were off.
“We gotta find those fuckin’ guys,” Paulie grated. He looked to his lieutenant. “Argi, you all right?”
“Fuck, no, boss! My nut’s popped, and it hurts like a motherfucker!”
“Yeah but at least you waxed one of the rednecks.”
“I was aimin’ for his crotch, the fuck!”
Dr. Prouty, still winded from the exertion of changing a huge tire, leaned forward to examine Argi’s exposed scrotal sack. “Hmm, yes—oh, dear, that’s an acute testicular rupture, all right, definite impact-related orchitis and sequent inflammation coinciding with a complete breech of the tunica albuginea…”
“That don’t sound so good, Doc!”
“And I’m afraid you’ll experience some troublesome yet temporary edema.”
“Edema?” Paulie asked. “The fuck’s that, Doc?”
“Swelling. But there’s good news, Mr. Argi. Your testicle will heal in time, and you may even continue to produce motile and quite normal sperm cells with it.”
“Ya hear that, Argi?” Paulie said. “You’ll still be able to knock chicks up!”
Argi rolled his eyes, struggling to drive and manage the undeterminable pain at the same time. They cruised the town, hunting for Helton’s conspicuous vehicle.
Meanwhile, Dr. Prouty repaired momentarily to the back of the vehicle, but when he returned…
“Mr. Vinchetti, sir, I’m afraid I have bad news…”
“What?” Paulie snapped.
“It’s…Melda—”
“What about her? She croak on that last box of donuts?”
Prouty cleared his throat. “It seems one of the gunshots that struck the vehicle…hit Melda in the head…”
Paulie jumped out of the passenger seat, rushed to the rear room—
And stared.
The massive formation of pallid flesh that was Melda sat half-sidled over on the bench. Her horrendous, rubber-boned legs lolled, her unspeakable bare feet curled inward. Her head hung back as her mouth gawped; her tongue jutted. The bullethole in her forehead was more than apparent.
“Poor Melda,” the doctor mourned.
“Poor Melda? Fuck that,” Paulie griped. “Poor me. Where else am I gonna find a woman with a pussy as big as hers?” He stalked back toward the front of the vehicle. “Shit on this! This just keeps gettin’ worse—these rednecks are ruining my vibe! They fuck my step-kid in the head, they fuck my mother in the head, they fuck my dead baby in the head, then they kill Cristo and now this! Fuck it! We ain’t playin’ hide’n seek no more.” He whipped out his cellphone.
“You callin’ Jersey for reinforcements, boss?” Argi asked.
“Fuck, no, I’m callin’ them. I’m gonna challenge ’em.”
“Challenge ’em, boss?”
“It’s them two against us two. I’ll dare ’em to meet us someplace, neutral ground. Then we’ll fight it out between the four of us.”
“A good ole-fashioned brawl, huh?”
“Fuck, yeah,” Paulie said, but then grimaced at the cellphone. “You gotta be shitting me! The battery’s drained!”
“Use mine,” Argi offered.
“The number for the phone we sent Tuckton is only on this phone!” Paulie percolated in more rage. He gave the cellphone to Dr. Prouty. “Doc! Plug it into the charger!”
“Of course, sir,” and the doctor went to do just that. In only moments, though, more bad news was related. “How utterly inconceivable,” Prouty muttered.
Paulie jerked his gaze back. “What’s that, Doc?”
Prouty held up pieces of the charger in one hand and a ball bearing in the other. “It seems, Mr. Vinchetti, that the slingshot projectile which penetrated the windshield collided with the phone charger itself.”
Paulie howled. “That�
�s fuckin’ impossible!”
Impossible? Or merely convenient for the author?
Paulie gestured to pull his own hair out. “This is just so fucked up! Where are we gonna find a phone charger at 11:30 at night on Christmas Eve?”
Just down the road, a great yellow and black sign glowed.
“Hey, boss?” Argi chuckled even in the midst of his discomfort. “Check it out.”
The sign read BEST BUY, and a banner on the store’s front window told them: OPEN TILL MIDNIGHT ON CHRISTMAS EVE.
(VI)
Once Helton found a wooded clearing to hide in, he rushed to the back. Dumar had Micky-Mack up on the table, and it was a solemn glance indeed that he relayed to his father.
Helton began, “Is he—”
Dumar nodded.
Micky-Mack had taken one bullet directly in the navel.
And five or six more directly in the groin.
“Damn fool kid,” Helton said. He closed Micky-Mack’s eyelids. “But he died fightin’ for the family…”
“That he did, Paw, and at least I’se avenged him by bustin’ that one fella’s coconut with the Webley,” Dumar commiserated.
“They got one’a us, and we got one’a them. Still even odds, son.” Helton unbuckled the boy’s blood-saturated jeans and pulled them down. “But I gots me a hunch…”
“A hunch, Paw?”
“It’s called proverdence, Dumar”—he pointed to the gory mess of Micky-Mack’s bullet-perforated genitals—“and, see? I was right.”
The tight group of bullets had completely severed Micky-Mack’s oversized penis. “That’s payin’ fer yer sins the hard way. I done tolt Micky-Mack not ta be braggin’ ’bout that big dick’a his, and look what happens. God saw to it that his peter get shot clean off.” Helton picked it up and shook it like a raw sausage.
“Dang,” Dumar muttered.
“But that weren’t his only sin, son.”
“What’cha mean, Paw?”
“See, Micky-Mack committered a even worse sin than the sin’a pride.” Helton eyed his son gravely. “He stole, too. He stole from the family…”
“Huh?”
Helton nodded. “When we’se first started out on this feud, Micky-Mack offered me some money for food, money he said Nuce Wynchel paid him fer helpin’ him and his son Tube finish up the post-holes on that lot’a land he got right next ta Charlie Fuchson’s pasture. But, see, Micky-Mack lied. ’cos we saw Nuce the other day just startin’ them post-holes.”
Dumar scratched his head. “Then…how’d Micky-Mack earn that money?”
“It pains me ta say this, but there ain’t no other way: Micky-Mack got hisself that cash-roll from none other than Hall Sladder—”
“No!”
“Yessir. That’s why Micky-Mack was out in the woods that day, tippin’ Sladder off ’bout where my ‘shine stash was hid, and probably even helpin’ him load the jugs. Then he kilt some hill-tramp’n made up some malarky ’bout it bein’ one’a Sladder’s cornmash whores.”
“Gawd dang, Paw! That sucks!”
“That it does. Greed’s a terrible sin, too, and I guess ever family’s got a touch of it. Pains me just as much ta say that your boy Crory—may the Lord take him—had a touch of it hisself. I caught the little tyke stealin’ more’n once.”
Dumar nodded, dejected. “Yeah, Paw, I know. Little bugger was always rippin’ off change from me’n denyin’ it. Half the time I’se pretend I didn’t notice…”
“But it ain’t fer us ta judge others, son. Only God do that. We’se all born in original sin and are subject to temptation.” His eyes readdressed his dead nephew. “Far as I’se concerned, Micky-Mack done atoned hisself fer his sins against the family by dyin’ fer the family.”
“Amen.”
They buried the boy summarily in the woods, and threw his severed penis into the grave too, before they covered him over.
“So’s what we do now, ’bout Paulie I mean?” Dumar queried.
Helton rested his chin on dirty fingertips. “We’ll drive ’round like before, look for him, try and sneak up on the evil bastard. If’n we cain’t find him right off”—he shrugged—“then we wait till we do. We got time but a fella like Paulie don’t. He ain’t patient, and those who ain’t patient always make mistakes.”
Back in the truck, they ate more of their pilferage from Marshie Caudill’s kitchen, this time bluecorn tortilla chips and mojo-flavored plantain crisps.
“Shore is some funny snacks she buy,” Dumar said, crunching chips.
“This here fussy stuff’s rich-people food, Dumar. I’se think foo-foo is the word. God prefer it when a person’s humble ’bout their roots, but Marshie? Shee-it. That jizz-can was born poor in the backwoods like us, but since she inherit all that money? It get to her head, get her thinkin’ she’s better’n other folks, like eatin’ these fussy blue ‘tater chips mean she got class. Same reason she still drives around in that Rolls Royce, but in the end, it don’t matter what she eats, what she drives, or what she wears. She still ain’t nothin’ but a low-down, lyin’, thievin’, prideful money-grubbin’ backwoods whore.”
Dumar nodded. “Wouldn’t mind suckin’ on them big hooters’a hers though, and jackin’ me off a big dick-snot on ’em.”
“Any natural man’d want to do that, son.”
“But…speakin’ of hooters…”
Both men looked into the forward corner…to Veronica.
She lay there asleep, and not even handcuffed anymore.
“Poor gal,” Helton sympathized. ‘S’my fault. Since showin’ her the movin’-picture, Veronnerka been in shock. I’se even tolt her she could leave after she send Paulie our last movie but instead she dozed off again and been that way all day…”
“Dang shame…”
“Might take her a spell ta git back ta normal, or maybe…” Helton thought of something. “Maybe if’n she see somethin’ familiar, she’ll snap out of it.”
“What’cha mean, Paw?”
“Like maybe…that place she work! The Best Buy where she solt us the fancy camera!” Helton stared the big truck. “Try to roust her up, son. Won’t be but a few minutes ‘fore we’re there.”
Helton pulled the truck out, made the proper cumbersome turns, and was soon heading down the proper gayly-decorated thoroughfare. There’s the place, he thought, spying the well-lit sign. However, even at the intersection before the store, he could see…
God on High, I cain’t thank Ya enough!
Paulie’s Winnebago was parking in the Best Buy lot, right before the OPEN TILL MIDNIGHT sign.
It was only twenty of.
“Change’a plans, son!” he yelled back and pulled around the block. “Look around back…and see if ya can find the crowbar…”
(VII)
Paulie and Argi walked briskly toward the store. Argi had an overcoat on but hadn’t yet fastened it. Paulie frowned.
“Argi. What’d’ya think you’re doin’? We’re going into a store, you know? A public place. Ya got your ball hangin’ out of your pants.”
Argi stopped, wincing at the persistent pain. “I know, boss, but shit, if I put it back in my pants, it even hurts more.”
Paulie leaned over to look. “Fuck, man. It’s swollen up the size of a fuckin’ avocado!”
Argi daintily dabbed at the distended scrotal sack. Indeed, the afflicted testicle had inflamed to several times its normal size. “Big as it is now, I probably couldn’t get it back in my pants if I tried. I’ll just have to leave it out and keep the coat over it. Wouldn’t want to offend any Christmas shoppers.”
“Naw, you’re right. We wouldn’t wanna do that…”
The doors yawned open; they strolled into the brightly lit store. Immediately a spiked-haired young man greeted, “Welcome to Bust Buy, and happy holidays. How can I help you?”
Paulie wagged the cellphone and broken charger. “I need a phone charger. Now.”
“Right over here, sir.”
The clerk took
them to the phone section. In the background, at the television department, dozens of super-bright flat-screen TV’s showed a local male newscaster with a crooked red- and green-striped tie pointing to a weather map of North America. “And, folks, this just in! NORAD has just reported Santa’s official entry into U.S. airspace!” He chuckled. “Let’s just hope the Air Force doesn’t shoot him down!”